Christmas approaches fast and not only are we faced with all the pressure of what presents to buy we have to decide what to eat for our celebration meal.
It seemed so easy when was younger; it was just a case of turning up and, as if by mum magic, the food appeared.
Now most of the responsibility is ours because we are supposed to be adults.
Another pressure of this festive season is what we should wear for the Christmas parties. The surgery that keeps my wife busy as a nurse for most of the week have decided upon a theme to aid us in our choice. This year we are encouraged to don 1920's attire.
My wife seems to have it sussed but I feel limited to bringing out my tuxedo again. In light of this I decided to add a little challenge to the ensemble by including a moustache. I could have bought one from the local fancy dress store but my wife suggested that I might grow one.
This appealed to me for a number of reasons. Firstly, I haven't had a muzzy for over twenty years and the idea of growing one intrigued me. Mrs M had always been negative toward the idea but now it was her suggestion.
The second reason is that when I was a teenager I had a handle bar moustache which I lost within two-weeks of going out with my future wife. I was proud of it but I wanted to impress her more than fighting to keep it.
I need to point out that back in the day such facial hair was fashionable and this was before the village people made it in the UK charts, just.
Anyway, for the last two weeks I have been holding back from shaving my top lip. As an extra bonus I have allowed the growth to form the shape of a handle bar.
At first Mrs M didn't notice the extra hair but when she did she was quick to voice her disapproval. It seems that the passage of time has not softened her feelings towards the look.
I tried to appease her by saying that it was only for a bit of fun but it didn't convince her and for two of three days she found plenty of opportunities to make comment.
I resisted for a while until eventually she broke my resolve. She looked at me for a moment and then said that she found it interesting that unlike the hair on my top lip the handlebars were growing out grey.
So without objection I have shaved them off and left the remains of what might turn out to be an authentic 1920's muzzy.
All I need now is a monocle, a hand full of hair gel, and a kiss curl. Bring on the Charleston!
Hairy Top Lip
Inked - the old fashioned rebellion
We spent most of Sunday discussing tattoos. Not in any academic way you understand. But in the context of our third daughter's wish to get inked.
She is in her early twenties and so is grown up enough to make her own decision; at least this is what we told ourselves as we looked at the proposed design.
Mrs M and I were married when we were twenty and back then we felt that we were old enough to make such a life-changing decision. Now, however, twenty-one seems still so very youthful.
And so it is that we gaze at the intricate autumn leaf pattern that will soon adorn our daughter's back and want to be both supportive and cautious at the same time.
We reminisced about our journey towards being married. The fact that we made our decision less than twelve months after beginning to court, (yes it once was called courting), amazed our girls and seemed to put the tattoo choice in some perspective.
Even so Mrs M couldn't resist suggesting that it might be better to have one that was a little smaller to start with but daughter number three was fully committed to the cause and was not for turning.
I was tempted to try a bit of reverse psychology and suggested that my bride had the same design done on her back in order to make a matching pair. I felt sure that this would put her off; after all they don't like to wear the same clothes as their mother never mind the same permanent body art. She saw through my test and so we moved on to discuss other matters.
Its not that I am against such things, in fact when done tastefully they can look rather good. It is just the sense of permanence that they suggest.
If you dye your hair bright pink then you can make a change with relative ease. If you grow a beard you are only one shave away from seeing you chin again.
Ink is for life; ask Robert Nesbitt. He is the Newcastle fan who had the image of footballer Andy Cole reproduced on his thigh only two days before his hero signed to join Manchester United.
There must be nothing worse than having an out-of-date design permanently placed on your epidermis. I suppose the only issue my daughter will face is that her autumn leaves might clash with summer.
A little later I suggested to my wife that I might get inked before my fiftieth birthday next year; joining in with the moment she asked me what I might have done. I thought for a while and then, in the light of my growing bald patch, my aching limbs, and my middle-aged spread, it occurred to me.
I will get a Tattoo of a Best Before Date on my forehead. If you are going to be out-of-date you might as well be upfront about it.
Wifely Editorial Control
Last Saturday we spent a pleasant day at my eldest daughter's new house
on the outskirts of Doncaster.
I knew that amongst the energetic conversations, the good food, the
cups of coffee, would be the need for Mrs M to take photographs.
She has always felt the need to do this going back to the days when the
word 'negative' meant more than the contents of a Simon Cowell review.
These days she has far more access to equipment that will record every
smile on offer. Now we have the blessing, or curse, of digital.
On Saturday my bride forgot to take her camera so I had hoped that we
might have got away with it. But her new mobile phone has the facility,
along with many other functions that have nothing to do with long
distance conversations, to take photographs.
Mrs M took them as we arrived. She snapped as we ate, much to
he disgust of her daughters who, not unreasonably, insisted on being
given the chance to swallow their food and smile first. She took them whilst we watched telly.
Before the end of our visit, she turned into her version of a
wedding photographer and proceeds to set people in groups so that
everyone feels included.
Then, before I had the chance to escape she hands me the camera and
instructs me in the art of taking pics of her proudly posing with our
precious girls.
I don't really mind this, because I too am proud of them and love to
see them all together.
The problem is that she never likes any of the shots I take. She
compares them to the ones that she produces and says that I don't
compose them correctly. I either stand to close or I stand too far away.
I refrain from suggesting that the only difference between our output
is that she is missing from hers.
I don't make this comment because her presence ruins the look of them: quite
the reverse as she is beautiful.
The problem is that she is over critical of herself in photographs. In this she is joined by our daughters, who all take it in turns to look through each slide and exercise editorial control.
I am quite convinced that this wasn't always the case but, now that we
have Facebook, the possible audience is huge.
It seems that within ten minutes of any social event the odds are that you will displayed to thousands of people, many of whom you don't know.
And so people are far more concerned about pictoral quality. When I say 'people' of course I mean the females of our family. All of us males take whatever comes; and as such there are hundreds of photographs of me on the internet either eating food, half way through speaking, looking like I am about to sneeze, half asleep on the sofa, or looking like I have just been dragged through the proverbial hedge in reverse.
This, apparently, is not a problem because the girls always look good. But then that's th benefit of having editorial control.
