Ding Dong

I have been very busy today telling everyone how clever my daughter is and basking in the reflected glory. I think I may have alienated some more people. In between gloating, I took the daughter to the circus school, the garden centre and the swimming pool.

At the swimming pool I spotted three low ranking Daughters, J-Lo, Odd Molly and Charlotte Farringdon-Tubestation. J-Lo, I should add, is not world popular music sensation and purveyor of perfume Jennifer Lopez but rather Jocasta Longbottom from Peculiar, Missouri. I once toyed with the idea of adopting a similar street name until I realised mine would be I-We. It has unpleasant bed wetting overtones so I dropped the idea.

Odd Molly, as her name implies, is called Molly and Charlotte Farringdon-Tubestation is from Nu Joyz ( that is New Jersey to the rest of the English speaking world) and has an infamous bladder control problem after giving birth to seven children. Her very few close friends have learnt to approach her from up wind and breath orally.

Anyway, these three are absolute bottom feeders in the great pond that is Sunny Mountain Street so I fancied my chances of striking up a conversation and maybe making friends.

They were sitting deep in conversation as I strolled nonchalantly up to them, well as nonchalantly as is possible when wearing a pea green mankini. They did not notice me at first so I took the opportunity to eaves drop on their conversation to pickup some pointers. I couldn't hear very well but I did pick up the words "Hung on HBO and More4", "like a donkey", "male appendix". This was interesting, a programme about capital punishment, a subject I am able to debate at the drop of a hat, although what the donkey or a man's appendix had to do with it I could not fathom. Perhaps it was organ harvesting. Anyway, that was all I got before they noticed me.

"Yes" said J-Lo rather frostily. I said I couldn't help overhearing their conversation and that I was totally opposed to the death penalty and willing to get more concerned about illegal organ harvesting aswell. As I talked I had the uneasy feeling that I was being judged. Three pairs of eyes were almost imperceptibly slipping down my mankini. Well it was disorientating to say the least and I started to worry that I was showing something I shouldn't be showing. These mankinis are incredibly skimpy and I have been warned by the lifeguard before about accidental spillage. I lowered my head to check. At that point we were all looking at my downdoors. Phew, everything present and correct, ship shape and bristol fashion. When I looked up they were all gone. Only the faintest whiff of urine betrayed the fact that they had ever been there.

My interest was piqued so when I got home I decided to look up the series on the internet and got ready to set the HD recorder. Thank goodness I checked. Hung is not a documentary about capital punishment, oh no. I was shocked. Now I understand about the donkey, and it was appendage not appendix. Oh my goodness, I have just realised why they were looking where they were looking. I feel soiled and just a little curious to know what score I got.

My Day

And so the first day of the daughter's new senior class draws to a close. You remember she was bumped up a year. I haven't been this proud since I won the School Handwriting Prize in 1978. I have lived a very unaccomplished life.

Anyway, after the daughter left this morning I decided to celebrate by treating myself to some retail therapy. I read in Heat magazine that this is all the rage. I have had my eye on a rather fruity ski style zip up pullover since last Sunday. Into the shop I went and, to my horror, saw that there were only two jumpers left and two women were holding them, pawing at them infact, holding them up and checking themselves out in the mirror.

My paramilitary training immediately kicked in, I had been aide de camp to Brown Owl in the cubs, and I knew I had to somehow scare these scavengers away from MY jumper. I hovered menacingly, roughly fingering some skimpy cashmere thongs and delivering some whoopass eye contact. Finally they moved away, but with one of the jumpers. Yes, with a mans jumper! And then the woman paid for it and left the shop.

Well I was almost speechless. Why had she bought this jumper?. It was most obviously a manly mans jumper. Or was it?. Now I wasn't sure. Should I buy a jumper that girls wear? What would that say about me? What, horror of horrors, would happen if I bumped into her again and we were wearing the same jumper?! Oh the shame.

I checked, yes I was in the men's department, although it was worringly close to the blouses. Why can't these stores have clear demarcation zones?. Anyway, 75% sure I had a genuine redblooded male article of clothing I went to the till. In a jocular, devil may care tone, I commented to the sales assistant that I hoped this was a mans jumper because I had seen a woman buying one.

"Oh yes sir, it is a mans jumper. No need to worry, and anyway she had smaller breasts than you. Would Sir like to take a look at our winter collection of daringly low cut blouses, just in today" she said.

"No Sir bloody well wouldn't" I said in my most hetrosexual voice. I paid and left tout suite. Damn my moobs!.

What is the world coming to. I love this jumper but I will never be able to wear it out now for the fear I will bump into women wearing the same jumper and be branded as a cross dresser. Anyway, it has given added impetus to my diet, and I think I am going to start pumping iron to firm up the old clevage and shop in exclusively, 100% no chicks allowed, chap shops from now on.

Anyway, I have now selected the cabbage soup diet. There are warnings about possible turbulence when you are on this diet but in for a penny, lose many pounds. Will keep you posted.

Sink or Slim

Just got back from the swimming pool. What fun we had, the daughter frolicked like a 5 year old child shaped dolphin. I on the other hand resembled more of a humpbacked whale trapped in the shallows. I was half expecting Friends of the Earth to turn up cover me in vaseline and pour water over me until the tide came back in. I think I need to go on a diet.

I do not think people realise the intense social pressure we stay at home dads are under to look good. Now I am as metrosexual as the next chap, I am au fait with toilet seat etiquette and on a nodding aquaintance basis with dental floss, but being checked out by the yummy mummys during a lunch time swim is confidence destroying to say the least. The sounds of tutting and looks of disgust in the eyes of all those present seemed to follow me around. I am sure I heard one mom say to her child "look Sebastian, if you don't eat properly and excercise thats how you'll end up" . Granted the fact that I was wearing a Borat style Mankini didn't help. I knew that woman in the swimwear shop didn't have my best interests at heart.

I had to hold my stomach in for such a long time I think I have pulled a muscle. When I mercifully entered the protective cloak of the pool and relaxed it caused a powerful vortex. It was only the keen eyed watchfulness of the lifeguard that prevented those two tots from being sucked under.

I have just tried to calculate my body mass index. Anywhere between 18 and 25 is ok, I came out at 429, that is several hundred over the 40 that indicates you are morbidly obese. Must get new batteries for that damned calculator. All quite depressing. Off to look up some fadish diets and get a bikini line wax.

PS thanks to those who have recently become followers of the blog and to the original loyal stalwarts, you don't mind me calling you stalwarts do you? Brings a tear to my eye when I think about you all out there with nothing better to do than read this rubbish. Thanks and keep up the good work.

Proud As Punch

I was called in to see the daughter's teacher yesterday. I was concerned I can tell you. What had the little one been up to, dealing again, or had that girl died after the conker incident?. But no, to my relief and delight the teacher announced that the daughter is to be moved up a year. Ah, my genes are asserting themselves at last, the girl's a genius.

Just as I was about to leave the teacher said there was one area of concern. Apparently the daughter had been singing an inappropriate song in the playground.

What song I asked?.

"I don't like your girlfriend" she replied.

"Well" I said " that's rather personal and she is much better now I have the cooking sherry safely under lock and key. And she is my wife now. You are no oil painting yourself you know".

"Nein, nein, zat is ze name of ze song, I don't like your girlfriend" she said.

"Oh, you mean Avril Lavigne, the tiny, talented troubadour beloved of Canadians the world over. Well what's the problem?" said I.

"Zer are lines in zer zat are not very good" she said, and proceeded to tell me.

"Well, I have to disagree with you there. Getting something to rhyme with "Hell yeah I'm a mother f*****g Princess" is no mean feat, and little Avril deserves credit for pulling it off with aplomb" I said.

I explained to the teacher that she had only started to listen to this music recently because she was sick of the endless loop of Jeremy Kyle Shows that I have started to watch. All that swearing, violence and the somewhat depressing evidence of the interplay of socio-economic conditions that are contributing inexorably to the undermining and eventual disintegration of the fabric of western society, she gets enough of that in the playground she said. I must admit I don't understand what she says sometimes.

Anyway, I agreed with her teacher that I will monitor future listening (bang goes the "Best of the Sex Pistols" compilation album I was got her for Christmas. Have to give it to the wife now). Bye for now.

Bonfire Night

Every year at his time we throw open our doors to the locals who then feel obliged to regift cheap bottles of wine, grind mud into the carpets and up the walls, break priceless family heirlooms, leave half eaten toffee apples wedged into the ipod dock and leave the garden looking like the Somme, obviously without the bodies, although there is a strange smell coming from under the gooseberry bush, must check that out.

Yes, it was our 5th Bonfire Night party attended by the great and good of Sunnymountain Street. Notables from both the SSMM and Daughters attended and agreed some kind of truce, sealed by passing round a crack pipe of peace.

I had rented a pergola to give some protection to guests as the weather forecast promised prolonged heavy rain. Did it rain?. No it didn't. I have instructed my lawyers to sue the BBC weather department for the rental costs and emotional damages. I mean, I wouldn't care so much if they only did this forecasting lark as a hobby, but its their bloody job!

Anyway, I had planned a firework display. I got my neighbour to help. He was to light the smaller fireworks while I snuck off to a nearby hollow and prepared the finale, a crescendo of rockets. I really should have read the instructions. Rockets need to sit in a launcher of some kind and not be stuck in wet ground. I lit them, they fired but never left the ground. It was like being stuck on the set of Apocalypse Now. After treating the casualties people started to leave. I don't think some will ever come back. Fat Kath received an injury to her good eye (you'll remember she got a Jimmy Choo to the other eye during the Great Halloween Rumble with the Daughters) To be fair the injury wasnt caused directly by a firework but rather by English mustard. She was squirting some from an easy squeeze bottle on to her umpteenth hot dog when the explosions startled her, causing a reflex squeeze straight into the eye. I suppose she is now legally blind. The last I saw of her she was heading home, ricocheting off parked cars like an untethered barrage balloon. All in all I think it went very well.

Monday I was in the garden harvesting lavender to make potpourri. The girlification process is unstoppable.

Cupcake Top Tips

"Why do my cupcakes come out flat on top or slightly sunken in?" a friend recently asked me. Well I have to admit that I was wrong footed for a moment or two.

Recovering my wits I replied "Well, there are three main reasons why your cupcakes might deflate, over mixed batter, too much baking powder or soda or overfilled cups".

"Over mixing the batter leads to increased gluten production, ending up with a tight, dense final product. It is best to fold the ingredients with a light hand until they come together. Baking powder, when used judiciously, results in small pockets of air evenly distributed through the dough. These pockets are a result of the carbon dioxide producing reaction with acidic ingredients in the dough. If there is too much baking powder the bubbles of carbon dioxide expand too greatly and break, causing collapse. Overfilled cups mean that, when the cupcake rises, it won't have anywhere to go and will level itself out. This is easy to avoid, just fill your cupcake no more than three quarters full, so the batter can rise sufficiently. Now get out, I want to finish my shower in peace"

Rumble on the Street

Oh it has all been happening on Sunnymountain Street. Last Saturday was Halloween and here in the compound we celebrated it with gusto. Hundreds of kids were bused in from goodness knows where, local Borstals I suspect, and swarmed from house to house leaving a trail of destruction and sweet wrappers in their wake.

The whole event is beautifully organised by the gang that control the northside, known as the Daughters of the American Revolution, or the Daughters for short. They are almost exclusively American moms who send their kids to the local private school. Every year the Daughters draw up a list of the houses that can be visited and woe betide anyone who tries their luck on a non listed house, the Swiss have automatic weapons at home and are easily spooked.

Anyway, there is always a bit of friction and a simmering rivalry between the SSMM and the Daughters because the Daughters refuse to mix with the SSMM (remember, they control the southside, do pay attention). As a result many of the southside houses cannot get onto the visiting list. Is that all clear, are you still with me?.

Well, on Saturday night the street was full of parked cars making it effectively a one lane road. About 8pm (according to police reports) two cars travelling in opposite directions tried to get through at the same time. Inevitably they met head on, each refused to yield. One was driven by a middle ranking Daughter, the other by an SSMM foot soldier. An argument ensued. Meanwhile traffic was backing up in both directions, horns started to blare.

Within minutes the SSMM lined one side of the street, the Daughters the other. Words were exchanged and the mood turned uglier than Fat Kath's children. In what smacked to me as the result of pre meditation, the SSMM produced handheld breast pumps and waved them in a provocative manner at the Daughters. The SSMM credo holds that mothers who express milk are not real women. The Daughters, again in what can only have been a pre arranged provocation, lifted their coats to show their cesarean scars and sculptured washboard like stomachs. A collective gasp went up from the SSMM ranks. The SSMM all simultaneoulsy sucked in their natural child birth stomachs. I found I was doing this aswell.

The SSMM hit back by burning a picture of Martha Stewart, the patron saint of the Daughters. After that it just kicked off. Fat Kath received a Jimmy Choo to the eye and several of the Daughters sustained nasty breast pump injuries. One woman was taken to hospital with stretch marks.

What an evening, can't wait for next year.