Carplicity

A few years ago, during the Celtic tiger heydays, my wife and I had a bit of extra cash and we were the owners of two cars; one each...wow!  This was in fact a normal occurrence in those days, as everybody absolutely needed the extra car and it was so easy to get money off the bank.  Having more than one car per household quickly became a norm and many houses in our estate had 2-4 cars.  Now, the same households still have 2-4 cars, but now all of them are for sale, so they can pay off their debt.

We each needed a car because we were both working. We had one SUV and one old banger (Renault Megane).  It just made sense as we both had to leave the house, at the exact same time every morning, both going towards the city to work, but in one car each.  My wife was actually following me.  We wouldn't have been able to do this without two cars.  Both cars would be parked all day in the office car-park.

Public transportation in Ireland was OK 6-7 years ago, but it wasn't ideal to use buses during the Tiger days.  Do you think I'd walk 0.5 mile to the nearest bus stop from my house and 1 mile from the bus stop in town to my work?  This would mean exercise and I might loose weight and get in shape.  It's much more fun to sit in a car, in rush hour traffic for almost an hour each way!  I only had approx. 10 miles to work and there was absolutely no way I was risking my life on a bicycle.  These fecking male teenage drivers in their pimped up racer cars (Toyota Corolla probably) have no respect for bikers, and neither does the rest of the Irish automobile population. In fact, I don't think half of them should be on the roads as they never had to sit a driver or theory test.  Over here, you simply get the provisional license without knowing anything. It's like buying sweets in a vending machine.  You might sit a theoretical test, but you don't need to pass it to drive home using your provisional license.

Another reason not to ride on the metal horse was that my work didn't have any shower facilities and I don't think my colleagues would appreciate me sitting in my sweaty smelly clothes all day.

As the kids came along we soon discovered that there was no point in me driving the SUV, because my wife needed it to drop off the kids to the creches - much more comfortable than the old banger!!  So, I started to drive the unreliable wreck instead.  Thankfully we have roadside recovery included in our insurance.  Little did I know, that it would become invaluable.

One Friday evening, going home from work, my journey took me through a less attractive part of the inner city.  Like any other major City, evening time equals rush-hour traffic.  I was queuing at a traffic light and as it turned green the bloody car stalled.  It wouldn't start again, so I started to push it up on the sidewalk.  As in Resident Evil, weird creatures came out from the doorways, dragging and dangling their limbs.  I must admit, I was slightly nervous and expected them to attack me - perhaps they would even sexually abuse me while listening to the Pogues' "Christmas in New York".  But, to my astonishment, they started to help me and even started a conversation.  I had no idea what they said, mainly because of their strong inner-city accent, but also because they were half drunk.  I called road-watch and they came to my rescue almost 2 hours later, leaving me stranded on a Friday evening, in the rain.

Another time I got stuck in the outskirts of the inner-city, but this time nobody helped me push the car, so I pushed the car myself.  I was soar three days solid.

This went on for another few months and we finally agreed to sell it, which we managed to do.  I only got two calls from the new owner within 2 weeks, but the deal was done and she now owned the old banger.

So, against all odds, I was now forced to use public transportation, which actually wasn't so bad.  I could sleep on the bus, while listening to my iPod.  I'm not too sure if I snore and drool, but there's not much I could do about that as I was out cold as soon as I sat down.  It was worst when it rained.  The bus would steam up completely and all people would be soaked.

Within 2 months I bought my hog, my Vespa scooter.

Being Number 1...

How do you know if you've been a good dad, and importantly, if you are a good dad?  In my humble opinion, there is no formula and there is no course you can take to become a good dad.  It's not like you get a certificate from the School of Excellent Parents. It might surprise some men, but you cannot sit an online exam on Facebook either.  You can only do your best.  The amazing thing is, your kids will love you for who you are - perhaps not as much when you embarrass them in front of their friends, such as singing, teaching the kids how to break dance or simply just kissing them in front of their friends.

This sounds very flower-power-ish and free spirited, but honestly, relax and enjoy being a dad.  I try to most of the time, but they can drive you up the wall at times too. Looking back at those incidents, you can only laugh at them.  I was pretty annoying at times when I was a kid, according to my dad, but I totally refute that statement.  He can't prove that I broke the fence in the back garden or caused the dog to have explosive diarrhea.

The best thing about being a dad is when you come home and you are greeted by the little devils. They run towards you while they hide the permanent makers behind their backs, trying to eliminate evidence of them drawing on the walls.  When you then ask them "did you do this?" they just stare at you with their Bambi eyes and say "no dad, those paintings have been there all the time!".  You gotta love them.  I'm positive it has nothing to do with them seeing their parents decorate the walls with Disney characters, thinking it would be OK to add their own take on Woody or Buzz.

It's magic when they come up to you and beg to see a movie with you on the sofa. They hand you the DVD and you insert it, only to discover that it has been used as a hover-board across the kitchen floor tiles, rendering it useless.  We've bought so many replacement DVDs of their favorite movies, only to find that they too suffer the same fate as the previous 10 copies.  We've learned from our mistakes and have copies stored on the Mac now, so they can be streamed to the TV. Bless Apple.

BUT, one thing that we men can do, and something that the kids do not want to do with their mums, is to play with Lego, trains, Playmobil, toy soldiers, cars, etc.  And, this is to the delight of us dads.  As my previous blog states, we men LOVE to play with toys again and we will use any excuse to prove this to the kids.  I once played with Lego, building castles and jungles, and didn't even notice that my son was asleep and my daughter had gone to bed - it was only 22.30 (10.30pm) in the evening.  If it hadn't been for my wife,  I would have played all night.

It is also fantastic to play games with your kids in the pool, again, games that mums don't want to play (throwing the kids in the pool, up in the air, etc.).  My daughter especially likes sitting on my shoulders while we venture into the deep in the pool. She once told me to freeze, so she could pee on my shoulders!  My son on the contrary would act like a real man. He'd jump out of the pool and stand quietly and pee on the edge of the pool - making it look casual, as if it was just water running down his legs.  However, somehow I don't think my son will ever forgive me for taking him down the longest and coldest water slide in Latin America - in Costa Rica.

As parents, you just want to make sure your kids are having fun and that they love you.  Although the Beatles once sang, "can't buy me love", by God do we still try.  Especially your first child is spoiled rotten.  They need to get the best beds, sheep skins, designer toys and furniture, and of course the best holiday destinations.  How many kids out there can proudly say they've been to Mexico, USA, Costa Rica, Dominican Republic and several countries in Europe, by the time they are 5?  Not many. We discovered this year that spending a lot of money on holidays doesn't really matter, as long as they spend time with their parents.

This year we saw, what my wife and I would normally consider boring, so many things with our kids around where we live, and we had a blast.

• My son pooped in the car while on a road-trip and we just laughed about it - a few hours afterwards of course.
• Build our vegetable garden and planted useful crops such as leeks and brussels sprouts. We can sell them at the market now. We have so many.
• Our daughter tried horseback riding, fell off and still loves it.
• We visited far away places, at least it felt like going back in time, when seeing small villages (with issues) in Northern Ireland.
• I pooped my pants when I crossed a rope bridge in windy and rainy conditions.
• My wife learned a new skill, taking over one of my male dominated areas, and became BBQ master of the house.

Kids also know when to embarrass the hell out of you, in public.  Going to the hospital with my son is a learning experience for any man, and to witness how he gets into the nurses bra and claps their bums within seconds is the work of a true master - and he gets away with it.

My clever little daughter speaks English and Spanish fluently, and demonstrated her ability to switch languages on our recent trip to Costa Rica.  She knew that people there spoke Spanish, so she quietly said to my wife one day at the pool (in English) "Mum, look how fat that woman is".  The woman next to us, the target, looked across and simply smiled at my wife - she spoke English!!

Kids are so honest, all the time. I'm now known as the annoying donkey (Shrek movies) by my daughter, as she thinks it's annoying when I hassle her to go to bed.

So, how do you know if you are a good dad and parent?  I have absolutely no idea, but I'll ask my kids.

I try to, most of the time, to smile when they misbehave.  I might have a little outburst when they pour juice into my keyboard or delete an entire music library from the Mac. Then I realize that it was I that showed them how to use the Mac, so it's my own fault, right?

My advise to you, man to parent, is to let your hair down (if you've got any) and enjoy being a parent.  I'm dreading for my kids start to play away from the house, meeting friends at the corner-shop and having sleepovers. I would be up all night, worrying what might happen.  Why can't they just have sleepovers via Skype?  There must be some technology you could avail of, to keep them safe.  What's wrong with inserting tracking devices in your kids, to keep them safe?  Imagine combining the tracking with Google maps and you would know EXACTLY where they are - except the image would be static of course, but you get the point.
- I'll probably call in a few favors if a guy breaks my girl's heart.

By the way, is it wrong to teach your 5 year old daughter to play Half-life 2 and Command & Conquer?  I just need somebody to play against!

The way to your woman's heart...

It has for years been a lost art to buy presents for your girlfriends / wives, and it is something that we men struggle with every year.  I've browsed the Internet for years now, trying to find the right present for my wife, but the various results are based on me having €10 million or more in the bank.  And more so, what does the internet know anyway, it doesn't know my wife.  So, I'm left to decide myself.

The classic items that most guys buy for their misses are lingerie.  I strongly believe, and I might write a thesis about this behavior one day, but most men tend to compare their wife with the shop assistant.  This is a classical schoolboy error, as the girl in the shop is NOT the same size as your wife.  As a result, men buy the wrong sizes, often way too small below and too big on top, which will have a negative impact on the mood of your wife.  Despite this known fact, men don't seem to change their behaviors and continue to go to these exotic shops. The real reason is most likely that men go to these shops only to be able to look at half-naked women without getting into trouble.

I too have bought my share of sexy lingerie for my wife and she too would have to change the lingerie because of the sizes.  So, a few years ago I decided to do something about it and I wanted to buy her something special - don't we all.  Guys, if you get it right, you get rewarded.  It is therefore in your interest too to make your wife happy.

In the name of sharing, here's one for the guys, when buying presents to their girlfriends.  Making presents special, no matter the occasion, is essential.  You want brownie points, right?  So think about what you buy.  Buying presents to your partner is an International challenge, so this should work across the World.  These are successfully tested.

• 5 Senses - it might not seem that romantic, but find something that will awaken her 5 senses.  One year, I bought my girl something for each of these senses, and my God did it work!  You can of course choose what you want, and it does not have to cost a fortune, as long as your wife will like it.  Here's my list:
• Sight; her favorite movie, "Giant" with James Dean and Elizabeth Taylor
• Feel; extremely soft silk scarf
• Smell; a new perfume
• Hear; a music CD
• Taste; cooked her dinner
• Body Sensations - these would be presents that obviously focuses on her body, and NOT in a sexual way you pervert - so, no toys!!  I would recommend something more like:
• Nice smelling soap
• Soft body lotions
• Body scrub soap and sponge
• Natural Beauty - this can cover different events, but make sure you keep the presents the same. So if you want fashion then stick to a set of matching clothes, not multiple different shirts.  The same goes for make-up.  As you can see, this can be used for several birthdays, but do not use this theme twice in a row.
• Sporty Spice - is an opportunity to get her some sports equipment.  Please be careful, as this can backfire if you buy her the wrong thing like a scale, too small sports clothes or a running machine.
• Relaxation (my favorite) - is particularly useful if you've had your first child.  Your wife will be exhausted, so give her spa treatments or massage packages for a local spa.  She will REALLY appreciate this.

A lot of men would commit crimes against the female figures, by buying chocolate.  Chocolate will be accepted with a big smile, but as soon as the chocolate is gone, your wife will hate you - at least for a short while.  How could you be so cold!  She will blame you for gaining weight and then you will get the toughest question in the World, "Do I look fat in this dress?". Mate, you are walking on very thin ice.

The best present I ever bought my wife, was on a holiday to Cancun (Mexico).   We had invited the in-laws to Mexico and on a particular day we went shopping - as you do with your wife.  My wife and her mother entered an exclusive gemstone shop.  I spotted some jewelry that I knew my wife would love, ring and ear-rings.  Sneaky as I am, I persuade my mother-in-law to get my wife to try the ring, as it is crucial to get the right size.  When we later that evening celebrated our 5th wedding anniversary, I gave her the present - bingo!  2 million brownie points for me.

I've never been a huge fan of flowers, mainly because it is so common, but also because it is VERY difficult to drive a scooter with a bouquet of flowers.  The odd surprise works much better, such as taking her out for dinner or asking her on a date to the cinema.  It doesn't really matter if you've been going out for years, it is just the gesture of spending time alone.

This has worked well for me, but if anything in your plan backfires, after having used my suggestions, then I pledge the 5th Amendment (you do it on your own risk).

Pregnancy for men, third child...

The middle of 2009 was the time the fecking recession hit our family and where we had to take certain measures to reduce luxury spending. It unfortunately included traveling abroad.  So, there are a lot more staying at home evenings and short excursions around Ireland.  Nothing wrong with that, we actually have had a blast on our excursions.  So, in mid September we happily informed our families that we were expecting our third child.

So, how did family and friends react to the news - again?  Well my parents were initially excited (for the first 5 seconds of the phone call that is) on our behalf, but then my mum asked "... how do I do this on the Mac?".  You have to expect that friends and family are no longer as excited on your behalf, as with the first two, but by large they were all very happy for us even if they were somewhat surprised that we were planning this during a recession.  In my opinion, having a baby doesn't really impact the recession.

Some would say that the novelty of having a baby wears off when having kid number 2 and by kid number 3 it is just something that has to be done.  WRONG! Your wife (or girlfriend) will experience new pregnancy symptoms that she swears she didn't feel before or she might say that this baby is much better.  However, from talking to other families with three kids, the third pregnancy is for some reason worse. Everything seems to be intensified, including your wife's short-fused temper.  And on top of that, you still have to mind the other two kids!

My wife previously never really experienced morning sickness. This pregnancy ensured that my wife felt morning sickness with a vengeance.  For the record, morning sickness is not only restricted to the morning. My wife was getting sick throughout the day... (evil laughter)

As an example, I'm Danish and enjoy pork meatballs, pork chops, pork roast, pork sausages, etc.  BUT, my dear lovely pregnant wife developed a certain nausea whenever I cooked anything with pork.  This resulted in us eating couscous, shitload of pasta, fish, poultry, vegetarian food and beef.  Every time she smelled heated pork (fried, roasted, nuked, me, etc.) she almost vomited (sometimes she did).

Previously my wife would have craved and eaten anything that we had, but this time it was more controlled - for a while at least.  Her portions increased gradually during the pregnancy, but because of the busy schedule with the other two kids, she walked off most of the food quickly.  However, she developed a worrying fetish for crackers with pate, fresh lemonade and all kinds of fruits. She was eating very healthy this time.

One of the enjoyable side effects of being pregnant, well more after giving birth, is that my wife suffers from the Dolly Parton syndrome.  Depending on the milk production, the breasts swell up to oversized proportions.  Unfortunately this is for show only, as they apparently get really sensitive due to the pressure produced by the milk inside.

A less attractive side of the Dolly Parton syndrome is that your wife (partner or girlfriend) starts lactating and needs to relieve the pressure either by breastfeeding or pumping.  The latter can be somewhat frustrating at times.  While you are watching a thriller or horror movie, you all of a sudden hear this humming / buzzing / squeezing noise, only to discover that your girl is milking herself.  Nothing sexy about breasts making farting sounds. It can ruin the suspense in any movie.

After the baby was born, we had 2 hours to ourselves while all the kids had gone to bed, so we had some nice food I cooked.  We were chatting away and I was enjoying a glass of wine - ahhhh, just like old times.  But, instead of a nice dessert, my wife pulled out the breast pump and started extracting milk.  At that moment, you realise that romantic dinners will not be the same for a while.
Our freezer is full of breastmilk, and I've considered making ice-cream, cheese and other dairy products from it, but I'm not sure how our guests will react.  Also, it tastes rather funny in coffee.

During the pregnancy, my wife had to have her fluids in the womb checked.  This is test is called the amniocentesis test and is basically a needle inserted in the womb (through the belly) and the fluids are analysed.  The main purpose is to test for any chromosomal abnormalities such as Down Syndrome. The test is conducted mainly on women over 40 or if you have a child with e.g. Down Syndrome.  Our son was born with Down Syndrome, so we had to get it done... click here to read about the Needle in the Belly.

Another thing is that when a woman is pregnant, no matter if it is the first, second or third, she gets REALLY tired.  I have on multiple occasions attempted to have conversations with my wife, only to discover that she has fallen asleep and she is sitting in the sofa drooling.  Again, you love your wife for better and for worse, so I simply place a towel under her chin and let her sleep.

Despite this sleep issue, my wife refuses to go to bed before 21.00 - "Only kids go to bed before 9 o'clock news", she says.  And then she wonders why she's exhausted the next day.  In fact, I can't drag her out of bed and she does not complain about my snoring any more. She is so far away in Never Never Land that not even Peter Pan knows where she is.

The ever lasting question during our third pregnancy (please note that I said our) was whether the baby would come early like the other two, or if this one would come on time.  We just wanted the baby to be born closer to the due date this time. Our families were more interested whether it would be a boy or a girl. We didn't mind if we were having a boy or a child, but various family members started to bet early in the term.

One thing I "missed", but my wife didn't, was meeting the doctor for her monthly / bi-weekly check-ups.   Despite working with sensitive women, hormones and mood swings, he said things as he saw them.  He cracks me up, but I had to laugh inside, otherwise my wife would beat me up after the sessions.

Anyways, we were of course very excited and looked very much forward to our third wonder.

------- Suggested reading:
"Ready or Not!" - a star is born

First day of school [skool] for my daughter [daw-ter]

As parents you measure your life in milestones based on your children's activities.  The fact is, you no longer have your own activities and if you did, these would be very short and scheduled when the kids are asleep.  But, luckily the majority of people you socialise with are probably in the same situation, so going to the local pub once every 6 months should be possible.  Gym?  Haven't been to the gym for decades.

So, it is no surprise that when your child starts school, this big day is a major event and it is vital that both parents attend.  Our big day had been in planning ever since our daughter was born.  In Ireland, you have to register for school as soon as possible, to make sure the child gets in (ridiculous). So we registered our daughter 18 minutes after giving birth.  Felt stupid filling in forms still wearing the surgical outfit and goggles.

Our daugther started school, Junior Infants, last year.  It was somewhat surreal to attend the introduction meetings during the summer where the principal talked about what to expect.  This in itself was in hindsight planned at a ridiculous time.  It was in the evening at 19.00 (7pm), when kids are meant to be sleeping - at least ours.  If you don't have a babysitter and two kids, then this becomes a challenge.  Therefore, most parents attending this meeting had brought their kids along, making it almost impossible for the principal to speak.  Funnily enough, as soon as the principal stood up on stage all the men fell silent, and I did too.  I guess we all had some run-ins with the principal when we were kids. Now, we wanted to behave when the principal was nearby - a natural reaction, a power that comes with being The Principal.

All the proud parents attended the two hour long briefing on how important it is to drop off your kids and leg it, as well as the method they use to teach kids how to read and write.  They use phonetics, which is basically pronouncing the sounds of the letters when spelling.  For me, it was a challenge to understand my daughter for a few weeks after she started, as she was using these sounds for a lot of words.  It would be the same if you were to read [reed] phonetic /fəˈnɛtɪks, foʊ-/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [fuh-net-iks] writing [ra:i-ting].  Gradually, this becomes your second language when you do homework with your child and you have to have full conversations using the phonetic language (which doesn't exist by the way).  Having spent two hours on really uncomfortable chairs, we left the school no wiser and probably even more nervous about the Big Day.

This is were the madness began.  My wife wanted our daughter to have enough different outfits to last her the first school year, resulting in a shopping spree in Zara, H&M, Next, Benetton, Designer labels, picking up 238 outfits with matching accessories.  Slightly exaggerated, but we bought a lot.  This was pre-recession of course.  Due to the recession, my son will probably inherit all the clothes, hand-me-downs, when he starts school, which would make him a perfect target for being beaten up. Nobody, except Scottish kids, wear kilts to school!!

We also bought her a new school bag, with wheels on, and a lunchbox.  I provided some pens and paper, sponsored by my work. She was ready to take on Junior Infants.  We should have known better, but I gave her a pencil sharpener, which lead to all pencils being sharpened until they were an inch long.  I could not borrow more pencils from work, so we had to buy her a new pack.  All her books were bought as soon as we got the book list.

The Big Day finally arrived and my daughter was ecstatic. This was it, out little girl was all grown up now, leaving the house for a part-time school career.  Yes, she had attended play-school, but this was different and it felt different too - probably because my wife was sobbing the days leading up to the 1st day of school.

We left the house earlier that morning, to make sure we were on time, only to find that all streets within a mile were blocked by cars.  All parents in the area were taking their kids to school too - weird!  Luckily we had VIP parking in the area.  Dressed in the latest kids fashion, we proudly walked to school and made our way to the yard.  All kids were so excited, but the parents even more.

ALL parents, including ourselves, had brought along any film camera we could find, to document the special moment in our lives; mobile phones, digital cameras, video, polaroid, etc.  You name, it was there.  Every step you took, you were asked to get out of the frame or got a video camera in the face as the proud father was following his child walking with the school bag.  I was exactly the same, honestly, and I was even using a 'clapper' for the various scenes.  My wife was so embarrassed everytime I screamed "Action!".

The teachers came out of each classroom, calling in the kids, and this is where emotions erupted.  Remember the scene in Indiana Jones, where the Nazi woman looks at the Jones' and screams "ALARM!"  It was like scenes from Titanic. All mothers holding on to their kids and whispering "Don't let go!"  In every direction you looked, people were crying and kids screaming.  I think the parents were the root of the problem. I had to be dragged screaming (and most likely crying too) out of the room by the school caretaker, holding on to my daughter and her table + chair.  My wife was locking herself to the rail, in the yard for some reason like some tree-hugger. She kept scratching me when I was trying to remove her from the rail while she was crying uncontrollably.  It was absolutely chaotic.  I remember seeing one parent pretending to faint hoping to delay school start - how childish!  All this caused our poor kids to get scared and start to cry.  I'm sure the teachers were dreading this day all summer.

Most kids sat in their chairs and were innocent spectators to their parents behaviours, not knowing how to react. They were just looking forward to their first day in school.

After the civil war scenes had finished with most parents receiving detention from the principal,  school finally started. All parents walked calmly to their cars.  Most women were still in tears and trying to find ways to run back, but their husbands held them back.

My wife picked up our daughter after lunch and she had had a blast in school, making so many friends and playing in the yard.  She ate her lunch and she was basically delighted to be in school.  The drama went on a few more mornings, for the other kids of course.  My wife had her moments every evening, questioning if our daughter was ready for this, quietly crying in the bathroom.   I was ordered to delete certain parts of the recorded footage, still and moving images, so I guess censorship still applies in some countries.

Anyway, we survived our daughter's first day in school. Now we are already planning our son's first day in school.

Good luck to all the new parents.  I've heard they have riot gear on sale in London, after the recent summit.

Tribute to weekdays

A poem by the late Danish poet, Dan Turell.  I've tried to translate it, while still making sure it makes sense.  I'm sorry if it doesn't.

I never really understood or appreciated Dan Turell's poems when I was younger. It is something that changes as you get older as you begin to understand the meaning of his poems.

I like weekdays
Most of all, I like weekdays
Slowly waking up to familiar views
that are not entirely familiar
The family once trustworthy and sleepy and distant strange faces

The morning kisses
The mailman slamming the letterbox
The smell of coffee
The routine walk to the cornershop for milk, smokes, newspaper
I like weekdays
Even through all the irritations
The noisy bus that drives past the door
The phone that disturbs the most beautiful, clearest still moment in my aquarium
The birds squeaking in their cage
The old neighbor looking
The kid you have to pick up in the creche, just as you got started
The everlasting grocery list in the pocket
with the usual requirements for meat, potatoes, coffee and bisquits
A quick drink at the local
when everybody meets with their grocery bags and wipe sweat from their foreheads
I like weekdays
The daily agenda
even the biological agenda
The unavoidable routines in the bath and on the toilet
The mandatory shave
Letters you need to write
Rent payments
Balancing the accounts
Dishes
The fact that you ran out of diapers or cello-tape
I like weekdays
Not in contrast to parties, smokes and dancing
That has to be done
even with all the leftovers
So much unsaid or approached
hanging in the air afterwards
Like a psychological hangover
that only weekday can fix with morning coffee
Great with parties!  Room for euphoria!
Let the thousand pearls bubble
But what happiness to afterwards lay down
the rest of the weekday's bed
to the known and yet unknown forecast


I like weekdays
I love them
Completely and totally love weekdays
I love weekdays very much

The story of the Shitter

One of your less cool and interesting experiences through life, and its weird little u-turns, is visiting the worldwide facility for assisting you with number 1 and 2 - The Cubicle Toilet adventure.  Cubicles have been around for centuries and they are one of the less amazing inventions left by the ancient Roman an Greek civilizations.  I'm sure every great ancient civilisation across the Globe have had their take on cubicle toilets - and neither of them has managed to make this a glamorous event.  Sitting next to somebody pooping, while talking, is not my idea of a friendly conversation.  It's beyond me, but some public toilets in ancient Rome were designed as a giant bench of stone, with holes that was used by the public.

Certain things must, for the sake of humanity, be left to the private space of a lockable toilet - preferably in the comfort of your home.  On the other hand, I do understand that business and shopping areas are forced to create some toilet facilities for employees and visitors. And it is not feasible with only one toilet.  Imagine the queues.  Obviously, and for the record, I'm only talking about toilets designated for men.

OK, the worst thing for me when going to these small public toilets, is the fact that some men strongly believe that once they are inside their little cubicle, they are sitting in a soundproof room.  You know and you have heard what I describe, but there's nothing like sitting next door to a guy who grunts and farts loudly.  I'm finding it hard to sometime contain my laughter.  Even worse, you know that you might have to face that person, when you both are done with your assigned jobs.  You wash your hands, but can't help glancing at the door with the weird noises. You rush and wash your hands, spraying water on your crutch, making it look like you peed on your pants, all to avoid having too meet the fart dude. This is in particular a difficult and awkward moment at work, especially when you think you know the person!

The freaky thing about work toilets, is when you are aiming for the urinal, and all of a sudden the door is forced open by the cleaning lady.  She's cool about the whole thing and gets on with her cleaning duties, all while you try to cover yourself.  If you are sitting on the toilet, then you would probably just lift your feet while she is washing the floor from underneath the door.

What about transportable toilets, normally used for concerts?  People think that, just because it is made of plastic, they can spray pooh and pee the inside of the cubicle, not considering the next visitor.  You open the door, only to be greeted by a smell that would trigger WMD or biohazard alerts, but you have no choice but to enter.  The biggest fears I have in these rooms are that:

1. It is normally so dark inside. Only the light from a ridiculous vent on the roof is lit up so you have no idea what you might be stepping on.
2. 9 out of 10 times, there is no toilet paper, or anything resembling paper, meaning you might have to rip up your smoke pack (if you smoke) or some other paper-like items, just to finish properly
3. The seat!!!  Is there a seat and what state is it in?
4. Don't drop anything into the hole! I read a scary story about a woman who managed to drop her purse into the hole. She got stuck with both arms while attempting to reach it.

Something that amazed me as a kid, was the Italian hole-in-the-floor toilet.  As a young boy visiting Italy a lot, this always proved to be a HUGE challenge.  Squatting down, holding onto one or two handles (two if you were lucky), while attempting to aim and hit the bloody little hole.  I had loads of accidents as a kid, mainly peeing on my pants or dropping a cake on the step - never the hole - and I have since stayed clear of those public toilets.  I would rather walk an extra mile, squeezing the cheeks or bladder, until I would find a suitable toilet.

I also remember having to visit an outdoor toilet, a small cabin away from the house, when going to Sweden and Norway with my parents when I was only 6 or 7 years old.  Again, you have to open the door that DOES NOT lead to Narnia, and sit on this wooden plank with a hole.  You have no idea what's below and I felt sorry for my dad when he had to empty the toilet on those holidays.  The smell was unbelievable.

My worst experience EVER, was having to pooh in a trash-bin next to a church in Greenland.  There were no toilets or trees for miles and miles, so My dad held me while I did my stuff - not the proudest moment in my life, but I really had to go.

Most of public toilets, and pub toilets, often remind me of warzones.  Men are culprits for treating these toilets with little respect.  That's why 99.9% of these facilities smell of pee - old pee.  You can only breathe through your mouth, although it still gives you a burning sensation at the back of the mouth - some acidy stinging feeling.  Horrible, but again, you gotta go, so you make the visit quick.   Women, for your information, a large majority of men do NOT wash their hands after their visits!

One aspect of visiting public restrooms is the amount of graffiti and greetings written by previous visitors.  How they find the time to write these messages is beyond me, but fair play to them.  Some funny quotes:  "If you can read this, then you are peeing on your shoes!!",  "Paddy is gay" (so what?)  and "I hate everybody" or the international version "SHIT!"  You could probably write a book about this phenomenon, but I'll leave that for somebody else.

When visiting Paris some years ago, my wife told me that I had to visit the toilet.  This particular bar was dedicated to the Pope, Virgin Mary, Jesus and all the saints, so it was a somewhat new experience buying a pint.  Anyway, I do not know how my wife knew what the inside of the men's toilet looked like, but I ventured in.  Sweet Lord, the toilet walls were covered in all kinds of pornographic pictures, which would surprise even Larry Holmes.  No wonder the queue to the men's room was so long!

My American high school experience, almost 20 years ago, introduced a new cubicle experience.  The toilets didn't have any doors!  This was mainly to prevent drug use. but it meant that you were doing your stuff among friends and foes.  I know we are talking team sports in the US, but some things are individual sports.  I had no problem holding in number 2 for days.

Fart, grunts, smells, chatting and pee covered floors!  What we men have to overcome just to relieve ourselves. You girls should be lucky that you have to sit down, and I hope you have a better toilet culture than men, when visiting toilets outside your home.  Men can, on the other hand, pee anywhere in the Wild - and some men I'm sure will attempt to do both too, if they are really desperate.

Once at a festival, I saw this punk woman who wanted to pee among us men, against the fence.  She dropped her leather pants and knickers, and held on to the fence while starting to pee.  But, with all the pee from us men, the place was a bit muddy.  With a whoosh, her right leg and then her left leg slipped, and she sat down bare assed in the mud - man, all the guys along the fence we pissing and laughing at the same time.  I'm sure she would never try this again.

These were some of my weird moments and experiences with the cubicle latrine -nothing amazing or fascinating, and to some probably a ridiculous blog - but hey, it might spark a few funny comments from you too.

The PTA wants you...

As you know, our daughter started school last year, so my wife has just started her second term as proud yummy mummy - well, we have an SUV and my wife is gorgeous!  We have been "lucky" that my wife has been able to be the cool school runner, despite it would be nice with some extra cash, and it has worked out really well (for me).  My input as a not-so-yummy-dad has been limited to three school runs, whereof two were school year starts - so they don't really count.  And, my track record hasn't been the greatest either, as I was caught 5 minutes late in the hallway by the principal, last time I did the school run.

It is very difficult to keep up with all the activities in school and I've only made it to the annual Christmas show, and for some reason, my wife wants us to be a lot more involved in the school - why?  I'm not too sure.

I'd better explain that our daughter is attending one of the Educate Together Schools; not attached to a religion and no uniforms.  Educate Together is strongly based on parents' involvement in EVERYTHING from charity events, school parties, daily management and sports days.  Well, the latter is a big no-no for me anyway, mainly due to my poor physique and oddly shaped body.  You might remember from my School Run blog that I almost collapsed after a mere 60 minutes walk to/from school.

So, how do you get involved in the school you might ask?  Well, you volunteer.  Which in my humble opinion is ludicrous.  If there's something I've learned over the years, then it is NOT to volunteer for anything as this just means a lot more work and other parents get off the hook.  You know it too.  It is too easy to blame the participating parents that an event was a failure or it should have been done in a different way.  But you should never complain or come with suggestions.  Therefore, I decided not to volunteer - but, my wife had other plans.

The other day, when I came home from work, she proudly announced that the school is looking for parents to represent each class, and who better to represent our daughter's class than us!!  It was a near-death experience similar to when you stand too close to the curb and get knocked over by the wind-pressure from the passing 18-foot truck or you just lost (again) in Wii boxing to your 4 year old son.

Why would you join the PTA (Parent Teacher Association) of your kid's school?

I love my wife, but this was not a good idea, so I firmly accepted the challenge of representing our daughter's class.  Like so many men, I have my own ideas and opinions, but I tend to falter under the pressure from my wife's all-seeing eye and gaze - don't we all.  I know that if I had objected, I would have to sleep in the attic again, in my daughter's old bed, only covered with a shitty dog blanket.

We men know when to agree and disagree with our wives.  We stand tall for the family and we will take every challenge with a straight back.  The thing is, we know how to bargain too.  In this case, I get to see Champions League football twice this season, just because I accepted her demands.  That's double the amount of games I saw last year - I'm on a winning path.  Maybe next year I get to turn up the volume too...

I'm under the thumb like the rest of you chicken men, and I'm not scared to admit it  (this last line was written while my wife was watching me!).

Anyway, I'm ready for the PTA.  How hard can it be?  My iPod is fully loaded with music and I've bought smaller headphones.  I just hope the principal doesn't catch me out again.  At least I'm no longer smoking in the courtyard with the 12 year old boys.
...I just hope my wife has selected me for chairperson!!!

The worst thing about attending these meetings, is that you actually sit in a class room and not in the teacher's area.  This means that you sit on children's chairs that are extremely small and low.  They are perfect for my wife, but they cause my legs to cramp every 5 minutes or "fall asleep" because I'm pinching a blood vein that results in blood not circulating.  I nearly fell over at the last PTA meeting. When I stood up, I realised that my leg was fully asleep.  I quickly grabbed the nearest person not to fall, almost knocking over the teacher representative too. Man, these teachers get smaller and younger - this one looked like she was just out of school herself.

So, school just started, so we only have another 11 PTA meetings to go.  Wish me luck.

Off the smokes?

I started to smoke when I was 13 years old, which is almost 24 years ago, so I've smoked an awful long time, too long.  There was no particular reason as to why I started other than I thought it was cool.  It was back in the early 80s and I was in 7th grade - I think.  Not particularly proud of it, but that's the truth.  Bloody hell, I didn't even inhale in the beginning (but who did?) and it was only to be part of the tough gang.  We stood underneath the shelter smoking and we were beating up kids who came too near - there was something special about smoking back in those days - you were part of something.

If you are considering to start smoking, well, then don't.  I know that's rich coming from a long-time smoker, but that doesn't mean that I'm proud of it or that I think it is healthy.  Cigarettes are extremely addictive and any smoker will tell you about their giving-up-the-fags-moments.  Several reasons for not to smoke:

1. You'll develop a nasty cough, especially in the morning.
2. You and your clothes will smell.  Nothing worse than waking up after a night out, smelling your clothes or having to clean up all the ashtrays.
3. You will be standing outside, in all kinds of weather, smoking. Just to get your "fix".
4. It is actually expensive.  Try calculate how much you spend weekly on this habit.
5. Kissing a smoker is disgusting (according to my wife).
6. You'll do almost anything to get smokes, if you are out, including selling your body (not in my case for good reasons) and smoking cigarette butts.
   

Back in the 80s, nobody had sued the cigarette companies or even considered that it might be harming your health and being related to various diseases.  Well, most smokers today are still not convinced that smoking causes lung cancer - it has never been proven!  It was all about being cool and hanging out, talking shite and beating up smaller kids.  Even at home, it was normal to smoke.  All my parents friends smoked and it was VERY easy to get smokes, even at the age of 10.

When I had my confirmation, I was 13, my dad knew I was smoking, so he handed me the cigarette tray (which was normal at parties back then) and he asked me if I wanted a cigarette - in public.  I freaked for a brief moment and denied ever having touched a smoke, but then I realised I was an adult and I grabbed a smoke to the horror of my grandma.  My granddad knew I smoked, how I don't know, and just laughed. I took a giant drag and started to cough, entertaining the entire audience and receiving loads of friendly abuse.

In fact, my cousins, on my mother's side, taught me to smoke the pipe when I was only 9.  They forced me to smoke it and burst out laughing when I turned green and started coughing.  That's what family is for.

Giving up the cigarettes has always been a tabu among smokers.  Sure, they'll support you if you try, by offering you free cigarettes when you are trying to quit or they'd blow smoke in your face.  We are so helpful that we even celebrate when one of the mates is back on the fags, welcoming him back with open arms.

I've tried giving up so many times and all the reasons have been the same - I don't want to smoke anymore.  Giving up is hard, I kid you not, and your body will change for the worse:

• Firstly, you will most likely become extremely impatient and short tempered, blowing a fuse when you can't find the remote or if you are out of toilet paper.  The smallest hint from your partner that you might have forgotten something will just cause a volcanic eruption. And you get angry over weird things like somebody sent you an email about buying viagra.
• Secondly, your body will slowly start to change too, adapting to not getting the nicotine fix. It will start to crave a substitute such as chocolate, crisps, icecream or just loads of food.  Why? I'm not too sure, but my body is developing Michelin rings now, despite trying not to eat sweets.
• Thirdly, you will develop an abundance of boogers, causing you to pick your nose all the time.  It has something to do with you getting nose hairs again that catches all the dust - the rest doesn't need explaning.
• Lastly (I'm sure there are more changes), the first 5 weeks of giving up will be the most painful for your surroundings, mainly due to the above reasons!!

So, there is where the sharing experiences start.  Here are a few of my attempts trying to give them up, and why I failed miserably:

1. Within 2 months of starting I tried giving up, resulting in me being evicted from the cool gang and had to spend my time with the nerds - who by the way were still angry at me for beating them up.  Stuck in limbo between good and evil, I went back on the smokes.  The evil gang greeted me back with open arms and gave me free smokes for joining again.  They even threw me one of the nerds to punch twice.  Man, I felt part of something again - cool.
   
2. When I was 15 I tried to shelve them again, mainly because that was the part in my life where I was supposed to focus on badminton and become a superstar.  That ambition obviously failed!  It was a classic schoolboy error, as I was invited to a party and accepted - who wouldn't when all the girls were there too.  I swore it would be my last smoke that evening, but that was all forgotten Sunday afternoon, when I had breakfast with my mates, enjoying a nice smoke after breakfast.
   
3. When I turned 17 and I was getting ready to go to the US as an exchange student, I decided to stop smoking while in the States.  This was mainly because I wouldn't have my smoking mates around me so it would be a lot easier (you gotta blame somebody else) and also because the US was know to be anti-smokers - which they were.  In the airport my sister (bless her) gave me a small packet and told me NOT to open it until I had arrived.  I opened it the day after arriving in the US and discovered 2 packs of smokes + condoms!!!  I threw out the condoms and started smoking, in hiding of course.  I bumped into another Danish bloke in my highschool, who I converted to a smoker, so I was back on the smokes.
4. After a year away, on the plane home, I decided that I wanted a "clean" and healthy start.  That lasted until I got off the plane in Copenhagen, meeting my aunt and she gave me Danish cigarettes - I knew she missed me and loved me.  I couldn't say no.  And, to cement my dedication to smoking, me and a mate created the coffee club in college with some rules; you must love coffee and smoking.
5. Several years went by and I was getting married.  My dad had quit smoking when he got married, and he is still off them, so I wanted to follow in his footsteps.  The morning after the wedding I was off the smokes.  Later that evening both families gathered for dinner and there was so much japping that I had to smoke again.  BUT, only for that evening.  I was actually off the smokes for almost 9 months.  Then I did something most smokers do when off the smokes, which is getting the odd smoke when out for drinks.  That was it and I was back on them.
6. Then we had our first child and I wanted to be a good dad.  I stopped a few months before our daughter was born, cleaned the house fanatically, getting it ready for my princess.  Just to be clear, I only smoked outside during the entire pregnancy.  While my wife was in labour, I was freaking out so much that I ran to the cornershop and bought a pack of smokes. I probably smoked them within minutes.  Again, I failed.  The same thing happened when our son was born!!
   

I gave up 10 weeks ago and this time it is different - I swear it is!  I woke up one morning and actually didn't like the taste of the cigarette.  Tried another smoke two days later and I still didn't like it.  Halleluja, this must be a sign to give them up.  Well, I was also getting slightly pissed off with myself, as my daughter was starting to pretend she was smoking, which is really bad and it made me feel guilty - rightfully so.  Time to live a healthier life.

Was I cranky, abso-fucking-lutely!!  My wife actually begged me to start smoking again.  I've only gained 3 kgs in 10 weeks and I still can't run more than 5 minutes.

Hopefully this is it!  By the way, I actually bought the Carr book, but didn't use it.  Any takers?

If you want to quit smoking, then do it.  Don't say "I'll start Monday" or "When this pack is empty, then I'm off them".  It'll never work.  You have to want to give up, so be honest to yourself.  Amen!

From Playmobil to Motorhead...

On one of my recent journeys in the Apple Store (iTunes) I saw that Paul Young was celebrating his 25th anniversary.  Is it really 25 years ago I had my Paul Young haircut; which looked rather stupid considering my hair is blond, extremely thin and impossible to get it to curl like his. My hairdoo in the 80s resembled the blond haired Playmobil figures, completely flat and clued to my head, as if I had water thrown over my head.  My sister, on the contrary, had HUGE curls, weird looking fringe and blond streaks.

My goodness, the 80s are bringing back a fair few memories - mostly embarrassing.  I blame my older sister for my taste of music back then.  She is 4 years older than me and she would have influenced the music selection, by controlling what radio station to listen to or which tape to play.  All the joys of being the younger sibling.

What's even worse, my mum entertained at one of my sister's late teen parties, by dancing electric boogie.  It was so funny for me, but my sister was cringing of humiliation and all her friends were laughing loudly (probably politely).  Ah, parents, they just know which things not to do at the wrong moments.  But, you gotta love them for trying to be young and hip.

So, what stands out from the 80s?  Long spiky hair-doos, shoulder pads, Limahl, going to the US as an exchange student, Never Ending Story, happy 80s pop music and of course plenty of Miami Vice.  It's also the time when I moved from a playful happy child to a grumpy teenager.  It's actually weird that so many things can happen within a few years, in just one decade.

At the beginning of the 80s I was playing with Lego and Playmobil, building imaginary Worlds and playing in the woods - thankfully I'm back playing with Lego, with my kids.  I had a ton of friends and we were outside most of the time.  We had a blast.  Well, we didn't have all these modern devil devices like PSP, Wii, PS3 Xbox, etc. to distract us and my parents only had 6 channels on their TV - literally.  They didn't even a remote control damn it! So you actually had to move in order to change the channel.  No wonder I was fitter back then.  It reminds me of "Colt Seavers" and "V" TV series.  Unfortunately, most of these TV series we dubbed into German, as we had more German channels than Danish.  So, by the age of 8, my German was pretty good, but only to alien sounds from "V".

This was also, according to my dad, when I could have been a superstar in badminton or sailing, if it hadn't been for girls, music and cigarettes that is.  I had a promising career in badminton, club champion and country champion, but then it went downhill - rock 'n roll lifestyle!!

By the mid 80s I had had my first real hang-over, getting drunk (absolutely hammered) at a school party, where my parents were parent patrol. They obviously didn't spot me completely ratfaced.  I do vaguely remember my dad picking me up at some stage, lying on a bench outside in the middle of winter, bringing me home.  He demanded that I'd set the alarm for 07.00 (am) to help him shovel snow.  While setting the alarm I got a bit sick, on my floor, and he told me to (not calmly) clean up - which I apparently did with my hands!  The alarm went off at 03.58 (am) much to the annoyance of my parents, as I didn't wake up at all.

That's also when I started smoking - not great I know - but you'd do anything back then to be part of the gang, being tough and mean.  So, a lot of my class mates started to smoke.  Believe it or not, I was even student council chairperson, and I prevented the school to implement a smoking card, which had to be signed by parents, to the fanfare of my fellow smokers.  In my defense (really!!) my mum smoked and so did most of their friends, so I had been raised with smoking - stupid excuse really.

I'm now off the fags, running on week 10, so hopefully this time I'll stay off them.  It's only my 11th attempt, but we all live in hope.  I have a spine like a boiled spaghetti and it is easily tempted, but this time feels different.

Even my music taste changed from the happy tunes of Paul Young, Limahl, Duran Duran to AC/DC, Judas Priest, Iggy Pop and Motorhead.  Good old Lemmy from Motorhead.  He still looks exactly like he did in the 80s (and the 70s and the 90s), and he's still just as pissed off and drunk as ever.  Bloody hell, I must have had some traumatic experience with 80s pop music; I personally blame Cliff Richard singing Living Doll with the Young Ones.  Either that or I simply needed my own revolution? I was pissed off with my parents so I played loud rock music.  By the way, can you guess the band?

The real heavy dudes of the 80s had a nasty style.  Remember the birth of glam metal like Poison, Mötley Crüe and Europe, screaming and their long wild hair? Those were the days.

My wife apparently had the same haircut as Robert Smith from the Cure, the latter part of the 80s, which is pretty scary mainly because she's a girl - unless I have been living a Crying Game moment for all those years?!

At the very end of the 80s my parents had enough money and sent me to the US as an exchange student.  I had a fantastic time, especially in Colton (WA), and I'm still in touch with the class of 1990 - well, this is primarily thanks to Facebook, the most invasive social networking tool in the World, but brilliant.

So, my question to you, what do you remember from the 80s and how did you look?  Don't be shy, share your fun moments.  Time to let all your friends (and not friends) know what you were like.

...it's the final countdown!!

Yeeeeeeha!

Lets be clear, this is NOT a blog about how much I adore Hannah Montana and how I want to be like her, but just a short story about the impact she has had on my daughter.  Actually, that's a pretty scary thought; me with a blond longhaired wig - call me Daisy!

My heart went achy breaky yesterday afternoon, while having dinner.  My cool 5 year old daugther has started to get into this Hannah Montana phenomenon.  OK, she's not exactly colouring her hair blond and she doesn't have all the 3 million HM accessories, but she REALLY loves her songs.  So, my wife and I decided to rent the latest HM pandemic movie last weekend and our daughter was over the moon screaming "Awwwwesoooom!".

It's a happy feel good movie with little or no story, somewhat shallow, but through and through a happy movie - and some catchy pop and country tunes.  As you know Hannah Montana is actually Miley Cyrus, the daughter of country singer Billy Ray Cyrus, who sang 'achy breaky heart' in the early 90s.

So, in the movie Hannah (Miley) goes back to her roots, which is laughable in the first place as she is only 15 years old, to spend a couple of weeks in hillbilly country.  Nobody, except her closest family actually knows she's Hannah Montana.  She has this blond magic wig that makes everybody believe she's Hannah and blinds them from seeing the truth - she is Miley!  I wouldn't mind one of those wigs once in a while, but just for the weekends of course.  Imagine sitting in a meeting, with a magic wig, hearing things people might be saying about you.

The legend Billy Ray plays the dad in the movie and gives a couple of guest performances, as you do to promote yourself, and they were actually fairly catchy - especially "Back to Tennessee".  My wife even closed her eyes and swirled away to the sound of Billy's voice.

My son was dancing in the sofa, clapping his hands to the rhythm and singing along.  He absolutely enjoyed Billy Ray's performance and I'm certain that he would have a blast at a real line dance hoedown.  In fact, all four of us, and probably the dogs too, would enjoy a real American barn party; line dancing, country music, creasy BBQ and cowboys/cowgirls - that'll be fun.  Bring it on, yeeha!

Anyway, during dinner, we played the songs on the Mac (iTunes) and I hummed along to the chrorus of the "Back to Tennessee" song.  I didn't know the lyrics, but that has never stopped me from singing what I think they are singing.

Suddenly my daughter stared at me..."Dad, you are NOT Hannah's dad!, please don't sing anymore".
I was stunned and asked her if she didn't like my voice, whereto she replied diplomatically "Yeah, but please don't sing anymore".  Somewhat distraught, I asked her again why I couldn't sing, and she simply replied "Ok, sing then, sing!  Come on dad, sing!".

That freaked me out and I got stagefright.  I'm not going to do the X-factor trials.  I'm stuck singing in the shower only, to the amusement of the neighbours.  Country is nice, at times, but not when performed by me.

Of course I can do the school run!!

It was Tuesday morning and the alarm woke me up at 06.00 (am).  My God!  It was still dark outside and it was still raining - nothing had changed since I went to bed in regards to the weather.  As for me, I was still as tired as the night before, and my looks hadn't changed for the better either.

It was the morning of my son's grommets surgery.  My daughter had had her grommets surgery last week, so we somewhat knew what to expect:

1. Stuck all day in the hospital
2. Starving child
   
3. Staff not knowing what was happening
4. Starving child
5. Hours of fun, sitting on a shitty chair
6. Starving child
   

My wife was meant to bring him to the hospital at 07.30 (am), so she had to get going earlier than usual.  Unfortunately, she sleeps very well and it can be VERY difficult to get her back to this World.  The way she was breathing and snorring, I would say she was hovering in between Worlds - completly zen and relaxed.  From the high nasal pitch, probably Narnia.  There was no hope in hell of waking her up.

Finally, after a few kicks to the kidneys, an old Steven Seagal trick, I got her back from Narnia and she moved like a zombie to the bathroom for a quick shower.

Our son is more like me. We are both up and running quickly.  The adrenaline was pumping and he was ready for a day of surgery.  He had no idea what he was getting himself into.  The poor thing hadn't eaten since the previous evening at 19.00 (7 pm), and he was not allowed to eat at all. The nurses in hospital would feel his wrath quickly, if there were any long delays.

My wife left the house with our son, who later (according to my wife) turns into a mum's worst nightmare; screaming and poohing all over in the hospital toilet. At least, she sent me a text asking to bring clean clothes, so something bad must have happened.

Anyway, as you know, I love my wife and family and I'm a great dad.  So, I'd taken the morning off work to help out.  It would be my second time (in 18 months) to bring our daughter to school, so this was still very new to both of us and also exciting.  Keep in mind, I trust my daughter, because she is 5 years old and she knows what is best for her (see "Horseback Riding" story). So, it was bound to be an interesting morning.

Our daughter wakes up just as "quickly" as my wife. So, getting her to eat breakfast, get dressed and her teeth brushed was challenging, especially since she was still asleep.

I made her lunch, a sandwich she designed herself. I hoped she would like it.  I'm not too sure how nice a a nutella and cheese sandwich, sprinkled with cornflakes would be!  But, she is 5 and she knows what she wants.

Because my wife took the car to the hosiptal, and my daughter doesn't have a bike helmet for the scooter, we decided to walk.  My daughter wanted to bring Angel, as she is very easy to walk with.

We put on the wellies, rain coat and bag pack and headed off to her school.  It would probably take 10-15 minutes by car, so it shouldn't take no more than 30 minutes walking.  My daughter was ensuring me that it wouldn't be a problem and that she had done this several times with Mummy.  OK then!

It wasn't raining when we set off, but I had (based on skills learned by watching Ray Meare's TV series) predicted it would start to lash later that morning.  I didn't start to rain until I was walking back.  We walked at a normal speed. I had calculated the route to take 28 minutes, which would leave us with 2 minutes to spare, as her class starts at 08.50.

At 08.49 I texted my wife, just to double check when school starts, as we were still a bit away from the school.  The last mile to school was the hardest for all three of us.

• Angel because she had had a stroke about 4 weeks ago and she needed to be gradually trained up again, but exercise should be good for her, right?
  
• Our daughter because I had taken the route we would drive by car, meaning it was a mile longer than expected, but she is 5 year old and she is perfectly capable
  
• Me because my body was (and is) NOT designed for exercise and I haven't done much exercise since the kids were born, but I had to start exercising at some stage...
  

So, after walking for almost 40 minutes, I was dragging the dog and kid behind me the last 200 meters, much to the amusement of fellow parents and the school patrol.  My daughter at one point asked if she could open her jacket, as she was sticky from sweat, but I thought it was too cold and wet to do so, and said no.

Finally, we opened the door to the school, walking slowly towards her classroom - only 7 minutes late.  Of all people, who did we bump into - literally?  The school principal.  We were caught late, in the hallway, by the principal.  She looked at us, both sweaty and exhausted, and said good morning.  She even knew my daughter's name.  I hope I didn't get my daughter into trouble.  So, I helped my daughter with getting her jacket off and pushed her into the class, and gave the teacher an apologetic face.  The teacher stared at our daughter as she stood in the classroom with red cheecks, sweaty patches under the armpits and about to collapse.  I wonder what was on the teacher's mind.

Now, all I had to do was to walk back with Angel, get dressed for work and head to the hospital to provide some moral support to my wife and son.

At this point, Angel had started to walk slowly - extremely slowly.  Suddenly she stopped and I spun around, afraid that she had passed out.  But no, she had to pooh!  Remember, this was morning rush hour, so the road was packed with queueing cars, all looking at me and my dog doing it's business!  To my fear, Angel had decided to pooh in the middle of the road.   Aaargghhhhh, the horror, fear and embarrasment.
...thankfully I had brought plastic bags, just in case.  I could almost hear the drivers clap as I scooped up the pooh with the bag, feeling the warmth on my fingers through the plastic.  It's unbelievable what we dog owners sacrifice to keep the environment free of dog poohs. My dignity was at stake here.  Now, all I needed was a bin, but the nearest was 0.5 mile away, meaning I had to carry the little bundle of joy a bit further, swinging in my hand following the rhythm of my walk.  By the way, Angel is a Bernese Mountain dog, so it was a decent size pooh, not easy to hide or carry - I just hoped the bag would last that long.

We finally arrived back at the house, soaked and exhausted.  I had to sit down for a few minutes.  I stripped down, which might be a horrible image for some readers, but the sweat was rolling off me.  I'm getting too old for this shit!

I'm sure there was a much faster way to school, by foot, and according to my wife, there was.  The other route, which nobody told me about (and I didn't ask about either) until after the event had taken place, only takes 20-25 minutes.

I finally left the house and headed to the hospital.  Here I was greeted by my exhausted wife and starving son.  It was at this point 10.15 (am) and he still hadn't been seen by the doctors.  It turned out that they had misplaced my son's medical chart, meaning that they couldn't do surgery on him.  We were getting closer to an apocalyptic event, as my son hadn't eaten for more than 16 hours, so something had to happen...and quickly.  I could even see bite marks on most of the furniture and toys in the room, but  luckily for the staff, he was getting low on energy.  Thankfully they located his file.

I must admit, I was somewhat worried that they could loose a file, when they knew he was scheduled for surgery a year in advance.  What else do they loose in the hospital?  Actually, I don't want to know the answer to that question.

He was rolled into the operation theatre (OT) at 11.40.  It was my wife's turn to support our son, while the nurses tried to put him to sleep with a mask.  A mask?  How naive!  My son fought with tooth and nail not to get covered by the mask, but he finally surrendered - I guess not having eaten for 18 hours takes its toll.  As my wife emerged from the OT, I spotted the red upper lip, which indicates that she was about to cry.  Now she knows what I felt like, when our daughter had cleft palette surgery and I had to support her - not nice.

Our son emerged from Neverland 45 minutes later, fairly pissed off and tired, but most of all very hungry.  The nurse kindly gave him 1 juice, but it took 3 to calm him down.  Then he downed 3 yogurts, 2 bananas and a bag of biscuits - it has to be said that he didn't want to eat by himself, so we had to assist him, holding the DVD player in one hand and the food in the other.  If you tipped the DVD player slightly, so he couldn't see the screen, he would let you know quickly either by screaming of throwing a bisquit at you.
...ah, the joys of being a loving and supportive parent.

So, that was the morning gone, now what?  Well, I had to go to work and my wife had to head home once he was discharged.  She was wrecked at this stage and she couldn't find the parking ticket, so she could pay and leave.  From what I've seen since, most of the damage to the interior of the car was caused by punches and biting.  Thankfully she found the ticket in her wallet and made it home, leaving the exterior intact.

It's funnny, we had been waiting for our kids to get the grommets done for months, and then they get scheduled to be done within 1 week of each other, in two different hospitals.  At least it is done now, and the kids still love us - phew!

New York New York

This is a very short blog, so I'm sorry to disappoint my followers, but I was listening to the news yesterday morning, and I thought I misheard something.  Now, for my American followers, Ireland is most likely a few days behind the actual news story, so this is probably old news.

Did they actually say that, "The Naked Cowboy"who is playing his guitar in only his briefs on Times Square, entered the race to become the next mayor of New York?  Brilliant!

I quickly searched the Internet and found the news story, and behold, he had.  This could only happen in New York, the city that never sleeps.  And, to make things even better, his slogan was "Nobody has done more with less".  Here was a politician with a sense of humour.  Not like Arnie's slogan "I'll be back!" - back to do what?  Sign more police motorcycles to raise money, paying for debt in California?

But, the Naked Cowboy has actually, in his defense, a degree in political science. He's educated as a minister and he holds a certificate allowing him to marry people.  Why the latter, I do not know - and probably don't want to know.  But, some weird couple probably asked him if he could marry them on Times Square.

Unfortunately he withdrew his name from the race to become New York's next mayor - total letdown!  There was apparently too much red tape in the process - perhaps it was just a matter of the dresscode, mate?

But, you can still show him your support and you can find him on Facebook.  Loads of people claim they have been inspired by him, at least according to his Facebook page.  So lets hope he sticks with what he's good at -  entertaining.

So, to all people hoping to visit New York, the Naked Cowboy still shows off and plays his instrument on Times Square...:-)

Regards, The Naked Writer

Self Promotion is the best awareness...

Here I was, 8 weeks into my blogging adventure, trying to figure out how to get more feedback and more readers for free.  Was I wasting my time?  Were my stories worthwhile?  Living in the unknown, getting little or no feedback was nagging me like a mosquito in a tent at night!  My wife must be the most patient and diplomatic person in the World, as she was forced to read and comment every single blog story I had written.

You really want to know whether you are on the right track or on the track towards a Siberian work camp, otherwise you might as well start painting pictures of the clouds again in therapy classes.

Anyway, what do you do?

Well, the best thing to do is self promotion.  If nobody wants to promote you, then do it yourself - DIY Marketing I guess.  It is absolutely free, as long as you have some friends you can spam.  You are only making a fool out of yourself towards your friends - they might already consider you a bit of a weirdo already, so no harm done, right?

So, I spammed a few of my friends, "persuading" them to read my blog.  Of course they would read my blog, wouldn't they?  But was I getting constructive feedback and were they just being nice to me because they wanted me to leave them alone?

Either way, I needed to know and spammed them - not once, but three times, making sure they got the mail.

Still, nobody became a follower.  Was I that bad?  Perhaps people didn't read my blog, because I didn't have any followers?  Easy, I registered my wife as a follower - without her consent of course :-)  That triggered something and the the second follower joined 2 weeks ago.  Amazing!  Yahoo, 2 people were reading my blog.

The flood gates had opened and before I knew I had whopping 5 followers.  Soon, this might become 6.  I'm must be on to something big :-)  I must soldier on to keep my followers happy.

As Bon Jovi sang on the "Keep the Faith" album ('92-93):

No, you know it's never too late
Right now we got to keep the faith
Faith: don't let your love turn to hate
Oh-oh you got to
Keep the faith