Laid Low

I had been struggling under the sympathetic gazes of Clive and Robert, the paramedics, for a good fifteen minutes. Maude winced, smiled, looked away, smiled, looked at her watch.

What I was trying to do was quite simple. I was trying to stand up. My lumbago had begun to stir at the weekend:

Toddler into bath, toddler out of bath. Attention-seeking four year old up the steep stairs to bed. Bored, screaming four year old lifted off bicycle not long  after start of bike ride. Deceptively heavy child’s bike carried by Daddy for rest of bike ride route etc…

My back was an accident waiting to happen. As I failed to launch from the living room carpet, I had to admit to that the accident had, indeed, happened.

Clive was the senior paramedic or ‘nurse practitioner’, as he clarified. He had recognised Maude on his arrival at the house.

‘Well I know who you are!’

Maude’s recent reality TV debut had caused something of a stir in the area and Clive was clearly an aficionado of the show. He sat and asked me the regulation questions for his forms: age, details of medical history, how I came to be helplessly prone on my own living room floor. He sped through them while his assistant checked my blood pressure and took a blood sample. Clive’s eyes moved frequently from me to Maude. He could hold out no longer:

‘But what about that hairdresser?! How did you not just throw him out of your house?’

Maude happily filled Clive in on some of the backstage secrets of the show and joked about the menu choices of her fellow contestants. Clive reminded her of some of her funniest remarks and commented on how much Maude reminded him of his favourite sister.

I coughed weakly from the floor. It was then that Clive and Robert tried to manoeuvre me from beetle stranded on back to fully functioning stay at home Dad.

‘Well, we could give you a painkilling injection, but that’ll not necessarily get you off the floor. Go on, have another go.’

As I managed to get onto my hands and knees, I could feel a bead of sweat dripping off the end of my nose and extreme pain radiating from a source somewhere around a twenty six year old operation scar. I steeled myself for one last attempt on ‘upright’. As I crumpled back to the floor, I could hear a ringtone of unfamiliar young person’s music coming from Robert’s mobile phone. He apologised as he rifled through his bag. I could also hear Clive.

‘You’ve  got a lovely house, by the way. Looked much bigger on the telly though.’

Rude Awakening

I could sense Maude’s presence beside me, before I officially woke up. I could feel that she was regarding me closely. Not fair, I thought, to survey ones partner first thing in the morning when they are feigning sleep to avoid getting up with the kids because it can’t possibly be their turn to do so again. I was conscious that I looked weary – the strain of childcare was undoubtedly showing.

I chanced one open eye and, indeed, there she was:

‘You look about a hundred!’ she laughed.

‘Good morning to you’ seemed the only dignified response. ‘I’ll have a rejuvenating shower and hope to pass for a sprightly octogenarian.’

As Maude gets older, she gets better in so many ways.

She also gets more like her father.

(Crawford is well into his seventies and most of his news on the telephone relates to death or serious illness. Augusta too, although significantly younger and more active than Crawford, can be similarly morbid.)

Maude’s initial amusement at my cadaverous pallour soon turned, as ever, to talk of tests at the doctors and the inconvenience that would be caused by my early death.

‘It’s good that you’re not driving so far any more, but you really need to look after yourself. Have you been taking those supplements I got for you? They were very expensive…... Do I have any clean pants?’

Stay at Home, Dad

‘You didn’t come back this week!’ said my neighbour, Vanessa, as we queued for coffee in the church hall.

I didn’t feel the need to tell her that my confidence had been knocked a little by the frosty reception I received on my first visit to ‘Rhymetime’. Magnus the librarian was thoroughly welcoming and happily wrote a sticky name label for Jocasta to wear.

Some of the mothers, however, seemed perturbed by the presence of a stay at home Dad. They all seemed to know each other and were clearly such regular attenders that Magnus had pre-prepared badges for their children.

Three of the little girls present were all called Sophia. One mother pointed out that her child’s name was ‘Sofia with an ‘f’'.

I threw myself into proceedings, nonetheless, and sang the rhymes with gusto.

It was halfway through ‘Incey Wincey Spider’ that I thought I caught some non-verbal communication occurring between two of the mothers. Some kind of signal passed between them involving a nod towards me. Both women had younger babies – as well as their Sofia/Sophias. They began to unbutton their cheesecloth blouses and, each with a steely eye on me, started breast-feeding.

I was not put off by this nursing offensive. I carried on singing and making spider

hands. It was at this point that Magnus announced the banana break. His assistant

emerged with a platter of sliced fruit.

The nursing mothers whispered to their Sophia/Sofias that they should hurry and get some fruit as a reward for all their wonderful singing. I wasted no time whispering and shoved Jocasta in the general direction of the fruit.

‘Nana!’ cried my youngest. As she motored towards the platter, she inadvertently winged a Sophia/Sofia and sent her into a bean bag.

I heard at least one gasp from the Sophia/Sofia side of the room and smiled in the general direction of the mothers. 

Mother one reciprocated with an incey wincey smile. Mother two looked past me and switched breasts.

'I'm away now....'

I used to sell books. I sold new books in a city centre bookshop - where they made me wear a lanyard. At weekends I sold old books on a stall at Tynemouth Market. Like many regular public gatherings, Tynemouth Market had an 'eccentric'. His name was something like Cyril and he was somehere around seventy years old. Cyril was covered in badges - they were all over his frock coat, his flat cap and were glued to his walking stick.

Cyril would 'perform' his eccentricity for traders and customers: loudly telling spectacularly old jokes and singing music hall standards. He once saw me doing a crossword and informed the whole market:

'We've got one of them clever ones here!'

Tynemouth Market takes place in Tynemouth Station. Book and bric-a-brac business is punctuated by the arrival and departure of trains on the metro loop from Newcastle. Cyril would announce his own departure with some grandeur - waving his stick and shouting:

'I'm away now! I'm away!'

He was, in the main, ignored.

Cyril would tarry - even letting his train pass if necessary - until the loss of the 'life and soul' of the market was fittingly acknowledged.

'I'm away now! I'm away!'

Eventually a couple of people (possibly tourists) would wave back and that was usually enough for him.

Today was my last day at work. Morag was all smiles yesterday - looking forward to 'a face to face handover' of any oustanding tasks on my to do list.

'I'll be out all morning,' she said, 'see you at about 1.30.'

I have always wanted to walk away from a job at lunchtime and here was my chance.

It was just before noon. I left a note for Sadie and punched 'send' on a handover email to Morag. The faculty admin staff were busy speaking loud English at some newly-arrived Asian students. I squeezed into the lift with a grumpy porter and a trolley. At ground level I was swept into the youthful tide of students leaving the building and entering the quad. They massed towards the university refectory. I turned away for the car park - telling nobody in particular as I went...

'I'm away now! I'm away!'

'I'll be a bit like you, Dad, but with small children.’

‘So when is it you retire?’

I was glad to hear that my father hadn’t lost his sense of humour in the face of  blindness and general decrepitude.

‘It’s not retirement Dad, it’s redundancy. I’m hoping it won’t be forever. And anyway, I’ll be a 'stay at home dad'. I'll be a bit like you, Dad, but with small children.’

Up to now, I have Monday and Tuesday mornings covered at the local library – ‘storytime’ and ‘rhymetime’ respectively. ‘Gym Tots’ is restarting on Thursdays in October, apparently.

So that just leaves Wednesdays and Fridays to fill. Aurora is at school now and it’s to be hoped that Jocasta doesn’t grow out of epic midday naps before the spring.

To her credit, Maude has been trying to ease my transition from paid employment to playground fixture. She has identified another stay at home dad in the neighbourhood. She befriended him at the library and is now trying to engineer a meeting between us. His name features prominently on her clipboard to-do list and I hear that he is an unflappable natural at shepherding his two small children around our new local National Trust adventure playground..

I feel like a child being forced to play with children I don’t know.

‘I’d rather', I suggested, 'that we became acquainted in a more natural way, darling.’

Maude retrieved her clipboard. With a sigh, she scored out the name of the village's only other known stay at home dad.

‘What you mean is that you aren’t keen because he has long hair and his little boy is called Thor.’

'A Little Does...'

We left my in-laws’ house in the brightest sunshine. The drums of the apprentice boys could be heard in the distance as they practised for some march or other. 

Crawford had been enjoying a quiet cigarette and some sporting commentary on the radio in his jeep as we packed the car – winding down his window on occasion to offer packing tips and comment on our tyre pressure.

‘The natives are restless’ he observed, dramatically cupping his ear and wincing as he descended to the gravel.

‘Yes, we know’ replied Maude ‘that’s why we thought we’d take the children to the caravan for a few days.’

The girls love being at their grandparents’ house and their grandparents enjoy the contact, but older people also like to have their space back fairly promptly.

Crawford had begun to spend long stretches of time ensconced in his jeep. Augusta too had sought sanctuary – locking herself in the summer house. As we left she was even wearing her large headphones. This gave her the look of a 'Mr and Mrs' contestant waiting to be tested on just how well she knew her partner of 42 years.

Maude and I agreed that the time was right to take advantage of the offer of a loaned caravan on the pleasantly named ‘Juniper Hill’ site in Portstewart – just next to the field reserved for drive-in gospel sessions.

Shortly after we located the correct caravan and installed the children, the rain that was to last the entire duration of our stay began. Drizzle turned to heavy rain and it beat a steady rhythm on the roof of the caravan which insisted it was heard over the sound of children’s television.

‘Is that the drummer boys again, Daddy?’

‘No darling, unfortunately, it isn’t.’

People always need windows..

My best man Miles called today - out of the blue. Always a tonic, he told me about his all expenses paid week in Mauritius with other members of a 'Platinum Club' of salesmen. This group is comprised of the most effective members of the sales team at Albion Windows and Miles almost gave himself a sickener of champagne and lunchtime mojitos.

The platinum reward had been for Miles plus one. He had nobly offered the opportunity to me. 

Maude vetoed it:

‘You’re a lightweight – you’ll never keep up with him.’

I suspect Mrs Miles had that very quality in mind when she suggested my name.  Miles took his brother-in-law instead – still finding a way to please Mrs Miles.

It now feels, however, like a missed networking opportunity. I might have osmotically absorbed some sales nous from the platinum chaps in readiness for my impending, and as yet undefined, new direction. I ventured to Miles that my years of experience helping to take art to the undercultured had made me virtually unemployable.

‘I was in the same boat son. Just sell windows! Anyone could do it. Not everyone can do it to ‘platinum’ standard, obviously. But people are staying put in their houses and - at some point - people always need windows.’

I dictated my email address to Miles. He promised to email something guaranteed to make me soil myself with mirth.

‘I’ll just bang it straight into my i-pad 2’ .

As susceptible as the next man to the seductive appeal of new technology, I asked a few questions about the 'spec' on his new machine. Over the course of several minutes he gave me the low-down on what the machine took only several seconds to ‘rip through’. I then made the mistake of asking when he bought his i-pad – forgetting  his status as a prominent member of the Albion Platinum Club.

‘I didn’t buy it, bonny lad. I achieved it.’

Lovely

‘One of the ornamental trees fell on the front pews. Prince Philip is quite badly scratched and he’s blaming members of the Tongan entourage for bringing about the accident by shimmying up the tree for a better view. I did catch a glimpse of the queen’s knickers in the pell mell, but looked away like the good subject I am.’

Maude had taken Aurora up to the loo. The excitement of the vows and the struggle to get the ring on had all been too much for both of them: a toilet break was needed. I had been asked to watch Jocasta and provide commentary, but nothing of note was actually happening.

‘Oh, and Harry has just emerged from behind an arras. His hair is even more tousled than it was. Pretty sure he just winked at one of the security men. The cameraman has gone in close now and Huw Edwards is trying not to mention the vivid smear of lipstick on the lad’s cheek. Harry's examining his outfit for a working pocket. He has a small piece of paper in his hand – possibly a phone number....  ’

I could hear a tap running.

‘Wash wash wash dear and don’t, whatever you do, listen to Daddy.’

Neophobes United

This morning I awoke and went downstairs to check for signs of rodent activity. All seemed in order, so I lifted a roasting tin from the drainer to put it away. A mouse fell out of it, landed on my foot and then shot under the nearby washing machine. I pulled the washing machine out to find its bed.

The mouse was clearly quite settled and had been for some time by the looks of it. It was then that I remembered a key part of the Pest Control man’s monologue:

‘They’re neophobes, you know. Hate anything new, any change. It drives them crazy if you block up any holes or move anything. Sometimes just doing that is enough to make them go’

I decided to radically upset chez mouse in the hope that he would feel so discombobulated he would flounce off.

A small part of me (a part of which I am not proud) hoped the mouse would simply cross the road and take up residence at Eric’s. Eric would be unlikely to hear any rodent noise above the sound of his television and his grumbling. Eric would also be unlikely to put any energy into getting rid of the mouse if he did detect it – as this would leave less energy to emerge from his house like a demented weather clock character every time one of his neighbours misparked.

I thought about breaking up the bed, but then decided I could do something far more disturbing. I added some members of Aurora’s Sylvanian Family to the scene:

I mentioned the rodent neophobe theory in the office. Morag admitted to classic neophobic traits – having joined and quit Facebook within the space of a single afternoon.

Morag then left the office to attend the leaving drinks for Clive at The National Clay Pipe Centre. I seized my chance and:

mixed up all the tops on her flipchart markers

changed the order of her desk drawers

adjusted the height of her chair

Worth a try.

Breached

The Pest Control man had a comprehensive knowledge of the behaviour of rodents and a strong desire to share it.

‘It’ll know your routine inside out. It’ll know when you’ve been to the supermarket. It’ll know when you go to bed.’

He continued in the same vein and built a picture of rodents as miniature Stasi operatives. He also seemed pleased that our home had been penetrated by one of the little beasts. He scouted around the building, pointing out glaring gaps in our defences.

‘That’ll be it, there,’ he said with not a little triumph, as he pointed at the gap under our garage door.

‘They could walk right through that gap man – not even have to duck.’

He had an apprentice with him – an enthralled young note-taker. The pair crossed the road. I stood in the bay window and watched as the senior of the two pointed over the hedge at the river and guffawed. He then traced the route he imagined our visitor took straight up the drive and straight through the irresistible large gap under the garage door.

Ben, the two of us need look no more....

Aurora is often in the habit of pinching an apple from the fruit bowl and losing interest halfway through eating it. She is not, though, in the habit of hiding half eaten apples in a neatly ordered cache behind the fridge.

I got up on Sunday morning, looking forward to sharing a banana with Jocasta. I went to the kitchen fruit bowl and noticed the absence of the banana that I clearly remembered seeing there the night before.

Maude and I had been out for dinner with Harriet and Morten. I drove, so Maude drank. As Maude dozed loudly on the sofa at around midnight, I took the opportunity to have a look at the prize crossword. The paper rustled a little, Maude breathed heavily and something made a scratching noise in the kitchen. I investigated, but saw nothing and presumed that our elderly fridge had developed a new rumble.

I thought no more of it until the following morning. It was then that I saw lack of banana in the fruit bowl and presence of protruding banana next to fridge. This banana had been half-consumed by a small animal other than one of my daughters.

At first we thought that the visitor must be nothing short of a rat to be able to move items of fruit. Maude and I agreed to speak in code to avoid any Aurora panic. We dubbed the visitor ‘Ben’ – a reference to Michael Jackson’s lovely ballad.

Hello Dolly

My mother is elderly and, obviously, has elderly friends. These friends are well-meaning and have a lot of time on their hands. Mother mentioned to one of her friends that Maude and I had recently been blessed with another daughter. Mother’s friend was delighted and insisted that she would make a doll. Mother is polite and welcomed the idea.

When the large soft padded envelope arrived, the postman opened our porch door and left it in on the hallstand as he usually does. We don’t mind this postman having this access – he can certainly be trusted more than the last one. Aurora is like her mother and loves presents – even when they are not actually intended for her. At Aurora’s insistence I opened the parcel addressed to her sister. Aurora’s flight was incredibly swift. My daughter’s dashes through the drawing room usually come unstuck by her clumsiness – a stubbed toe or a trip halfway, followed by floods of tears. On this occasion I was amazed by her faultless athleticism – as she vaulted the arm of the sofa and forward rolled into her playtent before the whole doll had even appeared from the jiffy bag. Her manoeuvre was worthy of a 70’s cop show and only lacked a cry midway of ‘cover me!’

‘It’s scary Daddy! Give it back to postman!.’

Jocasta echoed Aurora’s verdict by crying instantly and noisily soiling her nappy when presented with the well-meant doll.

Mother called to check that we had received the parcel.

She was diplomatic.

‘I don’t know how she does it,‘ she observed of her friend.

I was less charitable.

‘I don’t know WHY she does it’.