Oh damn, still in this dream.

We came up with SuperFartMan; smellier than a barnful of assorted farmyard animals.

Mu was fonder of her SuperTeddyGirl but H was smitten with SFM. For some reason it reminded me of Boris. I don't know why, for the life of me.

And for the life of me I can't get my 5 year old daughter to eat anything I cook. She's great with a breakfast croissant and then will eat nothing but pasta in a tomato and cheese sauce. And even then not always. She will eat rubbish like crisps or sweets, and will eat some fruit, but the only carbs she will eat are pasta and chips, and the only proteins she eats are: sausages (of a very specific kind), salami, eggs, and cheddar cheese. No chicken, beef, lamb, pork, or fish (even fish fingers have been given the push). Pizza has fallen out of favour. Now my son, the elder by two years, can't eat eggs, nor can he eat nuts.

Menus can be a right pain. How the kid's nanny, Kay, manages to feed them together is a source of wonder to me, but they do appear to be healthy and growing well. I shall have to have a proper conference with Fred about their eating habits.

H. goes into Year 3 in Sept. Æ. into year 1. I have to think about whether H should be put down for Winchester or not this year. And if H. boards at Winchester at 13 we shall have to offer the same to Æ at Cheltenham Ladies College; the combined fees at today's prices will be some £80K a year. You could set them up with a couple of mortgages for that money instead so they wouldn't each have to buy a house; one wonders which is the best investment for them? I'd always say education; but that's the way I'm brought up. Fred may have a different opinion. Her people weren't quite as clerkish, bookish, or political as my crew; but these days a Public School (in the English sense) education is more of a political handicap than otherwise. The other thing is Æ shows serious academic promise, though 5 is a little early to gauge.

H is second in his maths class, which isn't bad for a Summer baby. (The school year runs from Sept though to July - Summer babies are the youngest in their classes, which at six and seven makes a huge developmental difference.) However, he is lazy, his handwriting is pretty appalling, he makes it up as he goes along, and he's got an explosive temper and a love of subversive behaviour. Also he's charismatic and reasonably good-looking. And we all know how those character traits pan out. I feel I have to lead by example here to give him the desire and structural tools to discipline himself to the right values. I'd rather he didn't go over to the dark side. So there's a lot of "We do it this way" with attendant stories of noble behaviour, heroic self-sacrifice, uncommon decency, and putting oneself at the service of the community. People of my class and age are almost always total and complete psychopaths, mostly socialised through both fear and violence enforcing discipline at school. Learn, leave, or be beaten - that motto worked for generations of schoolboys where the fear of a beating made the lazy among us do the bare minimum of work. The world has changed and corporal punishment is no longer meted out in any shape or form thank the gods. But this does mean that H won't have learning thrashed into him, and therefore may not get the inclination or impetus to actually learn much at all unless immersed in an environment like Winchester which is academic, discursive, and both competitive and co-operative. As I'm a reasonably sane, civilised man I abhor the thrashing, obvs. and will not hit my kids. But that may mean that H never fulfils his intellectual potential unless at the right school. And Winchester may be a bit too academically-inclined for H. I don't want him to ever be bottom of the class, for example. (I knew a chap who came bottom for 4 out of his 5 years at Winchester - it affected him rather badly and he became a Scientologist.) Another option for H is a bit closer to London, but Slough Grammar is just a trifle large, with around 1400 pupils. Dulwich College is a bit populous too. H has mentioned the King's School, Canterbury - it appeals to him being the oldest school in the world. Fred wants the kids near her, and would prefer them not to board. Me too, except I worry about H.

Æ of course will be head girl and win exhibitions. I wonder if she is quite as bright as H, but can state categorically she is far more motivated.

The stuff that keeps us up at nights, eh?

In my fiftieth year I became a father for the first time.

Before that I really had no idea...about anything human, outside of friendship and sex, anyway. I thought that I had, of course; I thought that I had plumbed the depths of despair with a Tristan-like passion over lost loves, missed opportunities, and failed ideals.

Becoming a parent has put that into perspective. (I ramble as preamble.)

My elder child, Henry, is four. He is allowed approximately 45mins of TV a day as a maximum. On many days he watches no television. At weekends he will sometimes, if it is raining, be allowed to watch a film. Because his viewing time is so limited, he has become used to being selective in what he watches, which is a good thing. His favourite shows and films over the past year or two have been enlightening for me as a parent. I have had to sit through many episodes of: Postman Pat, Fireman Sam, Ben and Holly's Little Kingdom, Peppa Pig, and Octonauts. His most recent favourites are Tree-Fu Tom and, amazingly enough, the original series of Thunderbirds.

In all of these programmes young children are exposed to the sorts of problems where the solutions can be found with a bit of thought and sometimes a bit of super technology, or maybe magic, or maybe good old fashioned common-sense. In almost all of these programmes rescue, repair, and respect are the main themes which underlie the plots, such as they can be said to have. Within these shows the problems the characters face are ones within the compass of small folk to understand; and given an adult's perspective, can be said to have narratives with positive agenda.

However, somehow or other (Nursery School?) Henry has become aware of Power Rangers. A TV Series which has never met a problem it couldn't punch, shoot, or stab its way out of. Of this fact I was unaware until I sat down with Henry to watch the second episode I had recorded; him having sat through the first one on his own while I busied myself in the kitchen. As of now I wish he'd stuck to Postman Pat as he has spent three days trying to punch or kick me, SWMBO, Kay (the Nanny) and his sister Æ. I am less than impressed.

Ye gods, when your children's narratives only contain ridiculously reductive and simplistic battles between good and evil, and necessitate extreme violence as the only solution to any of the problems faced by the good guys, it is no wonder that American children grow up into American adults.

No more Power Rangers for Henry, though he does appear to have energy to burn. But maybe the self-discipline brought on by sport, or the Dojo, or a musical instrument will be his punishment. I shall not put it quite like that, though. At his prep they start on violin in Reception. I shall have to enrol him for football and cricket. Karate too.

At the risk of repeating myself, I do wish he'd stuck to Postman Pat, or maybe even Thunderbirds.

My daughter Æmilia was one year old on Friday the 4th July.
Party on the Saturday the 5th, but I had to leave at 4pm to go to a gig just outside Winchester.
Got back home at 3am. Henry woke at 7...bliss, such bliss.

Loving the sleep deprivation: it's almost like drugs.

…and his very young daughter.



I have been called a David Baddiel lookalike. Wish I had his money, though not his taste in football teams.

Æmilia Margaret Rose.

at 10.04am. She weighs 7lb14oz, and appears a healthy and bonny lass.

An online chum asked for a piccie of Henry and me. As I was recovering from this unimaginable second bout of chicken pox in my life, we went for a walk in the park yesterday. SWMBO took the picture on my iPhone.

It is, of course, behind the cut.

( Read more... )

I am old and grey. Henry is young and happy. This is as it should be, I suppose.

For the past week The Boy has been riffing on Postman Pat. From breakfast to bedtime, the magical word is "Paat". Pat appears to be the be-all and end-all of this creation, and little else is of any true concern. Henry does a very good impression of St Paul to Postman Pat's Jesus, complete with little shouty episodes and footstamping bottom-lip-trembling micro-wobblies, wherein we poor benighted adults come very close to being excommunicated and cast out from the circle of the saved.

But because Henry is very loved, we try to impose limits on his obsession. Nevertheless, I have had to sit through many episodes of Pat, from the earliest onwards, and I have had an amazing realisation: the character known as "Major Forbes" and our esteemed London Mayor Boris Johnson have never been seen in the same room together. In fact, I'll quote from Major Forbes' wiki entry:

Major Forbes is an old army major, and says things such as "Eh, what", "Old chap" and "Good man". the only 11 episodes he appeared in were 'Postman Pat Takes the Bus', 'Postman Pat and the Toy Soldiers', 'Postman Pat and the Tuba', Postman Pat and the Suit of Armour', 'Postman Pat in a Muddle', 'Postman Pat Misses the Show', 'Postman Pat Has Too Many Parcels', 'Postman Pat Has the Best Village', 'Postman Pat Takes Flight', 'Postman Pat and the Beast of Greendale' and 'Postman Pat and the Mystery Tour'. He was first mentioned in the 1981 episode 'The Sheep In The Clover Field' which features his prize-winning bull. (Major Forbes has not been seen on the show since 1996) [my emphasis]

Now, if you forward to 9:40 on this Pat clip, you'll meet the Major



Now, remove the Major's moustache, and what happens?





Even the voice is the same.

Oops. Did I say that aloud?