One of the downsides of my current job is that I frequently have to leave behind the pleasant council estates of Brighton, and head out into the more crime-ridden pockets of Sussex. Having started my working day at the local hospital, I was soon sent off to the ghettoes of Forest Row, Uckfield and Lewes this morning, which meant driving through the mean streets of Ashdown Forest. They're currently experiencing the kind of crime wave rarely seen outside of Dodge City, so I was lucky to get out of there alive.
Only today, the local press have reported a shocking eyewitness account from someone who was petrified by five cobs. No, seriously. It came straight from the horse's mouth. More shocking still is that according to the article, "It is the latest in a series of incidents reported in the forest. Earlier this month Ashdown Forest Conservators appealed for help tracing two men described as riding extremely fast on thoroughbred polo ponies".
These common criminals make me sick. Why can't they use Ford Escorts like the rest of us? Frankly it was a relief to get back to Brighton and our inbred pit bulls.
On the subject of dangerous animals, Shimmy is currently staying with my parents in St Leonards, where she's been weathering the baby storm since Toby was born. I was hoping to have her back by now, but firstly she's having too much fun chasing squirrels, secondly we've run out of money to feed her, and thirdly Lisa's worried that her return might tip us over the edge into a nervous breakdown. Suffice it to say, she's not the easiest of cats.
Unfortunately that decision might be taken out of our hands. Word has reached us from along the coast that our beloved cat's in the doghouse. Apparently she wandered into the bungalow next door and started terrorising their hamster. Obviously that's not our fault - it's the fault of my Dad's Tom & Jerry DVDs - but at this rate, the foster parents might be sending her back.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
With any expanding family, there's a risk that the older child will experience feelings of jealousy when you try to take photos of the baby. But I think Amelie can handle it...
Possibly by hitting me in the face with a book. Frankly I'd have been safer taking photos of Liam Gallagher.
On the subject of dangerous explosions, I was driving past Brighton Racecourse this morning on my way to East Grinstead, when a massive truck pulled out in front of me, and started chugging down the road at about 10mph. It was part of a convoy from the Extreme Stunt Show, a touring band of daredevils that had been performing there the night before, which was slightly ironic, as the moment I found myself stuck behind it, I began considering taking my life in my hands by performing a dangerous manouevre at high speed.
In the end I didn't overtake, which was just as well, because as I followed the juggernaut towards Woodingdean, one of the right rear wheels began to smoke, and the tyre suddenly exploded in front of me, causing the lorry to veer across the road and onto the pavement. You've got to hand it to them. Even when they're not working, they're doing extreme stunts.
I'm particularly pleased I wasn't killed, because yesterday was mine and Lisa's 99-month anniversary. I want to live for a few more weeks so that we can celebrate our centenary by renewing our vows. Not our wedding vows, obviously. I'm talking about the vows we made to stop remembering these monthly anniversaries. I break mine about twelve times a year.
Eight years and three months after I ground Lisa into submission and forced her to become my girlfriend, we celebrated yesterday's milestone by collapsing onto the sofa, having a little cry, and then going to bed quickly before we slipped into a coma of exhaustion. I'm beginning to understand why women have the menopause in their forties. It's to save them from a life like this.
But while I crawl under a consulting room desk in East Grinstead and contemplate my sanity, I'll leave you with a joke I wrote yesterday in a vain attempt to stimulate my mind and stay awake during a clinic...
I thank you. I'm here all week. Although I might be asleep.
Possibly by hitting me in the face with a book. Frankly I'd have been safer taking photos of Liam Gallagher.
On the subject of dangerous explosions, I was driving past Brighton Racecourse this morning on my way to East Grinstead, when a massive truck pulled out in front of me, and started chugging down the road at about 10mph. It was part of a convoy from the Extreme Stunt Show, a touring band of daredevils that had been performing there the night before, which was slightly ironic, as the moment I found myself stuck behind it, I began considering taking my life in my hands by performing a dangerous manouevre at high speed.
In the end I didn't overtake, which was just as well, because as I followed the juggernaut towards Woodingdean, one of the right rear wheels began to smoke, and the tyre suddenly exploded in front of me, causing the lorry to veer across the road and onto the pavement. You've got to hand it to them. Even when they're not working, they're doing extreme stunts.
I'm particularly pleased I wasn't killed, because yesterday was mine and Lisa's 99-month anniversary. I want to live for a few more weeks so that we can celebrate our centenary by renewing our vows. Not our wedding vows, obviously. I'm talking about the vows we made to stop remembering these monthly anniversaries. I break mine about twelve times a year.
Eight years and three months after I ground Lisa into submission and forced her to become my girlfriend, we celebrated yesterday's milestone by collapsing onto the sofa, having a little cry, and then going to bed quickly before we slipped into a coma of exhaustion. I'm beginning to understand why women have the menopause in their forties. It's to save them from a life like this.
But while I crawl under a consulting room desk in East Grinstead and contemplate my sanity, I'll leave you with a joke I wrote yesterday in a vain attempt to stimulate my mind and stay awake during a clinic...
I say, I say, I say, what's the difference between Brighton and St Osyth?
St Osyth had their pride parade last weekend.
I thank you. I'm here all week. Although I might be asleep.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
After four weeks at home with the kids, it's good to get back to work on the fourth floor of Crawley Hospital...
Fortunately it wasn't me doing the Crawley clinic today. I was safely holed up in Brighton, wondering if our patients could see well enough to evacuate the building after having the eye drops. It was one of my colleagues who had the pleasure of spending the afternoon on the pavement, watching the flames edging closer to her handbag. Still, it could have been worse. She might have had to abseil to safety.
To be honest, the room I was in today could have burst into flames and I don't think I would have noticed. I've felt like a lobotomised zombie with M.E.. The only thing keeping me going was the knowledge that the nursery had cocked up Amelie's fees again, and I needed to stay awake for an argument.
So it's not been an easy day. And to rub salt into the wound, this was the scene I left behind me at home this morning...
Those kids are a dream come true. Lisa couldn't have it any easier.
Fortunately it wasn't me doing the Crawley clinic today. I was safely holed up in Brighton, wondering if our patients could see well enough to evacuate the building after having the eye drops. It was one of my colleagues who had the pleasure of spending the afternoon on the pavement, watching the flames edging closer to her handbag. Still, it could have been worse. She might have had to abseil to safety.
To be honest, the room I was in today could have burst into flames and I don't think I would have noticed. I've felt like a lobotomised zombie with M.E.. The only thing keeping me going was the knowledge that the nursery had cocked up Amelie's fees again, and I needed to stay awake for an argument.
So it's not been an easy day. And to rub salt into the wound, this was the scene I left behind me at home this morning...
Those kids are a dream come true. Lisa couldn't have it any easier.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Toby's four weeks old today, which means it's also the last day of my extended paternity leave. Tomorrow the hard work ends, and I go back to my job. I've successfully completed approximately 2% of the tasks I set myself for the month of August, and have had less sleep than an insomniac on amphetamines, but I think it's been a worthwhile exercise. If only to confirm that we're far too old for all this. Whoever said that having two children is easier than one, is clearly a liar with an only child.
Fortunately for a couple having the most tiring month of their lives, we know where we can find a reclining sofa...
Obviously you're not meant to recline on it like that, but when you're as exhausted as Lisa, you could sleep on a clothes line. If it wasn't full of babygros.
We actually visited my parents yesterday, in a last ditch attempt to persuade them to adopt our children before we have a nervous breakdown. They politely declined, but we did get to see my brother and sister who were staying for the weekend. So if you're wondering what kind of excitement occurs when the Gardner clan get together on a bank holiday weekend, here's your answer...
The green goddess with the slinky hips is Big Sis. She told me that if she ends up on YouTube there'll be trouble, but it was hard to edit her out when she kept shimmying into shot during every chorus. Still, it was good to find out that my Dad worked for the YMCA in 1978. I think he was the biker with the big moustache.
Fortunately for a couple having the most tiring month of their lives, we know where we can find a reclining sofa...
Obviously you're not meant to recline on it like that, but when you're as exhausted as Lisa, you could sleep on a clothes line. If it wasn't full of babygros.
We actually visited my parents yesterday, in a last ditch attempt to persuade them to adopt our children before we have a nervous breakdown. They politely declined, but we did get to see my brother and sister who were staying for the weekend. So if you're wondering what kind of excitement occurs when the Gardner clan get together on a bank holiday weekend, here's your answer...
The green goddess with the slinky hips is Big Sis. She told me that if she ends up on YouTube there'll be trouble, but it was hard to edit her out when she kept shimmying into shot during every chorus. Still, it was good to find out that my Dad worked for the YMCA in 1978. I think he was the biker with the big moustache.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
On this day in 1969, Lisa was fighting for her life in an incubator, having been born eight weeks premature, weighing less than two bags of sugar. Forty-three years later, she's struggling to get dressed. It's as though she's given up the fight. Or maybe she's just fed up with washing baby vomit stains out of her best clothes.
Either way, Lisa spent her birthday in her pyjamas, hence I have no photos of her. She's quite accommodating when it comes to photography, but she draws the line at nightwear. Unless it's a special occasion.
I think she had a nice birthday though. Amelie spent more time designing her Mummy's card than Hallmark did, as a result of which, we discovered that she can write her own name...
She's clearly on the way to becoming a doctor. Or a graffiti artist. It's either prescriptions or vandalism for her.
With that done, we gave Lisa her gift. I got her a slow cooker. It was either that or a lock for the kitchen door and a chain for the sink. As it happens, she's wanted a slow cooker for ages. I think the microwave's too fast for her, and she can't take the pace. You can get them very cheaply now, but naturally I went for the Rolls Royce of slow cookers. They don't come any slower than this one. It's barely luke warm. So it should last her a lifetime. Which at her age isn't long.
I also bought her all the ingredients for 'Chicken in Red Wine' and 'Sausage & Bean Casserole'. It's been hours since she opened them, so obviously they're not ready yet.
Fortunately, the Princess Cupcakes were a lot quicker. At least, the cakes themselves were. Amelie had them mixed, beaten and baked within half an hour. Unfortunately, having iced them and added pink glitter, we discovered that we were expected to colour in twelve strips of paper, cut them out and stick them to the cake cases. Each strip featured three princesses. That's thirty-six princesses in all. Frankly I lost the will to live.
But as yesterday's photo proves, we managed it. Although by the end I was trying to make them look like Andy Warhol's screen prints of Marilyn. Once done, we added a candle to each one, at which point Amelie shouted "Now put fire on them, Daddy!" in the crazed voice of a pyromaniac. So I lit them, and we presented the plate to Lisa for a big blow-out.
After a lunch of pink glittery cupcakes, Lisa opened all her cards, while Amelie and I attempted to guess who each one was from by the writing on the envelope. Amelie guessed 'Jesus' for one of them, but it turned out to be Lisa's friend Maria. She clearly loves her a lot more.
Obviously a top-of-the-range slow cooker is basically as good as it gets, but sadly for me, Lisa's mother managed to pip me to the title of 'Best Gift' by offering to have Amelie for the afternoon. So at 2pm I dropped the girl off at the sheltered housing, Lisa pumped Toby full of milk, and the two of us settled down for an afternoon of uplifting DVDs. We watched 'Jonestown: The Life and Death of Peoples Temple', followed by 'Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room'. When you spend three hours learning about murder, suicide and corporate crime, you feel better about not getting dressed.
Either way, Lisa spent her birthday in her pyjamas, hence I have no photos of her. She's quite accommodating when it comes to photography, but she draws the line at nightwear. Unless it's a special occasion.
I think she had a nice birthday though. Amelie spent more time designing her Mummy's card than Hallmark did, as a result of which, we discovered that she can write her own name...
She's clearly on the way to becoming a doctor. Or a graffiti artist. It's either prescriptions or vandalism for her.
With that done, we gave Lisa her gift. I got her a slow cooker. It was either that or a lock for the kitchen door and a chain for the sink. As it happens, she's wanted a slow cooker for ages. I think the microwave's too fast for her, and she can't take the pace. You can get them very cheaply now, but naturally I went for the Rolls Royce of slow cookers. They don't come any slower than this one. It's barely luke warm. So it should last her a lifetime. Which at her age isn't long.
I also bought her all the ingredients for 'Chicken in Red Wine' and 'Sausage & Bean Casserole'. It's been hours since she opened them, so obviously they're not ready yet.
Fortunately, the Princess Cupcakes were a lot quicker. At least, the cakes themselves were. Amelie had them mixed, beaten and baked within half an hour. Unfortunately, having iced them and added pink glitter, we discovered that we were expected to colour in twelve strips of paper, cut them out and stick them to the cake cases. Each strip featured three princesses. That's thirty-six princesses in all. Frankly I lost the will to live.
But as yesterday's photo proves, we managed it. Although by the end I was trying to make them look like Andy Warhol's screen prints of Marilyn. Once done, we added a candle to each one, at which point Amelie shouted "Now put fire on them, Daddy!" in the crazed voice of a pyromaniac. So I lit them, and we presented the plate to Lisa for a big blow-out.
After a lunch of pink glittery cupcakes, Lisa opened all her cards, while Amelie and I attempted to guess who each one was from by the writing on the envelope. Amelie guessed 'Jesus' for one of them, but it turned out to be Lisa's friend Maria. She clearly loves her a lot more.
Obviously a top-of-the-range slow cooker is basically as good as it gets, but sadly for me, Lisa's mother managed to pip me to the title of 'Best Gift' by offering to have Amelie for the afternoon. So at 2pm I dropped the girl off at the sheltered housing, Lisa pumped Toby full of milk, and the two of us settled down for an afternoon of uplifting DVDs. We watched 'Jonestown: The Life and Death of Peoples Temple', followed by 'Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room'. When you spend three hours learning about murder, suicide and corporate crime, you feel better about not getting dressed.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Friday, August 24, 2012
The older Amelie gets, the more I think there's been some kind of terrible mistake on her birth certificate...
If I hadn't been there when she was born, I'd never believe she's still three. It's a miracle they still let her on buses without paying. Frankly she could order drinks in a bar if she wanted to.
So with it being only a matter of time before she's invited to play pool with Prince Harry, we decided to get Amelie's hair cut today. That's her doing a bit of impromptu posing in the salon, and embarrassing the model behind her. The fact that she can button up that cardigan proves that she's silicone free. She's essentially a paraben of virtue, and fit to marry a prince any day.
Of course, Amelie might be our main route into royalty, but the real Princess Dye of this family is Lisa. So we got her hair done too. She's now sporting a stylish bob (not Robert Pattinson), which looked completely stunning as she walked from the hairdresser's chair to the salon door... and out into the pouring rain. Without an umbrella. Or a coat.
The weirdest thing about this August weather, however, is that whilst it can rain hard enough to ruin a gorgeous hair-do and soak us all to the bone in our light summer clothes, it still doesn't wash the glitter out of Toby's hair. He might have to wait until he's bald like his father.
On the subject of premature ageing, it's Lisa's birthday tomorrow. I can't say exactly how old she is for legal reasons, but suffice it to say, she's spent the past year learning the meaning of life, the universe and everything, and now it's all downhill into ignorance. Amelie and I have spent a good half hour decorating her birthday card (it's now no longer readable) and we have a Disney Princess Cupcake Mix to make in the morning. Amelie insisted it's what Lisa would have wanted, and not just her personal choice, so I decided to trust her judgement. She looks old enough to know what she's talking about.
If I hadn't been there when she was born, I'd never believe she's still three. It's a miracle they still let her on buses without paying. Frankly she could order drinks in a bar if she wanted to.
So with it being only a matter of time before she's invited to play pool with Prince Harry, we decided to get Amelie's hair cut today. That's her doing a bit of impromptu posing in the salon, and embarrassing the model behind her. The fact that she can button up that cardigan proves that she's silicone free. She's essentially a paraben of virtue, and fit to marry a prince any day.
Of course, Amelie might be our main route into royalty, but the real Princess Dye of this family is Lisa. So we got her hair done too. She's now sporting a stylish bob (not Robert Pattinson), which looked completely stunning as she walked from the hairdresser's chair to the salon door... and out into the pouring rain. Without an umbrella. Or a coat.
The weirdest thing about this August weather, however, is that whilst it can rain hard enough to ruin a gorgeous hair-do and soak us all to the bone in our light summer clothes, it still doesn't wash the glitter out of Toby's hair. He might have to wait until he's bald like his father.
On the subject of premature ageing, it's Lisa's birthday tomorrow. I can't say exactly how old she is for legal reasons, but suffice it to say, she's spent the past year learning the meaning of life, the universe and everything, and now it's all downhill into ignorance. Amelie and I have spent a good half hour decorating her birthday card (it's now no longer readable) and we have a Disney Princess Cupcake Mix to make in the morning. Amelie insisted it's what Lisa would have wanted, and not just her personal choice, so I decided to trust her judgement. She looks old enough to know what she's talking about.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Two heads are definitely better than one...
... as long as neither of them are crying. To be honest, finding Amelie smiling and Toby not screaming is a bit like spotting a yeti. It takes a lot of patience plus a great deal of luck, and no one will believe it without photos.
The more usual view is this one...
That's Toby speaking his mind, and Amelie proving that we're not as clever as we think we are.
Amelie spent a lot of yesterday lying down next to Toby. I'd like to think she was bonding with her brother and keeping an eye out for him, but in reality, I think she's just realised that anyone lying on a play mat is allowed to moan as much as they like. She told us yesterday that her name was Baby Olivia, and then promptly started crying.
As it happens, she caused a bit of stress at nursery yesterday too. When I picked her up in the afternoon, one of the supervisors came rushing over to me with a concerned expression on her face, and asked me if Toby was alright. I panicked slightly, thinking that something must have happened in the time it had taken me to walk down the hill, but suffice it to say, it hadn't. Five minutes after arriving there yesterday lunchtime, Amelie had told the staff that her Mummy was taking Toby straight to the hospital in case there's something wrong with him.
We'd told her we were taking him to the surgery to register him with a doctor in case he gets ill in the future, so she was close, but not quite close enough to avoid a major panic at the nursery.
Ironically, however, we never even made it as far as the GP. We decided to drive to Toys R Us, followed by Asda, and by the time we'd filled the car with non-essential purchases, we'd run out of time. We needed to be back home by 4pm to welcome the latest person into the baby-cuddling hot-seat...
That's H (not from Steps). And Toby looks just as shocked to see her as he does when he claps eyes on us.
... as long as neither of them are crying. To be honest, finding Amelie smiling and Toby not screaming is a bit like spotting a yeti. It takes a lot of patience plus a great deal of luck, and no one will believe it without photos.
The more usual view is this one...
That's Toby speaking his mind, and Amelie proving that we're not as clever as we think we are.
Amelie spent a lot of yesterday lying down next to Toby. I'd like to think she was bonding with her brother and keeping an eye out for him, but in reality, I think she's just realised that anyone lying on a play mat is allowed to moan as much as they like. She told us yesterday that her name was Baby Olivia, and then promptly started crying.
As it happens, she caused a bit of stress at nursery yesterday too. When I picked her up in the afternoon, one of the supervisors came rushing over to me with a concerned expression on her face, and asked me if Toby was alright. I panicked slightly, thinking that something must have happened in the time it had taken me to walk down the hill, but suffice it to say, it hadn't. Five minutes after arriving there yesterday lunchtime, Amelie had told the staff that her Mummy was taking Toby straight to the hospital in case there's something wrong with him.
We'd told her we were taking him to the surgery to register him with a doctor in case he gets ill in the future, so she was close, but not quite close enough to avoid a major panic at the nursery.
Ironically, however, we never even made it as far as the GP. We decided to drive to Toys R Us, followed by Asda, and by the time we'd filled the car with non-essential purchases, we'd run out of time. We needed to be back home by 4pm to welcome the latest person into the baby-cuddling hot-seat...
That's H (not from Steps). And Toby looks just as shocked to see her as he does when he claps eyes on us.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
I'm thinking of hiring out Toby for Persil commercials...
He's like his father: whiter than white, but with a look of deep concentration which belies the fact that his mind's generally blank. To be honest, Lisa's already getting worried about his expressions. He spends all his time looking either shocked and stunned, or seriously worried. It's as though he can't believe the situation he's found himself in, and it troubles him greatly. Every time we talk to the boy, he looks back at us with the kind of incredulous expression which says "How on earth did I end up with this family?". He clearly feels he could have done better.
So I don't think he'll be staying with us past sixteen, which is probably good news for our sanity. But while he's still here, I'm doing my best to stop the flat looking like he's taking part in the new series of The Hoarder Next Door. One of our neighbours is having some building work done, which doesn't make it easy to sleep during the day, but despite the industrial strength drilling, I did manage to sleep for an hour or so yesterday morning. I think the vibrating walls helped me drop off.
I awoke just in time to take Amelie to nursery (unshaven and in the previous day's clothes) (me, not her), and returned home with a new determination to clear up. I spent the rest of the day tidying, hoovering, cleaning, and sweeping up glitter. Toby has been sparkling for the past week, since Amelie had a craft session and unwittingly decorated her brother, and despite having had three baths in six days, his hair still glints in the sunshine. He's the campest baby in Brighton.
Unfortunately he's not the only thing covered in glitter. The dining table's like a giant mirror ball, Chloe's doing an impression of Ziggy Stardust, and the living room wall's been completely re-papered...
The one in the top left is my favourite, but I'm still not sure if I've hung it upside down. The bottom left features a seagull feather. And probably numerous diseases.
But obviously all work and no play makes Phil a dull boy, so having done nothing but housework and art facilitation for the past twenty-four hours, I'm taking Lisa out this afternoon. We're going to the doctor's surgery to register Toby with a GP. And then ask for shampoo on prescription. We need something stronger for that glitter.
He's like his father: whiter than white, but with a look of deep concentration which belies the fact that his mind's generally blank. To be honest, Lisa's already getting worried about his expressions. He spends all his time looking either shocked and stunned, or seriously worried. It's as though he can't believe the situation he's found himself in, and it troubles him greatly. Every time we talk to the boy, he looks back at us with the kind of incredulous expression which says "How on earth did I end up with this family?". He clearly feels he could have done better.
So I don't think he'll be staying with us past sixteen, which is probably good news for our sanity. But while he's still here, I'm doing my best to stop the flat looking like he's taking part in the new series of The Hoarder Next Door. One of our neighbours is having some building work done, which doesn't make it easy to sleep during the day, but despite the industrial strength drilling, I did manage to sleep for an hour or so yesterday morning. I think the vibrating walls helped me drop off.
I awoke just in time to take Amelie to nursery (unshaven and in the previous day's clothes) (me, not her), and returned home with a new determination to clear up. I spent the rest of the day tidying, hoovering, cleaning, and sweeping up glitter. Toby has been sparkling for the past week, since Amelie had a craft session and unwittingly decorated her brother, and despite having had three baths in six days, his hair still glints in the sunshine. He's the campest baby in Brighton.
Unfortunately he's not the only thing covered in glitter. The dining table's like a giant mirror ball, Chloe's doing an impression of Ziggy Stardust, and the living room wall's been completely re-papered...
The one in the top left is my favourite, but I'm still not sure if I've hung it upside down. The bottom left features a seagull feather. And probably numerous diseases.
But obviously all work and no play makes Phil a dull boy, so having done nothing but housework and art facilitation for the past twenty-four hours, I'm taking Lisa out this afternoon. We're going to the doctor's surgery to register Toby with a GP. And then ask for shampoo on prescription. We need something stronger for that glitter.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
One of the nice things about life is that just when I think I don't have enough time to write a blog post, fate steps in and keeps me up all night, giving me ample opportunity to get the job done. Obviously when I say 'fate', I mean Amelie, but it amounts to the same thing.
I planned to sleep in the living room last night to avoid Toby's polite requests for food, but having inflated my bouncy castle and stuck a sheet on it, Amelie turned up with impeccable timing and asked if she could share my bed. Naturally I said no, and forced her back into her own bedroom, but ten minutes later, just as I was dropping off to sleep, I felt someone climbing under the duvet. I thought it was Lisa testing the weight limit of the Aerobed, but sadly for me, it was my wayward daughter.
Anyway, I don't know if you've ever tried picking up a fifty pound sack of potatoes from floor-level when you've got a dodgy back and the potatoes keep clinging on to the mattress, but trust me, it's not easy. I did try verbally ordering her back to bed in a low-toned Supernanny voice, but I don't think she's seen the show. My low-toned voice seemed to send her to sleep.
So having failed to drag her out by her ankles, I had no choice but to join Lisa in the torture room for a night of constant wailing. Which got even worse when Toby woke up. By 4am I'd barely slept, and having tried - and failed - to move Amelie for a second time, I admitted defeat and retired to her bedroom with the laptop. She might not want to sleep in here, but at least the room has wi-fi.
It's ironic, because we've had a busy couple of days, and I could do with a good night's sleep. Lisa had a bad night on Saturday, so I took the kids out for a walk on Sunday morning to give her a break. That went well. Toby started crying when we were a mile from home, and just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, Amelie fell over, grazed both her knees, and told me she couldn't walk back. I had to push the buggy with one hand, pull Amelie with the other, and listen to stereo sobbing. For a mile. Just as it started to rain.
Fortunately the afternoon was a lot better. We had a visit from Stefan and Andrew, who seemed very pleased to meet Toby...
It's easy to be happy when he's not crying. They should try coming at night.
To be honest, it was the same with Amelie...
... and look how she turned out.
They gave Amelie those leopardskin booties, but Toby received something far more bespoke: a hand-made blanket from the S&A fashion house. Stefan chose the wool, and Andrew took charge of the crochet hooks. They also gave him a spring-powered zebra, which is something no baby should be without. Although he'll be lucky if he can get it off his sister.
Anyhoo, Stefan declined to hold Toby, presumably because he didn't trust me and Lisa not to run straight out the door and never come back, but he did make us feel better by proving that things could be a lot worse if we'd kept those kittens. Apparently he and Andrew had a female guest the other week, and having allowed her time to settle in, Zita & Rozi made her feel truly welcome by pulling a line of toilet paper out of the bin and running through the flat with her used tampon. It must have been a memorable moment. And let's face it, memories are all they have, as there's no way she'll be coming back.
As for yesterday, I took Amelie to Asda, tried to set up a trust fund for Toby, fixed a light, rewired the TV, hoovered up Rice Krispies, cleaned Amelie's slippers, printed out photos, did about six loads of washing, and generally fetched, carried and sorted. It's a week until I go back to work. And frankly I can't wait.
I planned to sleep in the living room last night to avoid Toby's polite requests for food, but having inflated my bouncy castle and stuck a sheet on it, Amelie turned up with impeccable timing and asked if she could share my bed. Naturally I said no, and forced her back into her own bedroom, but ten minutes later, just as I was dropping off to sleep, I felt someone climbing under the duvet. I thought it was Lisa testing the weight limit of the Aerobed, but sadly for me, it was my wayward daughter.
Anyway, I don't know if you've ever tried picking up a fifty pound sack of potatoes from floor-level when you've got a dodgy back and the potatoes keep clinging on to the mattress, but trust me, it's not easy. I did try verbally ordering her back to bed in a low-toned Supernanny voice, but I don't think she's seen the show. My low-toned voice seemed to send her to sleep.
So having failed to drag her out by her ankles, I had no choice but to join Lisa in the torture room for a night of constant wailing. Which got even worse when Toby woke up. By 4am I'd barely slept, and having tried - and failed - to move Amelie for a second time, I admitted defeat and retired to her bedroom with the laptop. She might not want to sleep in here, but at least the room has wi-fi.
It's ironic, because we've had a busy couple of days, and I could do with a good night's sleep. Lisa had a bad night on Saturday, so I took the kids out for a walk on Sunday morning to give her a break. That went well. Toby started crying when we were a mile from home, and just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, Amelie fell over, grazed both her knees, and told me she couldn't walk back. I had to push the buggy with one hand, pull Amelie with the other, and listen to stereo sobbing. For a mile. Just as it started to rain.
Fortunately the afternoon was a lot better. We had a visit from Stefan and Andrew, who seemed very pleased to meet Toby...
It's easy to be happy when he's not crying. They should try coming at night.
To be honest, it was the same with Amelie...
... and look how she turned out.
They gave Amelie those leopardskin booties, but Toby received something far more bespoke: a hand-made blanket from the S&A fashion house. Stefan chose the wool, and Andrew took charge of the crochet hooks. They also gave him a spring-powered zebra, which is something no baby should be without. Although he'll be lucky if he can get it off his sister.
Anyhoo, Stefan declined to hold Toby, presumably because he didn't trust me and Lisa not to run straight out the door and never come back, but he did make us feel better by proving that things could be a lot worse if we'd kept those kittens. Apparently he and Andrew had a female guest the other week, and having allowed her time to settle in, Zita & Rozi made her feel truly welcome by pulling a line of toilet paper out of the bin and running through the flat with her used tampon. It must have been a memorable moment. And let's face it, memories are all they have, as there's no way she'll be coming back.
As for yesterday, I took Amelie to Asda, tried to set up a trust fund for Toby, fixed a light, rewired the TV, hoovered up Rice Krispies, cleaned Amelie's slippers, printed out photos, did about six loads of washing, and generally fetched, carried and sorted. It's a week until I go back to work. And frankly I can't wait.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
I think the Grim Reaper's let himself go...
That's the modern face of slaying. Slippers, braces and a look of sympathy. It's what I call Death warmed up.
To be honest, I feel a bit like that myself today. After a late night with Toby and an early morning with Am, I could happily crawl into a grave and die. But we had a nice day yesterday. My aunt is currently visiting St Leonards from the wilds of Cambridgeshire, so we headed over there at lunchtime for some free babysitting...
That was taken quite early on. By tea time she was fed up with his crying, and encouraging us to leave. But before we did, we were able to take some nice photos in the garden. This was me and Lisa back on May 29th, 2009...
And here we are yesterday...
That's the effect children have on you. We look about three years older.
That's the modern face of slaying. Slippers, braces and a look of sympathy. It's what I call Death warmed up.
To be honest, I feel a bit like that myself today. After a late night with Toby and an early morning with Am, I could happily crawl into a grave and die. But we had a nice day yesterday. My aunt is currently visiting St Leonards from the wilds of Cambridgeshire, so we headed over there at lunchtime for some free babysitting...
That was taken quite early on. By tea time she was fed up with his crying, and encouraging us to leave. But before we did, we were able to take some nice photos in the garden. This was me and Lisa back on May 29th, 2009...
And here we are yesterday...
That's the effect children have on you. We look about three years older.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
The good news is that I've found my old camera. The bad news is that Amelie still can't take a photo without cutting out half the subjects...
Or maybe she was just trying to capture the Regency architecture. Either way, that's me and Toby down on the seafront yesterday, soaking up a few rays in the August summer heatwave. He was in a coat, and I had long sleeves. You can't trust this weather.
Having watched thousands of kids receive their A-level results this week with his usual startled expression, Toby was particularly pleased to get his first test results in the post yesterday. The outcome of his 'Newborn Blood Spot Screening' is that he's officially free from Phenylketonuria, Congenital Hypothyroidism, Sickle Cell Disease, Cystic Fibrosis and Medium-Chain Acyl-CoA Dehydrogenase Deficiency. Which they abbreviate to MCADD for reasons of sanity. Frankly you could die of old age whilst typing it out.
So to celebrate, I decided to let Lisa go back to bed while I took the kids to the seaside...
When I say the seaside, I mean the main road above the beach. I couldn't get the buggy down the steps.
With the seafront well and truly scootered, I returned home, parked Toby on the balcony, and attempted to get Amelie ready for her next swimming lesson. Which isn't easy when Lisa's asleep and I've no idea where her goggles are. By some miracle, however, I got my daughter out of her Hello Kitty dress and into her Hello Kitty swimming costume, before packing her Hello Kitty shampoo into a bag with her Hello Kitty towel, and walking her down the hill. We left the Hello Kitty scooter at home in case people thought we had some kind of sponsorship deal going on.
Swimming turned out to be an even better deal than usual. Amelie was the only one who turned up, so she had the sole attention of four teachers for the first half hour. It was the best three quid I've ever spent. By the end of the lesson, she was more disturbing than Ye Shiwen on a good day.
It also meant there were no young boys in the changing rooms, so I was able to get Amelie dressed with my eyes open, and return home, where I found Lisa's sister trying out our tastefully decorated 'Snugly Sling' in the bedroom...
It's basically an off-cut from a deckchair with the price tag of a sofa. And it's nice to see it getting some use. We've had it for three months and Lisa and I still can't follow the instructions.
Or maybe she was just trying to capture the Regency architecture. Either way, that's me and Toby down on the seafront yesterday, soaking up a few rays in the August summer heatwave. He was in a coat, and I had long sleeves. You can't trust this weather.
Having watched thousands of kids receive their A-level results this week with his usual startled expression, Toby was particularly pleased to get his first test results in the post yesterday. The outcome of his 'Newborn Blood Spot Screening' is that he's officially free from Phenylketonuria, Congenital Hypothyroidism, Sickle Cell Disease, Cystic Fibrosis and Medium-Chain Acyl-CoA Dehydrogenase Deficiency. Which they abbreviate to MCADD for reasons of sanity. Frankly you could die of old age whilst typing it out.
So to celebrate, I decided to let Lisa go back to bed while I took the kids to the seaside...
When I say the seaside, I mean the main road above the beach. I couldn't get the buggy down the steps.
With the seafront well and truly scootered, I returned home, parked Toby on the balcony, and attempted to get Amelie ready for her next swimming lesson. Which isn't easy when Lisa's asleep and I've no idea where her goggles are. By some miracle, however, I got my daughter out of her Hello Kitty dress and into her Hello Kitty swimming costume, before packing her Hello Kitty shampoo into a bag with her Hello Kitty towel, and walking her down the hill. We left the Hello Kitty scooter at home in case people thought we had some kind of sponsorship deal going on.
Swimming turned out to be an even better deal than usual. Amelie was the only one who turned up, so she had the sole attention of four teachers for the first half hour. It was the best three quid I've ever spent. By the end of the lesson, she was more disturbing than Ye Shiwen on a good day.
It also meant there were no young boys in the changing rooms, so I was able to get Amelie dressed with my eyes open, and return home, where I found Lisa's sister trying out our tastefully decorated 'Snugly Sling' in the bedroom...
It's basically an off-cut from a deckchair with the price tag of a sofa. And it's nice to see it getting some use. We've had it for three months and Lisa and I still can't follow the instructions.
Friday, August 17, 2012
I was watching Everything's Rosie on CBeebies at 8 o'clock this morning. It's just something I like to do when I've got a spare five minutes and Amelie won't give me the remote control. When the closing credits rolled, however, in addition to the usual sense of blessed relief, I noticed this...
It's interesting because I've always thought that tree looks a bit like Bin Laden.
In other television news, the new series of Celebrity Big Brother started on Wednesday, and having seen Jasmine Lennard (don't say 'who?') enter the house, I spent most of yesterday trying to work out where I know her from. At one stage I was beginning to wonder if we'd dated. It was a good few hours before I realised that I'd actually written about her seven years ago. And I didn't know who she was then either.
The biggest television news, however, is that I'm currently setting up an extension to our cable TV so that Lisa can watch rubbish in the bedroom when she's up all night contemplating her decision to have a second child. Obviously there's every chance that the act of crawling along the skirting boards with some cable clips and a hammer will exacerbate my back problem, but Lisa's need is greater than mine, and Amelie thinks I'm doing an impression of Tom from 'Tom & Jerry', so it's keeping them both happy.
So that's what I'm doing. What I'm not doing is buying tickets for these guys...
Matchbox Twenty announced this week that they're playing a show in the UK next month. They've only performed twice in this country in the past ten years, and I've been there both times, once in 2003 with my friend Helen, and then in May 2008, when I took my whole family. Babies can hear sounds at about eighteen weeks gestation, so Matchbox Twenty are officially the first band Amelie ever listened to. And she's been hearing them ever since.
Unfortunately, by September 2012 I'll have a seven week old baby, and be of an age myself when I can't make it up to London for an evening gig without two days off work and a lot of bed rest. We also have bigger money worries than Greece. I've already booked the whole of August off work, followed by a conference in September and jury service in October, so the week of the 18th is just about the only time I'm due to be there. If I go AWOL that week, they'll start to think I'm in prison. Which I might be, as the only way we can afford a concert is to turn to crime.
So after much soul-searching, I've decided to give it a miss. Tickets went on sale at 9am this morning, so I told Lisa to guard my credit card until they sell out. Which they have, less than two hours later. I'll have to make do with all the bootlegs on YouTube.
It's interesting because I've always thought that tree looks a bit like Bin Laden.
In other television news, the new series of Celebrity Big Brother started on Wednesday, and having seen Jasmine Lennard (don't say 'who?') enter the house, I spent most of yesterday trying to work out where I know her from. At one stage I was beginning to wonder if we'd dated. It was a good few hours before I realised that I'd actually written about her seven years ago. And I didn't know who she was then either.
The biggest television news, however, is that I'm currently setting up an extension to our cable TV so that Lisa can watch rubbish in the bedroom when she's up all night contemplating her decision to have a second child. Obviously there's every chance that the act of crawling along the skirting boards with some cable clips and a hammer will exacerbate my back problem, but Lisa's need is greater than mine, and Amelie thinks I'm doing an impression of Tom from 'Tom & Jerry', so it's keeping them both happy.
So that's what I'm doing. What I'm not doing is buying tickets for these guys...
Matchbox Twenty announced this week that they're playing a show in the UK next month. They've only performed twice in this country in the past ten years, and I've been there both times, once in 2003 with my friend Helen, and then in May 2008, when I took my whole family. Babies can hear sounds at about eighteen weeks gestation, so Matchbox Twenty are officially the first band Amelie ever listened to. And she's been hearing them ever since.
Unfortunately, by September 2012 I'll have a seven week old baby, and be of an age myself when I can't make it up to London for an evening gig without two days off work and a lot of bed rest. We also have bigger money worries than Greece. I've already booked the whole of August off work, followed by a conference in September and jury service in October, so the week of the 18th is just about the only time I'm due to be there. If I go AWOL that week, they'll start to think I'm in prison. Which I might be, as the only way we can afford a concert is to turn to crime.
So after much soul-searching, I've decided to give it a miss. Tickets went on sale at 9am this morning, so I told Lisa to guard my credit card until they sell out. Which they have, less than two hours later. I'll have to make do with all the bootlegs on YouTube.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
I knew it was worth coming back home...
Not only has Amelie taken part in an Olympic Sports Day (one week late, and three days after it finished), but according to her, she won every event. Admittedly, she waited until we were out of earshot of all her friends before she told me, but I have no reason to doubt her claims. I'm particularly impressed, because they had a bicycle race, and she's never even ridden one. That girl has innate abilities we don't even know about.
On the downside, despite outperforming Sir Chris Hoy and Michael Phelps in a single afternoon, Amelie's only reward was a cardboard medal decorated with glitter. And all her friends seemed to have one too. Which was odd, as they were all losers. She seemed pretty happy with it though.
Sadly, however, my own chances of Olympic glory have suffered a major setback, as I've sustained a serious shopping-related injury. I drove Amelie down to Asda after nursery yesterday, which was a bit of a waste as she could probably run there in about ten seconds flat (it's just over half a mile). Once there, we bumped into our good friend Andrew, which was slightly embarrassing, as I looked like a fat tramp, and was so tired I could barely grunt at him in my tea-stained shirt and five-day-old beard.
But the main problem occurred when we got home. My lack of energy meant that I was determined not to have to make two trips up to the flat from the car, but despite Amelie's proven athletic ability, she decided she couldn't be bothered to carry any of the bags. As a result, I chose to haul the entire load of shopping upstairs in one go. And I succeeded. In hurting my back.
I've asked Lisa to give me a massage, but she claims she's got better things to do, so I've been forced to suffer in silence. In between moaning about it. Every cloud has a silver lining though: it takes me so long to get up off the sofa, I'm making far fewer trips to the fridge.
Not only has Amelie taken part in an Olympic Sports Day (one week late, and three days after it finished), but according to her, she won every event. Admittedly, she waited until we were out of earshot of all her friends before she told me, but I have no reason to doubt her claims. I'm particularly impressed, because they had a bicycle race, and she's never even ridden one. That girl has innate abilities we don't even know about.
On the downside, despite outperforming Sir Chris Hoy and Michael Phelps in a single afternoon, Amelie's only reward was a cardboard medal decorated with glitter. And all her friends seemed to have one too. Which was odd, as they were all losers. She seemed pretty happy with it though.
Sadly, however, my own chances of Olympic glory have suffered a major setback, as I've sustained a serious shopping-related injury. I drove Amelie down to Asda after nursery yesterday, which was a bit of a waste as she could probably run there in about ten seconds flat (it's just over half a mile). Once there, we bumped into our good friend Andrew, which was slightly embarrassing, as I looked like a fat tramp, and was so tired I could barely grunt at him in my tea-stained shirt and five-day-old beard.
But the main problem occurred when we got home. My lack of energy meant that I was determined not to have to make two trips up to the flat from the car, but despite Amelie's proven athletic ability, she decided she couldn't be bothered to carry any of the bags. As a result, I chose to haul the entire load of shopping upstairs in one go. And I succeeded. In hurting my back.
I've asked Lisa to give me a massage, but she claims she's got better things to do, so I've been forced to suffer in silence. In between moaning about it. Every cloud has a silver lining though: it takes me so long to get up off the sofa, I'm making far fewer trips to the fridge.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Amelie turned to me yesterday and said "Daddy, you've got the fattest tummy in the whole world". I was tempted to tell her that she needs to watch a few more documentaries on Channel 5 before making an assertion like that, but instead I replied "Have I??", with a expression of mild incredulity. She responded by lifting up my shirt and saying "See?".
I think that was the moment when I decided we ought to go home. In the three weeks leading up to Toby's birth, I actually lost half a stone in weight, although I don't think anyone noticed. Probably because it was like a centipede losing a leg. Unfortunately, with my work routine on hold, and energy at a premium, I've been filling the gaps with food, and replacing lettuce leaves with lard. By the time we arrived at my parents' house on Saturday, a lot of my good work had already been undone, and by yesterday it was not so much undone as destroyed. My Mum kindly offered me healthy food, but I went with the ice cream option instead.
So we left St Leonards yesterday, and returned to the empty fridges of Brighton for a bit of a detox. Things are naturally a lot more austere around here, and it's not easy for any of us. Amelie had only been up for a couple of hours this morning when she sighed loudly and told us that it's much more fun at Grandma & Grandad's because they have Tom & Jerry DVDs. I told her to shut up and watch her painting dry.
To be honest, if anyone's got it tough, it's me. I managed to leave my camera at my parents' house, so I'm unable to take any photos until I can summon the energy to look for my old one. And that's not likely to happen until the kids leave home.
Fortunately, however, I do have a photo supplied by someone else...
That's Tilly, formerly known as Bad Eye. Or was it Good Walker? It's so hard to keep track of your grandchildren. Especially when they all look the same. Either way, it's the kitten adopted by H (not from Steps), and she appears to be doing well. Although she's ruining that kitchen roll holder.
I think that was the moment when I decided we ought to go home. In the three weeks leading up to Toby's birth, I actually lost half a stone in weight, although I don't think anyone noticed. Probably because it was like a centipede losing a leg. Unfortunately, with my work routine on hold, and energy at a premium, I've been filling the gaps with food, and replacing lettuce leaves with lard. By the time we arrived at my parents' house on Saturday, a lot of my good work had already been undone, and by yesterday it was not so much undone as destroyed. My Mum kindly offered me healthy food, but I went with the ice cream option instead.
So we left St Leonards yesterday, and returned to the empty fridges of Brighton for a bit of a detox. Things are naturally a lot more austere around here, and it's not easy for any of us. Amelie had only been up for a couple of hours this morning when she sighed loudly and told us that it's much more fun at Grandma & Grandad's because they have Tom & Jerry DVDs. I told her to shut up and watch her painting dry.
To be honest, if anyone's got it tough, it's me. I managed to leave my camera at my parents' house, so I'm unable to take any photos until I can summon the energy to look for my old one. And that's not likely to happen until the kids leave home.
Fortunately, however, I do have a photo supplied by someone else...
That's Tilly, formerly known as Bad Eye. Or was it Good Walker? It's so hard to keep track of your grandchildren. Especially when they all look the same. Either way, it's the kitten adopted by H (not from Steps), and she appears to be doing well. Although she's ruining that kitchen roll holder.
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