AN IRISH DADDY - Blogging for a Better Future

A Pre-Christmas Blog

2011-12-24T13:19:00.024Z

It twas the day before Christmas, and all the through the house;
Both the kids they were stirring and winding up the spouse...and the other spouse.

Only one day to go now and the boys are ridiculously over-excited and trying to throw the rulebook out the window. The naughty corner has been a very crowded corner indeed.

The weather outside is an unseasonably mild 8c and I made the most of it by taking Ciaran on a walk earlier.

We walked through a sodden and muddy Flitwick Wood to take in some nature and escape the Christmas telly repeats and sit-on-your-arse-all-day festive culture. It also served the purpose of helping me to energise my mildly-hungover head which was still suffering from a 10-pint pounding at our works do over 36 hours earlier!

Ciaran's little nose was Rudolph-red in no time, and I made him run after me to keep his warmth up.

Our Christmas presents are all wrapped and neatly concealed under a large white blanket in our bedroom. This may well be the last year we get away with such basic deceit as Ben is ever more the wiser and will be more so in 12 months time. It will have to be a nocturnal venture to the loft next year.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to introducing Ciaran to the 'Twas the Night Before Christmas' for his bedtime story tonight and next on my list is helping the kids get their letters off to Santa.

Merry Christmas to you all and best wishes for the New Year!

Christmas 2011 - Northern Ireland

2011-12-11T13:38:00.023Z

Day 3 - Dublin

Wake up call at 6am followed by egg and toast for breakfast.

Mum dropped Dad and I off at Central Station at around 7.15am ahead of the 8am departure to Dublin.

Upon boarding, Dad and I settled quickly into planning our Dublin schedule while the train passed south of Lough Neagh through Portadown and Craigavon before snaking south to the border over the Boyne, through Drogheda and easing smoothly into Connolly Street station, Dublin for a prompt 10am arrival.

The weather was exactly as forecast - cloudless, blue, sunny sky and crisp December air.

We walked along our planned route down Talbot Street and onto O'Connell Street (The GPO pictured, right) to locate the tourist information centre. First on our list was a visit to the Dublin Writers Museum on Parnell Square (Parnell monument below), with all sorts of artefacts and literary information on the Irish greats, including Joyce, Yeats, Wilde, Beckett and of course Heaney. I was particularly taken by Behan's personal life story.

Then, we were off to Ireland's most visited tourist spot - the Guinness Storehouse.

Hopping off our blue and yellow-livered bus, we struggled to find the visitor entrance, before finding it hidden away on the backstreets. Full of interesting facts about the brewing process and history of the legendary stout, I was most impressed by the architecture of the place.

Visitors step off the escalator from the reception into a huge, open glass atrium were you stand in awe at the bottom of the world's largest pint glass rising up through the centre of the 7-storey building with elevators leading to and from the Gravity Bar at the top - where a complimentary pint of Guinness awaited.

Guinness in hand, we were treated to 360° panoramas of Dublin - I could have stayed there all afternoon, but we had to move on to get some lunch.

Lunch was provided in the Winding Stair restaurant on the banks of the Liffey overlooking the Ha'Penny bridge, before heading off on some more sightsetting trips to Trinity College, the Aviva Stadium and last but not least - the pub!

McDaids pub it was, the time was now around 5.30pm and Dad and I came in from a cold but brightly-lit Grafton Street into a dimly-lit old-fashioned McDaids pub and settled down for a couple of winter-warming pints of Guinness before catching the train home.

It had been a day to remember.

Christmas 2011 - Northern Ireland

2011-12-09T18:38:00.023Z

Day 2 - Dads birthday

Woke up at around 8.30am this morning. Weather cold but dry.

Dad cooked up a birthday breakfast for us both (Mum was working) with bacon, eggs and toast and after a session on the guitars we were out the door at about 11ish to catch the bus into Belfast.

On the agenda was a meet-up with Dad's mate Tom Melville, who was over from the USA.

We jumped off the bus on Adelaide Street and running behind schedule, we sped through the packed streets to make up time. Passing through the Christmas continental Market (pictured above), with a scent of roasted chestnuts hanging heavy in the crisp December air, we spotted Tom, shook hands and headed off in the direction of the Ivory restaurant for some lunch.

Perched at the top of the new Victoria Street shopping mall, the Ivory was modern and chic - and surprisingly empty on a working day lunchtime slot.

The views from the top were breathtaking, and I opted for the local ale battered haddock with mushy peas, tartare sauce and chips. What began with a coffee and chat quickly turned into a 3-pint job (pictured, right) and we had a good chinwag about soccer, the States and family.

Dad and I caught the bus home around 4pm, meeting up with Mum in Saintfield to head back out (again) to Nicks Warehouse restaurant in the Cathedral quarter of Belfast to celebrate Dad's birthday.

More liquid refreshments were in order but it was the food that stole the show - wonderful starters with warmed pitta bread and a trio of exquisitely zingy olive, garlic and humus dips followed by the most exquisitely tender steak, garlic-roasted chips, rocket and peppercorn sauce.

The history of the restaurant was fascinating too.

Neglected until 1989 as a red-bricked eye-sore and pigeon loft, crafty Nick spotted a business opportunity, capitalised on its good location and transformed it from derelict relic to delightful restaurant, preserving many of the old interior structures and large windows with dim-lighting - perfect for an elegant dining experience or special occasion.

After dining at Nicks, we headed home. Hit the sack about midnight.

Christmas 2011 - Northern Ireland

2011-12-09T17:37:00.010Z

I kept a diary of my trip to Belfast to see Mum and Dad. Here's my notes.

Day 1 - Arrival

The flight from Luton was easy and on time.

I caught the Translink 300 shuttle bus from Belfast international airport, arriving at a frigid Great Victoria street station about 40 minutes later.

It was around 5pm now and Belfast was looking brill. They'd done a great job with Royal Avenue, with new street furniture, street art, extended shop frontages and trees decorated to the nines in Christmas glitterati, all lined up majestically before a golden-lit City Hall.

A sense of pride tingled inside as my home city turned on the style, with the Waterfront and Odyssey Arena areas looking just as impressive.

Dad was looking lost as I met him in the station and we headed swiftly for Morrisons pub to grab a winter-warming pint, me foolishly walking gloveless to the watering hole. It was freezing.

Morrisons turned up few surprises.

The dimensions hadn't changed a bit since I'd last been there. Sure, the seating layout was different and they'd got rid of the Crown-esque booths (note to Belfast City Council - can you regulate your pubs properly please! Stop landlords removing the pub booths that give our traditional pubs their character), but you could now pull your own pint at your table! (pictured, right)

I was surprised to see so many continental European beers on tap. Only Harp, Guinness and Smithwicks were on offer - no Bass, Belfast Ale, Caffreys or other such like tipples to greet Irish economic migrants like myself.

After a swift dinner at home, we went to the Errigle Inn for the pub quiz. Under the name 'Saintwick', we lasted only five rounds as it didn't start till 10.30pm and we were knackered.

Headed home. Sang Dad happy birthday at around 12.10am (it was now 6 December) and hit the sack.

Santa comes to town...on 3 December

2011-12-03T23:19:00.008Z

Quick update on things.

Got the Christmas tree up today, a tad early but I'm off to Belfast next week to see Mum and Dad - and anyway, it's the first weekend in December so it's just about justifiable right?

We took the boys (pictured - breakfast this morning) to the Christmas Fayre at Ben's school today, and had a little surprise in store when we arrived. The sports hall was packed, with volunteer parents and teachers sat behind tables with bored faces selling all sorts, from sweets, smellies, cuddly toys and Chrismas garlands, with parents and kiddies bustling around trying to get a look at everything.

We jostled our way to the exit to Ben's classroom where a large notice advised parents that 'Santas Grotto' was just down the corridor. What a nice little surprise. The boys would love this - they hadn't seen the old man before in the flesh.

So we queued up for what seemed an age.

Ciaran was getting very impatient, not least as he had another rotten cold, and I wondered how he'd react when he saw Santa (he was too young to understand the whole mularky properly last year). I feared he'd be one of those kids who'd scream when he saw the big white beard.

He was a little frightened at first, but then settled into Santas calm conversation and reassuring Q&A session. Santa left the boys with the thought that his reindeer do need feeding y'know and if it wouldn't be too much for an old man to ask, could they please have a word with their parents to ensure there was some food and drink available on Christmas Eve for his reindeer and, not least, him. The fat man needs to go on a diet if you ask me. Blueberries and greek yoghurt it will be.

Santa then handed the boys two presents from his sack - and the boys opened them as soon as we left the Grotto. No waiting until Christmas day for these two!

Rugby World Cup - Rules for the Wife

2011-09-11T12:08:00.008+01:00

To my dearest darling,

The List of Rugby World Cup Rules and Regulations (to be obeyed at all times):

1. From 9 Sep to 23 October 2011, you should read the sports section of the newspaper so that you are aware of what is going on regarding the World Cup, and that way you will be able to join in the conversations. If you fail to do this, then you will be looked at in a bad way, or you will be totally ignored. DO NOT complain about not receiving any attention.

2. During the World Cup, the television is mine, the VCR and DVD are all mine, at all times, without any exceptions. If you even take a glimpse of the remote control, you will lose it (your eye).

3. If you have to pass by in front of the TV during a game, I don't mind, as long as you do it crawling on the floor and without distracting me. If you decide to stand nude in front of the TV, make sure you put clothes on right after because if you catch a cold, I won't have time to take you to the doctor or look after you during the World Cup month.

4. During the games I will be blind, deaf and mute, unless I require a refill of my drink or something to eat. You are out of your mind if you expect me to listen to you, open the door, answer the telephone, or pick up the baby that just fell from the second floor....it won't happen.

5. It would be a good idea for you to keep at least 2 six packs in the fridge at all times, as well as plenty of things to nibble on, and please do not make any funny faces to my friends when they come over to watch the games.

In return, you will be allowed to use the TV between 12pm and 3pm, unless they replay a good game that I missed during the day.

6. Please, please, please!! If you see me upset because my team is losing, DO NOT say "get over it, it's only a game", or "don't worry, they'll win next time". If you say these things, you will only make me angrier and I will love you less. Remember, you will never ever know more about rugby than me and your so called "words of encouragement" will only lead to a break up or divorce.

7. You are welcome to sit with me to watch one game and you can talk to me during halftime but only when the commercials are on, and only if the halftime score is pleasing me. In addition, please note I am saying "one" game, hence do not use the World Cup as a nice cheesy excuse to "spend time together".

8. The replays of the tries are very important. I don't care if I have seen them or I haven't seen them, I want to see them again. Many times, and record them.

9. Tell your friends NOT to have any babies, or any other child related parties or gatherings that requires my attendance because:

a) I will not go,

b) I will not go, and

c) I will not go.

10. But, if a friend of mine invites us to his house on a Sunday to watch a game, we will be there in a flash.

11. The daily World Cup highlights show on TV every night is just as important as the games themselves. Do not even think about saying "but you have already seen this...why don't you change the channel to something we can all watch??", the reply will be: "Refer to Rule #2 of this list".

12. And finally, please save your expressions such as "Thank goodness the World Cup is only every 4 years".

I am immune to these words, because after this comes the 20 Twenty World Cup, etc etc.

Thank you for your cooperation,

Your loving and handsome man

Ciaranglish

2011-08-07T14:10:00.010+01:00

Is that an oxymoron or what.

Yes indeed, little paddy boy Ciaran is speaking English. Well, a smattering. I thought I'd put a post on here about his progress as I did for Ben when he was roughly the same age. Here are some of Ciaran's highlights:

Mommus - kids favourite train, Thomas the Tank Engine
Puter Mommus - translates to computer Thomas (he loves watching it on my ipad)
Men - Ben (it was previously Bez. Progress of sorts I guess)
Nana - banana (not a million miles away to be fair)
Bappo - apple
Bugfist - breakfast
Deady - teddy
Bips - chips
Ix - six
Ninny ows - Ellen's Mums house
Onion - orange

'Sue Chef' steals the show at Jamie's Italian

2011-07-24T23:11:00.030+01:00

Just back from Mum's 60th birthday bash in Bath.

I'd set off yesterday at about 10.30am with a route carefully plotted to avoid the motorways and the inevitable summer holiday crush heading to the South West.

The journey took a modest three-and-a-half hours including two stops for a gentleman's toilet break and light refreshments break, and which also included some glorious Wilts/Gloucs scenery and towns along the way - the stand-outs were Tetbury and Cirencester.

Our booking at Jamie's Italian at 8pm was looming large.

The majority had gathered at the Riverside Cafe by Bath's Pulteney bridge when I arrived at around 2pm. My great Auntie Susie (aged 80) had been up at 4am to catch a flight from Newcastle and was there along with Mum, Dad, Jim, Karen, Steve, Kate, Simon, Abbey, Murray and Jane.

It was a cosy little cafe - nah, it was a shoebox - and we all squeezed around two tables like a throng of French Troglodytes for a casual catch-up, gift handover session and intake of caffeine. Mum gulped down two coffees - she was certainly getting in the drinking spirit already!

After a quick R&R at our farmhouse B&B on the outskirts of Bath, we were soon taxiing back to Bath to return to the finely-tuned birthday schedule.

Next on the agenda was a meet-and-greet for all at Brown's Brasserie at 7pm.

Tables were in generous supply but despite this, the majority (including me) were content to stand and sip. Lizzy, Davey, Beccy and Jess joined us and Davey's football trivia had us stumped for ages, namely, 'Name the three Irish players who've captained their teams to the Premier League and Division One title'. We got two pretty quickly, but can you get the last one!

We drank up by 7.45pm and swaggered and staggered to varying degrees over to Jamie's.

With a party of some 20 or so, we were seated around the biggest table in the restaurant right beside the hot drinks and beverages bay - how did that pass 'Elf and Safety'? - and I gave Dad a hand getting the table set up. Margaret and Simon joined us too.

Dad had gone to some effort organising everything.

Leaving few stones unturned in his prep, he'd hand-crafted green and red felt 'Happy Birthday Sue' hats for everyone and a white felt 'Sue Chef' chef's toque for Mum, as well as personally-engraved 'Welsh love spoons' - aka wooden cooking spoons with graffiti - for everyone. And finally, there were party poppers, a 'Happy Birthday' banner and baby trumpets too.

Mum's cake was a spectacle. The waiters carried it over carefully in its white cardboard box and as they steered behind Mum's head, they dropped it. Yep. It fell on the floor. Dad's jaw dropped.

The box was empty, but that didn't stop Dad for falling for it!

When the cake did finally arrive it was, indeed, a spectacle. Themed carefully around Mum's passion for cooking, the cake had been decorated liberally with a trinity of edible versions of her favourite culinary hardbacks. Rick Stein, the Barefoot Contessa and Jamie himself all featured with no room left for Mum's many other inspirations.

And for a final flourish, numerous Irish stew ingredients had been delicately inserted around cake perimeter - ahem...British stew.

Before and after the cake arrived, we added backing vocals to Dad's lead on some carefully selected songs - some highly personal, others highly controversial but all enjoyable. Dad then circulated a nice photo album he'd compiled in the truest 'This is Your Life' sense charting Mum's journey from naughty baby to even naughtier Mum to proud Grandmum - or 'Ninny' to apply her proper title.

All-in-all, it was a wonderful night and I turned in at around 1.30am.

It was great to catch up with family and friends and thanks go especially to Dad for all the effort he put into making it such a special and personal occasion. I know Mum appreciated - we all did.

Ben's Birthday Blow-Out

2011-07-10T10:21:00.007+01:00

Ellen had ambitious plans for Ben's birthday party this year.

Fed up with other snobby Mums at the Nursery booking out large Village Halls and entertainers to celebrate their little ones' birthdays, she decided to do the same and booked out Parkside Village Hall in Ampthill for the afternoon.

Pencilled in for 1.30-3.30pm on Saturday afternoon, we sent out invitations to Ben's friends at nursery based on a list of his best mates as recommended by his nursery carer 'Mr Tom'. The guest list had about 12 names on it and we had confirmation that 8 kids plus parents would be attending.

When the big day arrived, we were up at working day time and in full swing with the preparations.

We downloaded music for the pass-the-parcel event on an iPod, enveloped the parcel with layer after layer of wrapping paper, made dips, salads and other nibbles too. After loading the car full of food, drink, plates, cups, napkins, balloons, banners, cleaning materials, i-pod, sound system, camera...let me just catch my breath....ah, that's better....we were ready to go.

Weather fine, sunny and a hint of warmth, we pulled up at the Village Hall.

It was an unimpressive relic from the 1970/80s with interior to match. The toilets and other areas took me back to primary school! However, it was more than spacious enough inside and we had all we needed facilities-wise.

Before long the kids and parents started filtering through the front entrance and generally looked lost until they were greeted. And before not much longer, all had arrived and were mixing and mingling with drinks and nibbles with kids playing together nicely.

I kicked off proceedings in the main hall with a game of pass-the-parcel.

Playing a selection of songs ranging from 'I Am The Music Man' to 'The Birdie Song', I tried to keep a beady eye on which kids had won each round to avoid the unhappy scenario of empty-handed kids crying their heads off, or worse, brawling with each other over the presents.

It all passed calmly and enjoyably and, no, we hadn't fixed it so Ben would win. The prize - a stylish stair 'slinky' that Ellen picked up from Wilkinson's - was scooped by blond-haired Jake.

We then laid out the food and drink on a large table by the main hall while the entertainer took over with the kids and earned his £60. That he did, loudly and actively, and the kids were enthralled with his range of activities, including penalty shoot out, obstacle course, throw-the-sticky ball-at-the-giant-dartboard, space hoppers for all and more.

He stayed for an hour and we unveiled the birthday cake to a hungry crowd shortly after.

It was a delicious brown chocolate sponge and cream cake iced ornately with the features of a monkey (how appropriate) and surrounded meticulously by a range of jelly sweets and sweetie bananas.

Ben didn't hang around when the cake arrived with candles on top. He inhaled so deeply he almost fell off his chair before blowing out the candles in one big puff. Then we did what all adults do at that stage - snatched the cake off the kids and went to carve it up.

Gill and Barry sprinted back to the kitchen like a pack of hungry wolves and had it sliced up in no time and we all tucked in and had a general chat about kids, careers, the weather - you know, the usual topics.

Before we knew it, it was 3.30pm and time to say goodbye to Ben's chums.

The time had whizzed by and we gave Ben his party bags to hand out to each of his mates as they left - not least, his 'wife' Gracie who'd turned out for her celebrating husband in a striking red polka dot dress. Ben kissed his other half goodbye and the hall fell quiet again.

Poor little Ben was upset it was over. A quick hug later and he was okay again.

We were really glad Ben had enjoyed his little birthday party. Ciaran had too in his quiet little way, but Ellen and I just had to glance into each other eyes to know we felt the same way - let's chill out now!

A back garden party next year methinks.

Getting On Our Bikes

2011-05-10T16:04:00.014+01:00

I’ve been doing a lot of cycling recently.

I bought a cycle carrier from Halfords for £60 which has proved a great investment. Easy to set up and dismantle and for the price of a decent meal for two, it gives you the freedom to take up to three bikes wherever you want.

The family have also got into the cycling routine as well. Ellen's bought herself a bike after a decade - maybe more - of never owning a bike, and I bought Ben a little blue 'Ben 10' bike from Toys R Us last month too. And, I have to mention, the best buy of the lot - a cycle buggy for the kids too!

They absolutely love it, with their little windows, pockets for drink cups and front door if it gets too windy for them. it's like a little tent on wheels for them.

Our favourite family cycle spot is the scenic Forest of Marston Vale (pictured above), which has been designed for walkers and cyclists with a light trail track that circumnavigates Stewartby lake for a not-so-challenging distance of 5 miles. It has two routes and passes a number of wetlands and wildlife spots along the way too.

As well as for leisure, I've been commuting to work on bike recently as well.

Getting sick of the mountain bike tyre treads slowing me down on tarmac - I peak at around 30mph - I bought a £500 'hybrid' commuter bike to get me up to around 40mph-plus on tarmac with semi-slick tyres and a sturdy mountain bike style frame.

I opted for a Specialized bike, made in the USA and one of the top 3 brands I'm told along with Giant and Trek. I initially fancied a Marin, but the sales assistant talked me round. It comes with hydraulic brakes (more responsive than cable), 24 shift-lever gears and lockable front-fork so I can turn on the suspension for off-road riding and lock it to retain the rigidity of a road bike when I’m on-road again.

Now, to get Ben cycling! I'll have him cycling in no time.

Three Chilli Heads and a Lady

2011-01-23T15:15:00.019Z

Long time, no post.

I may even have set a record for the most neglected blog in the blogosphere in the last 6 months.

Christmas was a wash out for me, unfortunately, with swine flu laying me low and it taking a good 2 weeks to get back to full strength again. Kids got loads of presents, and I'll do a separate, belated post on this to catch up on our Christmas.

We had the neighbours over for a New Years Eve meal and drink, and Ellen/I have both been busy at work since the New Year.

Coming back to the present, we took the kids out for meal in Chiquitos in Milton Keynes yesterday, a Mexican restaurant that's hidden away behind a throng of trees(yes, MK does have trees. It has parks too.) on a main road on the outskirts of MK.

We'd driven past it many times as we departed MK for home and I'd sworn many times that we should go there. Well, yesterday, we did.

It's a chain restaurant and being a lover of hot Southern US/Mexican food, I was really looking forward to giving it a go. I also had two little chilli-heads for kids and, knowing how much they devour burritos and fajitas at home, I knew they should have a tasty time too.

As we approached its tidy little entrance, Ciaran was in full tantrum mode. He wasn't letting Daddy carry him, and I had to let him amble towards the door and let himself in, with a little help of Daddy of course pulling the door open for him.

Greeted by a friendly waiter with a strong Dutch accent, we were schoon scheated at our mesa and pouring over the menu. First impression - well themed, lots to choose from, not cheap.

I ordered the sizzling combo fajitas with chicken and steak, Ellen opted for chimichangas and Ben/Ciaran wanted barbeque chicken fajitas and fish fingers chips and beans respectively.

When the food came along, one thing was very obvious very soon. The portions were generous, very generous. And we were seriously running out of space on our table to put everything. My meat came served on a steaming hot skillet, with roasted onions and pepper, and five flour tortillas in tow in a warm lidded bowl, with a small army of guacamole, soured cream, salsa and salad bringing up the rear.

Ben had three tortillas and put them away in no time, with Ben choosing what he wanted in each fajita and how much. He lapped up the bbq chicken sauce. Ciaran finished most of his, and both had chocolate brownies for pudding, although Ben, bizzarely, asked for his dessert without ice cream.

When they'd finished, their faces were covered in dark brown mess, and Ciaran actually resembled one of the Mexican men in a photo by our table, such was the pattern of chocolate sauce on his face looking frighteningly like a moustache.

We all loved it and, I have to say, this was probably the best Mexican food I've ever had - and it was a chain restaurant!

Day 5 - Mummy suffering / Hutton-le-Hole

2010-09-24T19:04:00.021+01:00

Woke up early today, around 6.30am, thanks to a noisy seagull and gale-force winds blowing against the caravan. Weather windy and rainy.

Ellen and kids got up at around 7.30am, with Ellen looking decidely hungover. This was soon confirmed and she went back to bed with a glass of water and some painkillers while I got the kids dressed and fed.

At about 9.45am Ellen finally rose, and after a light breakfast, we all headed on another day's adventure.

Today, we wanted to revisit Cropton, where we'd stayed for an easter holiday in 2004, as well as the nearby village of Hutton-le-Hole.

No sooner had we left Filey along the A170 when the sky brightened gradually before opening up into a lovely blue sky. The forecast was rain, yet were being treated to beautiful sunshine. We couldn’t believe our luck. And the sunshine lasted all day.

We arrived in Cropton around 11.30pm and passed the farmhouse where we’d stayed as well as the New Inn pub where we’d sunk a few local ales.

We passed through the stunning – and I don’t use that word lightly – little village of Lastington before arriving in Hutton-le-Hole around 12pm (pictured above and right).

We went straight to the Crown Pub for some lunch.

The Crown is located just off the village high street, overlooking a sleepy village with a little river-cum-stream trickling by. Here, all public land is open access, including highways, and white and black sheep enjoy equal access rights to road and land alongside their human superiors.

The Pub grub was not so much good as great. I got my first taste of fresh Whitby fish with thick-cut, homemade chips, although I was still looking forward to trying the freshly caught equivalents in Whitby proper before the holiday was out. Ellen opted for scampi and the boys both had Yorkshire pudding.

When we'd finished, we walked down to the river-cum-stream in the village and Ellen challenged me to cross the river on the slippery stones.

It wasn't deep and about 12 foot across. I got across and then leapt back across it triumphantly, almost breaking my wrists on landing.

Thanks to my experience, I've now got a simple formula for jumping rivers - always take the distance you think you can jump, divide it by 2, and that equals the actual distance you'll jump. It's all in the leap, not the run-up

After a brief walk up on the Moors (pictured above), we headed back to the car and went home for the remainder of the day.

It had been another day well spent and travelling through more sleepy Yorkshire villages, catching more magnificent views along the way. The kids enjoyed themselves too, walking around Hutton-le-Hole in particular, and they were tired by the time we got home. We put them both to bed early.

Ellen watched some telly while I edited my diary notes and tasted some more real ales (pictured right) before turning in for the night.

Day 4 – Paradise / Hail to the Real Ale

2010-09-18T15:49:00.014+01:00

I woke up around 6.50am, more like normal time, and brought Ellen some breakfast and tea in bed.

After a quick cooked breakfast for all, we set out to complete our postponed journey from the day before to the North Yorks Moors.

We headed north along an A-road through Scarborough, flirted briefly with a B-road before leaping ridiculously high onto a precarious but breathtaking unclassified road that took us up and down through the stunning Esk Dale.

This road was mostly single-track with occasional passing points, snaking through the Dale across old stone bridges, working farms, little fords and past a windswept, barren Moorland peppered with purple heather.

We arrived at Goathland around 11am to begin our journey.

I made the naive mistake of stopping at the first car park I saw, paying £2.20 for the privilege. If I’d just waited a little longer, or thought this is Goathland not central London, there was ample free parking on the grassy roadside (pictured, below, right).

The weather was fantastic. Sunny and blue, clear skies.

We were looking for signposting to the Mallyan Spout waterfall, a sixty foot waterfall and the tallest in the Moors.

I’d banned Ellen from using GIS coordinates on her i-phone, as part of the fun of exploring for me is the navigation and if that means getting lost, so be it. And before we knew it, we were lost. I suggested that we go for a ramble on a nearby upland instead (pictured, below right).

I was amazed to read that Britain is home to around 75% of the world’s Moorland, and as we climbed about 150 ft up and were rewarded by some stunning panoramas, stretching miles. We clambered back down again and had some lunch (pack lunch again) on a bench by the roadside just outside Goathland.

After lunch, we found a narrow path leading down to Mallyan Spout, concealed by overgrown bushes beside the Mallyan Spout Hotel car park.

We decided to see how far we could get down with Ciaran in pushshair and Ben. Sound mad?

The path was a heavily nettled, holly and fern-lined stone trail. Several passers-by commented on our ‘bravery’ and we smiled pleasantly but ignored their hidden message – translation – “You’re mad doing that with a pushchair”.

A “rather you than me” comment soon followed and again, this comment was discarded as we made swift progress down the hill and down dozens of steps. About ten minutes later, there was still no sign of the waterfall and Ellen suggested we take Ciaran no further. I reluctantly agreed.

Ellen and Ciaran waited why the “big boys” made the rest of the journey to the foot of the hill and the rocky spring (pictured, below right).

When we got there, it was worth the effort.

I did a little rock-climbing with Ben and he then threw some (lots) of stones in. We didn’t quite make it to the waterfall though as Ben was knackered and I decided to take him back up again.

I had to carry him most of the way back up to his Mummy, and then push the plump Ciaran and pushchair back up to the summit over dozens more steps. Predictably, we were experiencing regular bouts of exhaustion when we reached the summit, as we knew we would, but it was a small price to pay for the experience.

We grabbed some much-needed sustenance from the Mallyan Spout Hotel, situated adjacent to the trail entrance.

It was an impressive place. A four-and-a-half star hotel perched on top of the Moor overlooking a valley and set up primarily for wedding receptions as far as I could see. I ordered a pint of Black Sheep from the bar, still catching my breath, and it tasted great. So much better than the bottled stuff – fresh from the cask.

We sat outside in a windy beer garden to make the most of the view, and it suddenly occurred to me, as we munched on our grub, that the caravan was pint glassless.

I’d gone three days tasting local real ales out of a 100ml glass and kept forgetting to pick one up, and it was driving me barmy. So, I hatched a plan to acquire this one.

Several friends and acquaintances of mine had recently acquired possessions from pubs and restaurants in my company, including one distinctly-shaped Peroni pint glass, salt & pepper cellars and linen napkins from Jamie Oliver’s restaurant in Bath.

Now it was my turn.

And this wasn’t just any pint glass. It was a Black Sheep pint glass with distinctive livery – my favourite ale.

I hatched a plan.

When we all finished up, Ellen was to have a fake race to the hotel garden gate with Ben, while I put Ciaran’s stuff away in his nappy bag before quickly catching them up as a fellow competitor in this phony race.

Ellen ran, I slipped the pint glass into Ciaran’s bag and ran.

I lost the race. But I had the pint glass.

I then started getting paranoia attacks all the way back to the car park – a 1 mile walk away on the main road (pictured right) – that the landlady who served would notice the pint glass was missing and come in pursuit, easily spotting us on the pavement with our ridiculously-red pushchair screaming “We’re over here”.

Every car that went by caused me grave concern, and I’d even drafted an excuse in my head. I worry too much.

She didn’t come in pursuit and I’d got away with it. I was now on a par with all my wayward friends acquaintances who had acquired possessions not of their own, just for the hell of it.

I (finally) let Ellen do some driving on the holiday, and she drove us home via Robin Hood’s Bay.

What a day.

Easily my nicest trip in the UK – stunning Moor land, wonderful pint of the freshest real ale, and if Yorkshire could bottle its beauty and sell it – well, you finish that sentence.

Day 3 – Boring caravan site day / Tantrums galore

2010-09-18T09:17:00.014+01:00

Kids woke up around 8.20am, so we all got a relative lie-in.

Good job as it had been a late night the night before, and I'd had a back-aching night's sleep on those tiny, ¾ lilo-size beds.

We said our goodbyes to Sally before I tiredly plotted a plan for the day’s activities over a mug of coffee.

Top of my list was a trip on the North Yorkshire Moors Railway line (pictured above), a heritage steam-locomotive line 18 miles long that runs between Pickering and Whitby via the stunning North Yorks Moors.

Many of the stations have been restored to early 20th century condition thanks to lottery funding, and I thought the kids would like it too.

We planned to alight at Goathland station (pictured below) - better known to fans of the Harry Potter films as Hogsmeade, and also the former terminus for the line - before taking the train through the Moors and down into beautiful Whitby for lunch on the harbourside. I wasn't going home until I'd seen what all the fuss was about Whitby fish and chips.

We’d travelled about 25 miles and were passing through the old market town of Pickering when we both agreed we didn’t have the energy to carry the day plan out. The trip was postponed for a day on the caravan site.

We took the kids on a whistle-stop tour.

The first stop was the kiddies outdoor play area near the entertainment complex. It was a wild assortment of slides, swings, climbing frames and other kiddie play accessories, and Ben loved it. Too much.

We spent a good 20 minutes there and when it was time to move on, Ben went into full tantrum mode. I had to carry him chest-high away. I kept telling him that there were plenty of other things to do on the caravan park and we going on an adventure to find them. He wasn’t having it.

A brisk walk away was the carousel wheel, and we plonked Ben reluctantly in a Cinderella-style carriage. He was still crying, crimson-faced and angry. Very angry.

He was the only kid on the carousel, and we waved and smiled with each revolution as the irate Ben went by. He looked tortured.

Still crying, we took the raging Ben further round the park before finally stopping off at the cliffs at the top of the Park, overlooking the sea.

By this stage, Ben’s cries were reducing to a repetitive sob, but he was still huffing with Mummy and Daddy. We sat on the grass and Ben wouldn’t join us, standing on the same spot 30 feet away refusing to move of it for about 5 minutes.

The time was around 6.30pm and we'd been spoit for weather again - sunny and bright. Ciaran was getting tired and we decided to head back to the caravan after a bog-standard day on site with nothing spectacular to note apart from Ben had fun at the beginning, Ciaran seemed chilled out throughout and we saw lots of site facilities.

Ellen put Ciaran to bed and fell asleep too, while I watched Transformers the movie with Ben. He couldn't work out who the Autobots were and soon fell asleep on my lap.

Now, what would I do for a good night's sleep?

Day 2 - Scarborough's Fair

2010-09-10T19:08:00.009+01:00

Ben was first up today, waking us up around 7.15am.

Not long later, the kiddies were marching around the kitchen like starved farm animals until breakfast was served.

It was nothing grand. We’d brought one of those Kelloggs variety packs that normally lasts an average bloke a day but is perfect for the kids, and Ben chose the most chocolaty one he could find. In fact, the boxes disappeared over the course of the week in descending order of chocolatiness.

We were expecting visitors today and early – around 9am – in the shape of Ellen’s sister Sally.

Sally lives in nearby York and we all headed into Scarborough for a bit of sightseeing, but more importantly, to buy a pushchair for Ciaran as we’d left our pushchair in the boot of Ellen’s car 200 miles away.

We picked one up in the Brunswick shopping centre and decided to walk down the beach, no mean feat as Scarborough is 230 feet above sea level. We wandered down a meandering cliff pathway onto an esplanade and along the seafront.

The place looked impeccable. Victorian buildings everywhere, colourful flower gardens, rockeries, and very clean. I’d read that Scarborough was one of Yorkshire’s ‘Renaissance Towns’ and had received a lump sum of Government regeneration funding. It had certainly been put to good use.

Scarborough harbour stretches round in a giant horseshoe shape from the old Town Hall to Scarborough Castle and it wasn’t long before we gave in, totally unplanned, to the delights of the beach.

Ben was stripped of shoes and socks in no time, positively kicking off each sock, and sprinted down to the sea with Mummy barely keeping up. I stayed on the beach with Sally and Ciaran. If I’d brought my trunks, I’d be in the sea too.

And not to disappoint, Ben soon tore of his shirt - his last item of clothing - and was swimming naked, before returning to the beach to make weird shapes in the sand in what can only be described as odd ‘snow-angel’ motions. This was quickly followed by naked snake movements. He was covered in sand.

Ciaran kept munching on sand and insisted on running over to the donkeys. There was definitely an attraction building there.

We stayed on the beach until about 1.30pm before heading off to get some lunch.

We chose the Lifeboat Café, next to the beach, as it looked like a fish and chips hotspot. The food didn’t disappoint and we left well-fed and walked right round the harbour to the foothills of Scarborough Castle before deciding Ciaran was freezing and needed to go back.

Ben had also developed a major tantrum at this stage - the first of many on the holiday.

He's at that stage where if he sees something, he has to have it. There's no areas of mutual understanding, no questions asked or middle ground. It's like negotiating with a terrorist.

This time, we'd passed (another) ice-cream parlour and he'd already lost about five previous battles on the way here, passing numerous amusement rides, arcades, a kiddies fun-land centre and, yep, more ice cream parlours. We had to get him one, and we did. A 99 cone with flake.

His face was soon plastered in ice-cream but at least there was a smile there...I think...behind all the ice cream it was hard to tell.

We all caught the bus back and then the tram back up the 230ft cliff to Scarborough town centre, before returning to the car for the 7-mile trip back to Filey.

Sally sagely observed on the journey home that there was an indecently high proportion of bald men (not balding, bald) in Scarborough and in ‘The North’ generally. She speculated that this was most likely due genetic deficiencies oop Nooorth and before we knew it, we were back in the caravan site.

Dinner was had in the caravan site restaurant. Decent prices, great choice, ok food –what food I could get my hands on that is – I offered Ben a bite of my burger and the little beggar nicked my breast of southern fried chicken.

Kids were in bed relatively late again, and we all had a few beers and a thorough chat before turning in for the night.

Day 1 – Decent site / living with Channel Five / where’s the real ale?

2010-09-10T15:29:00.013+01:00

We set off from Bedfordshire as the clock not so much struck 10.05am, but yelled 10.05am.

We were running behind schedule already. Waking up around 7.30am, it took ages getting the final packing, checks and everything else done before we could get streetside.

Ellen offered to do half the driving but I declined – I worry about her driving sometimes – and took the wheel to begin our 200-mile journey north to our Dolphin Park caravan site on the clifftops of Filey, North Yorkshire.

The kids were asleep in no time and the traffic was unexpectedly heavy at times, but we still made good time and stopped off at Donington Services at around 12.30am for a bite to eat (homemade pack lunches for all) and stretch of the legs. The weather was sunny and quite warm, with a wasp or three buzzing around our grub.

A quick flick of the ignition keys and air-con later, we were back on the motorway and not long later (around 3.20pm) we arrived at the caravan site against a backdrop of cloudless, blue sky, farmland and blue sea. Postcard stuff.

Ellen got us checked in while I amused/fed/watered/occupied two dazed-looking boys.

The site reception area was busy, with kids and parents everywhere, ice cream vans nearby, and my first impression was that of pleasant satisfaction, as I had heard some mixed reviews about the site.

With caravan keys tucked neatly in envelope, we headed with site map on lap to find our plot in the “Hilltop” area of the site. We eventually found it after getting badly lost, embarrassingly lost actually as, at one stage, we walked up the steps of someone else’s caravan with our bags before being told they were sleeping there that night – a mixture of Ellen’s poor map-reading, me trusting her to map read and Haven Holidays’ crap signposting to the “Hilltop” area.

We’d booked a “prestige” caravan (the 2nd best in the pecking order apparently) back in January for a ridiculously low amount on special offer. I was pleased with out site location - ie. near enough to the entertainment complex without being so close that the drum ‘n’ bass keeps you awake at night – the views were spectacular with panaromic vistas of the Filey countryside and North Sea coastline stretching many miles to Scarborough/Bridlington and beyond.

The caravan looked decent enough on the exterior too. Modern green/white livery and modestly creosoted but generously sized boardwalk veranda with seating supplied.

How would the interior fare?

Upon entry, all my visual senses were pleased. Clean, modern and neat. It was the smell that did for me, and later Ellen. Stale cigarette smoke or damp. I couldn’t decide which.

I quickly reassured Ellen that not everything in the countryside smells nice, as she should know, being born and bred in rural Bedfordshire where “Caution – Tractor Traffic” road signs are not uncommon sites on arterial routes.

One downer was the TV choice. It was pants. They hadn’t even given us a Freeview box, the stingy gits.

We’d stayed in a Haven site last year in Hastings, Sussex, in a caravan inferior to our current one, yet the Hastings franchise had provided each caravan with a Freeview box as standard. Come on Haven, Filey. They don’t cost that much!

We had to quickly adjust to our pre-BskyB, pre-cable parallel universe, as with two young kids, we’d be spending most evenings in the caravan and some decent telly wouldn’t go amiss.

The site also had a little Spar and I ventured down for some essentials, with the main shop to take place tomorrow in Scarborough. I picked up all we needed but would you believe it, in Yorkshire of all places, they didn’t stock any real ales. We were 10 miles from the North York Moors, in black sheep country, and there wasn’t a drop of Black Sheep Ale in sight.

So, I ventured into Scarborough at about 8pm as I wanted some real ales to toast our first night!

I settled on some Yorkshire Square Ale, Black Sheep, Lancashire Old Leg Over and York Breweries’ Ghost Centurion.

We sat down and supped a few beers and ales before turning in for the night.

Filey, North Yorkshire - September 2010

2010-09-10T14:46:00.007+01:00

It’s true. I have been less than faithful to my blog recently.

I have been steadily avoiding double-clicking on my login field every time I’ve logged onto the laptop since May, not even throwing it so much as a morsel of my attention or devoting so much as a millisecond of my time.

However, far from going our separate ways, I have returned to spend some quality time in its company, to show it that I still really do care and to post my diary notes from our belated summer, or more accurately early Autumn, holiday in North Yorkshire.

So here I go.

My holiday notes will follow in full, in all their naked glory. And there was plenty of nakedness. Enjoy.

(Pictured above - Ciaran on Scarborough Beach - aged 1 year four months)

Never trust the Welsh with your finances

2010-08-31T21:08:00.010+01:00

Stephen and Kate visited this weekend.

Ben, especially, had been very excited about their visit and kept asking all day when they would be arriving. Arriving they did, around 6pm, and Ben rushed to the door to welcome them in.

After a few teas/coffees and a curry, we settled in for a quiet night in front of the telly and a sociable few drinks.

Our conversation increasingly turned to an informed discussion-cum-debate on the criminal justice system, the practicalities of our transport system and much more, and although it could have continued much longer, I decided to turn in at midnight to save myself for our pub night out on Sunday night (it was a bank holiday weekend).

The next morning we awoke at around 7.20am thanks to Ben, and after a small breakfast, went to Milton Keynes for a walk around the Peace Pagoda park. The weather wasn't great and we took the football and frisbee with us to play with the kids/us.

Escaping the rain, we went to The Barn restaurant nearby for some lunch and then back home, before a pub night out at The Swan.

Monday was spent recuperating and playing a good 'ol family classic board game - Monopoly.

We were playing the relatively-new credit card edition (there are so many editions launched these days - even world cup editions) - no cash - and while property prices had increased just a bit, the game had been given a much-needed make over.

I hadn't played it for years and after blowing the dust of, we agreed on a time-limited competition to tie-in with lunch. By the end of the game, the two welsh novices were nowhere, not a monopoly between them, and I had amassed an unenviable wealth at their expense.

Stephen was sure he'd come second, but upon calculation, he edged out Kate, who got the wooden spoon.

It was a nice weekend. The weather had been crap, which is a shame as I wanted to take them to the Dunstable Downs for a nice hill walk.

Maybe next time.

Anniversary in the Docklands

2010-08-09T22:00:00.009+01:00

Have you ever got that feeling that your wedding anniversary celebrations are becoming a bit samey?

As our seven wedding anniversary approached, I felt our events to note this celebral event had become a bit repetitive of late, more unspectacular than spectacular, or more accurately, an evening spent in an Italian restaurant.

The last four had been spent in Mamma Mia's Bedford and Bella Pasta in Milton Keynes in equal portions, and although the food and ambience had always been good, I just wanted to do something different this year.

And, anyway, surely the missus was worth a bit more than 2 hours labour?

So, I reconciled myself on doing something different and told her I was taking her to London - I wasn't sure where - but London.

We looked at various options two weeks before, eyeing up a low cost, high value last minute deal.

We narrowed it down to two, but Ellen was keen on the 4 star 'secret' hotel destination with a pool, jacuzzi, sauna, gym, in central London on the banks of the Thames. I gave in.

Yes, it was a risk, as we didn't have a clue where it was, and would only find out where when we paid. But Ellen had her heart set on the river-side location and 4-star status.

So we booked it.

The booking confirmation hit our inbox in minutes. Where would our mystery hotel be?

It was The London Hilton, Docklands, on Rotherhithe Street.

I was getting increasingly miffed by the second. The Docklands is not, in my book anyway, central London. Anyway, the Docklands, I thought, was a dive (Ulster slang - look it up).

After some research, I noted that it was well served by various transport modes that could get us into central London - that is central London - in about 30 minutes, via either the Thames Clipper riverboat service or a courtesy minibus service every 15 minutes to Canada Water tube station.

We set off from home early on Friday morning by train and after various connections, we arrived at The Hilton via the Thames Clipper riverboat.

Although, our room was tiny, we were pleasantly surprised by free buffet breakfast that we thought we have to pay £10 a head for and by the Rotherhithe area - clearly, a lot of property developers got rich very quick during the 90s/00s.

We went straight to the Canary Wharf estate for lunch, via the famous Cabot Square (pictured at top of article) and onto to so-called 'Reuters Square', a bankers paradise with huge plasma screens and digital tickertapes flashing the latest stock values to the munching masses on their lunch breaks.

It was breathtaking.

How many office workers have two shopping malls on their doorsteps? Or a grand plaza? Or all sorts of pretty wharfs and inlets with tall ships moored?

After lunch, we went into central London, along Regent Street, for a drink in my most recent favourite pub - The Pontefract Castle on Bond Street - a stroll along South Bank on a balmy summer night as the sun set (honestly. I'm not writing a romantic novel here), before stopping off at an old, 19th century watering hole by the name of JD Robertsons for drink.

We then supped one last drink outside the Hilton, literally, opposite Canary Wharf, watching skyscraper office lights go out and go on as the world's money markets went to bed and got out of bed, got washed and went to work.

The next day, Ellen went nuts over the buffet breakfast. I'm very much a buffet 'stacker'. I go up, pile my plate high and wide with food to minimise the need to queue up and get seconds and thirds, and tuck in. Ellen doesn't. She went up about 5 or 6 times. The staff must have been sick of the sight of her.

We departed the Hilton and went for one last stroll around the Canary Wharf estate, stopping off at the magnificent Museum of London Docklands on the Isle of Dogs.

Words cannot describe how fascinating that place was.

Not only was the museum itself located in a grade I listed early 19th century sugar warehouse, I was blown away by the romance story of the regeration of the docklands from Peckham reject to world financial capital wannabe - all in the space of 20 years.

What a story, and the history of the River Thames and London was fascinating too.

I'll never think of 'The Strand' in the same way again, other than an ancient nudist hot-spot for Germanic tribes who fancied a beach holiday in a former Roman outpost that was now under new German management, although an up-and-coming Danish investment group had recently expressed an interest. The word 'strand' is German for beach.

I told Ellen that next time we were back in London, we were eating al fresco in the Docklands - how many other eateries afford you a river view, with pretty boats and skyscrapers as standard?

We'd had a great time.

Now how can I beat that next year?

Shredder for sale

2010-05-16T16:55:00.022+01:00

Had a relaxing weekend with the family.

Saturday was spent shopping in nearby Milton Keynes before stopping off at the Zen Garden chinese restaurant (pictured below) for lunch, which I strongly recommend if you live in the area.

Sunday was spent making an unholy mess in the kitchen, serving up an extravagant roast dinner for the family which, as always, promised smiley faces for the boys and an upside-down smiley face for Daddy who had to clear up the mountains of mess afterwards.

Talking of chicken, Ciaran has now got chickenpox.

Following fleetingly on from Ben's dabble with this itchy, spotty virus last week, Ciaran's body has now succumbed to its infectious charm, with red spots spreading like wildfire all over his body.

Unlike Ben, he has loads on his face and under his hair. His head is actually looking less and less like a human head by the minute, and more and more like the surface of Mars. And, it's probably going to get worse before it gets better.

However, like Ben, he's a hardy little soul and he's not grumbling too much about it at all.

In fact, Ciaran's daily wrecking routine has continued unabated today, pulling DVDs from their shelves, ripping newspapers and shredding superfluous Council magazines into thin slithers of pulp.

I've put our shredder up for sale on Ebay. We don't need it. We've got Ciaran, The Bedfordshire Ripper.

Changing the subject slightly, Ben has been kicking Mummy an awful lot this weekend. Just randomly walking up to her and giving her a kick in the shin that's right on the boundary between playful and meaningful.

Mummy told him off, and we had to rush an emergency bill through our House this afternoon prohibiting Ben from kicking anyone - apart from Daddy.

I actually volunteered to keep that bit in the new legislation, as I enjoy a bit of rough and tumble with the boys now and again. Sometimes more often than now and again. Sometimes again and again.

So my shins are Ben's to have when he needs them.

I just hope he stops before he's wearing Doctor Martins though.

Death by powerpoint?

2010-05-12T21:46:00.008+01:00

Today was a first.

Despite working for the same Council, Ellen and I sit at desks that are roughly 10 miles apart.

This is not unusual in our Council since, serving a largely rural populace of some 250,000, our offices are peppered across several locations throughout the district.

However, today, we had the novelty of being in the same building, in the same room, at the same time, for the same meeting.

We were attending a Council training course, a very well-attended training course it has to be said with some 60 people turning up, although we were sat at different tables for the day so the whole husband and wife thingy didn't crop up much at all in conversation.

I have to say, Ellen behaved very well. She even bought me a coffee.

I'll have to go on some more training courses with her I think.

Everyone's a Cleggservative now

2010-05-11T23:13:00.010+01:00

Great speech from Cameron tonight.

No surprise that Brown, aided and abetted by the unelected Mandelson & Campbell, put their self interest before the national interest and left the country (and markets) in limbo for five days before resigning as Prime Minister tonight.

Even his resignation speech was laced with sours grapes - his "at least we denied the opposition a majority" swipe stood out for me.

By way of contrast, just like in all three of the Leader's Debates, Cameron was more than generous in his remarks, paying tribute to the "openness" of the country that Brown has left behind. Maybe he meant our borders.

But one thing is for sure.

Cameron travels ideology-lite, and I think he'll be comfortable in a liberal climate. As Lord Heseltine said on Sky News tonight, his acceptance speech had One Nation Conservatism oozing out of every consonant and vowel.

I still crave for more tough-talking rhetoric on immigration, crime, defence, the workshy and so on, but I'll settle in the short-term for a Con-Lib pact just to get Cameron into Downing Street.

It may well end as most coalition arrangements between polarised political parties do - in tears. But at least he's in office.

Good luck to him. He's going to need it.

Little shoplifter in the making?

2010-05-08T22:06:00.020+01:00

It's been an exceedingly long time since I posted an update on this blog.

So, in the interests of tackling this massive deficit in information management, I thought I'd better begin with a brief summation of what's being going on recently.

1. Ben is just getting over a bout of chickenpox, although the side-effects weren't as bad as I'd expected. The itchiness only seemed to bother him for one day and the calamine cream seemed to do the trick.

He's still got a few spots on his face and quite a few more elsewhere, but they're beginning to fade and disappear.

2. Ciaran, meanwhile, managed to avoid The Pox completely, and had his first birthday on the 28th April.

He has seven teeth now, an ever-expanding thatch and is a confident crawler, cruiser and climber. He's also becoming an active participant in the toy department of our house, taking on an increasing amount of managerial duties and delegating to his elder brother on a regular basis.

They do have fall-outs occasionally over the 'share' principle. Ben is told to share his toy with Ciaran but Ciaran doesn't always reciprocate.

But on the whole, they both play very happily together.

3. I've been beavering away in my new job in transport strategy, taking on an increasing amount of projects and going to meetings around the East of England fairly frequently.

4. And Ellen has been beavering away in her job too as well as taking on some extra work as a polling clerk at a local polling station in Bedfordshire for GE10.

Coming back to the kiddies though, it does please me to report that Daddy-Ben relations hit an all-time high this month.

Not only has he stopped going beserk when Mummy goes shopping without him, he actively seeks out Daddy time now in rooms in the house unoccupied by Mummy.

Today, he even went one step further. He wanted to go on a walk with Daddy - just Daddy.

We decided to walk to the shops as I'd run out of semi-skimmed milk and it was breakfast time. I got his coat on and we headed out at around 8.30am on the short, 10 minute stroll to Tescos.

When we arrived, Ben was browsing the shelves in no time.

It was becoming immediately apparent to me that all those trips to the shops with Mummy was rubbing off on Ben. He'd definitely picked up a lot of Mummy's shopping traits - like, just throw things in the trolley/basket and worry about the bill later.

Ben was loading up my basket like there was no tomorrow. I was browsing the yoghurts when all of a sudden, Ben threw in some spanish chorizo sausage meat and cheddar cheese. Cheese and chorizo were not on the shopping list. This repeated itself wherever I went.

More worryingly, Ben was also beginning to display some mild shoplifter tendencies.

On two occasions, he tried to make off with customer shopping trolleys full of goods, without the customers' permission. Daddy had to intervene on both occasions.

Then, as I was waiting at the checkout, he made a run for the exit before we'd paid.

Seriously. I was just about to pay when he walked off slowly before stopping about 10 feet away from me..."Ben, come back to Daddy please." (normal voice. No response)...slow walk becomes a run towards the exit and automatic doors fling open..."Ben! Come back here now!" (Extremely loud voice. Other shoppers look around. Daddy abandons shopping basket and sprints to exit to grab Ben).

I'm sure the CCTV department in Tesco were having a field day.

He did eventually return to the store, I did eventually pay for our goods and we left the store as all law-abiding customers should do - with a receipt in the bag.

It's just a matter of time before he slips a packet of sweeties in his back pocket surely.

How will I explain that to the security staff?

One vomit and you're out

2010-03-17T20:41:00.013Z

Ciaran's not been too well today.

Nothing serious. He just threw up over his breakfast at nursery.

Ellen dropped him off at the usual time - around 8am - and I got a call from the nursery about half an hour later to say he'd vomited and could we pick him up as soon as possible. Preferably right away.

The nursery have a very clear policy on unwell children. One vomit and you're out the door. For 24 hours. And then you can come back again, unless you vomit again...repeat the cycle.

Ciaran's been on the downhill slope since Saturday to be fair.

He awoke at about 7am on Saturday morning - Daddy on early morning backside duty - with one eye open and one shut and what looked like early onset of conjunctivitis. He also had a heavy cold and runny nose.

Later, we took the kids to Milton Keynes.

As I placed the unwell Ciaran carefully into his stroller, Ellen remarked that her second born had come to resemble "the sick, manky cat in the street that your Mummy tells you never to touch".

He wasn't looking his best. Sure. But who does when they have a cold, let alone conjunctivitis?

We'll keep on giving him his eyedrops and the cold should run its natural, messy, very messy, tissue-ridden course.

In the meantime, the little blighter is soundly asleep in his little nursery, accompanied by his little blue teddy and his little white muslin in his little wooden cot that Daddy built.

You see. I have a soft side, really.

All Mothers are working Mothers

2010-03-14T21:22:00.002Z

Mothering Sunday today.

And being the model son that I am, I gave my Mum an early morning ring to wish her well on this lovely day.

Upon enquiring about her plans, Dad told me she was spending the morning in work catching up on some pressing business. I guess my card was right. She really was the world's number one Mum.

All Mothers are working mothers, as the saying goes.

Except for one day of the year, that is. Today. And don't they let you know all about it. All day.

The boys also treated Ellen.

Ben made her a nice card at nursery, which took pride of place on the mantlepiece. Ciaran co-contributed, with his brother, to the purchase of a generously-sized card, which also took pride of a different place on the mantlepiece.

Meanwhile, just to make Ellen feel extra special, I slaved all morning in the kitchen treating her to a homemade Sunday roast.

I spent ages preparing the chicken, marinating it evenly in olive oil, sprinkling over sea salt and thyme from the garden, and then adding my marinade of garlic, butter and lemon juice.

I served it with red onions, carrots, stuffing balls, yorkshire pudding, broccoli, peas and gravy and followed it up with some non-homemade Key Lime pie for pudding.

It all went down rather well.

Come the end of the day, I think it's fair to say the pampered Ellen was feeling just a tad more energetic than I was.

Bring on Father's Day.

"Daddy, I no need you"

2010-03-13T18:08:00.023Z

How do you solve a problem like "Mummy, Mummy, I want Mummy"?

Lately, Ben has become just a little bit clingy to Mummy and just a little bit unclingy to Daddy.

I've been ordered out of rooms at bedtime and met with marauding tantrums when Mummy nips out to the shops. I was even told this week, "Daddy, I no need you."

It was inevitable that Ben would spend a lot of time around his Mummy when Ellen gave up work 12 months ago, and perhaps also, kiddies at this age generally prefer the more caring tones and endeavours of their Mummys.

But, still, I didn't expect things to become this one-sided.

Expectations aside, something had to be done about this and Ellen wisely suggested I take Ben out for a walk in the woods this afternoon so we could spend some quality time alone together.

We broke the news to Ben. Yep, straight into a tantrum. Big tantrum.

Face bright red, tears flooding down his face. Not even the peace offer of a banana would calm him down. So I picked him up and bundled him out of the house. He was going on this walk with Daddy whether he like it or not.

I carried him down our street and up to the woods - about a 1 minute walk away - still wriggling and screaming.

I was wondering whether the neighbours thought a child abductor was on the loose as I carried him chest-high up to the steel gate at the neck of the woods and plonked him on the ground.

We ventured tentatively into the woods and I said to him, "Hey, Ben, what can you see?" No reply, but the screaming had reduced to a feeble sob.

I decided to switch from Daddy-mode into kiddy entertainer-mode to try to snap him out of his pernicious mood - ie. OTT voice and ridiculously animated behaviour.

It worked a little, but he still said he wanted to go home to Mummy.

Only when I said, "Ben, you're the boss. Where do you want to walk?" did the sobbing stop.

Face like a blank canvass, he began to peer up at the trees and pay attention to the sounds of the woods, telling Daddy he could hear birdies and asking "What's dat?" when a little grey squirrel shot up a tree as we dared to stand on a twig.

Ben was actually beginning to enjoy himself and there wasn't a skirt in sight.

An old wooden bench came into view and Ben spied it in no time. Yes, he called it a chair, but after a quick grammar correction, I agreed to go and sit on it with him.

We then headed off to gather some twigs, Ben still in charge, and after pelting Daddy's leg a few times with the twigs, Ben decided it was time to go home.

I didn't argue.

I thought it best to cut my losses, abandon the walking route I'd planned and preserve the fun time we'd had in the hope that, next time, Ben would understand that Daddy-Ben time wasn't so terrifying.

We walked home at a leisurely pace - a toddler's pace that it is - and I broke the good news to Mummy.

Daddy-Ben time had been a success. Eventually. And only when I put Ben in charge.

Have I got a little control-freak in the making?

The importance of cutlery

2010-02-19T19:49:00.037Z

I thought it was about time I put an update on here about the boys.

Ben's now two years and eight months old to be precise; Ciaran's ten months.

Ciaran cut another tooth last week, notching up the sixth fang in his ever-expanding set. Ben got his full set some time ago.

Poor Ciaran.

His cheeks are as red as the fiery furnaces of Hades half the time but, having such a benign temperament, he doesn't tend to grumble too much about it. He just puts his fingers in his mouth and sucks on them for a while or gnaws on a toy.

He's well into his baby-led weaning phase and has been eating solids with ease for months. He still takes a bottle, but that's more of a dietary supplement than a gastronomic necessity.

He's also well into the crawling phase.

He started properly about two months ago and it's the old familiar story. Nothing is safe in your living space, and I have to cordon off half our living room with cushions and pillows to stop him pulling over a CD rack or chewing on a plug lead.

Both boys started nursery last week as Ellen started her new four-day-a-week job.

For Ben, it's familiar territory.

In fact, it's the same nursery he went to before we had Ciaran. His old carer even met up with him on day 1 of his second stint to greet him and help him settle in.

He's still getting used to it and often sobs uncontrollably well before we've even left the house to go down there. He picks up on tell-tale early morning indicators, like Daddy packing the nursery bags with clothes and bottles or getting the coats ready.

However, crucially, he settles in quickly when he's down there and becomes perfectly happy in his surroundings. He certainly plays an active role in his class, as his clothes attest when we pick him up.

His language development is the other main thing on the surge at the moment.

He's picking up everything, and you can have meaningful little conversations with him now. On the debit side, his tantrums have taken a sharp turn for the worse in the last four weeks.

He is very insistent about what he wants now. For example, he refused to eat his dinner tonight unless he had a spoon the same size as Daddy's.

Choosing the right cutlery at dinner time has suddenly become an important task in our house. Daddy got him an identical spoon, and then he wanted the same bowl as Daddy's. And round and round we go.

So that's the position for now kiddies-wise.

Ellen and I both feel much more on top of things now than we have done for, erm, ages.

Out of control most of the time, still, but not out of mind.

Throw the former British Winter Olympians in an ice bath

2010-02-19T11:11:00.021Z

There is a debate raging in the British media about about the lack of financial support given to the British Winter Olympics Team.

It has been described by some as "next to useless".

Am I the only one that finds the timing of these grumblings just a tad frustrating?

It is perhaps telling that the bulk of these criticisms are coming from former British Winter Olympians and not the broader British public.

Naturally, the media are more than happy to give these complaints air and print time as it coincides with the XXI Olympic Winter Games in Vancouver, Canada.

But do the majority of the British public - or should I say, the majority of those who actually tune in to watch the games - really give a damn about how many medals Britain picks up in Vancouver?

If the media really had our winter athletes' sincerest wishes at heart, their sports editors and correspondents would have been having running back page stories on this months ago.

So, I'll set my stall out.

I believe the BOA has got the funding balance just right.

In fact, I am more than happy for the British Olympic Team to continue propping up the medals table for years to come if it means our sports men and women - and our paralympic athletes for that matter - have a realistic chance of building on their recent success in the Summer Olympic Games in the sports that the majority of us actually follow and participate in.

Ice hockey aside, the rest of the winter sports on display are at best pastimes - alpine skiing, snowboarding - and at worst, obscure hobbies that the world only hears of when they get an Olympic outing every four years - skeleton, speed-skating, luge, curling, and such like.

Let the athletes from Lichenstein, Slovenia, Norway, Austria and so on battle it out with their North American counterparts for the medals I say.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not a snow sports killjoy.

The games are a fantastic spectacle and snowboarding, downhill skiing and ice hockey are just a few of the sports that I have found absolutely gripping to watch. I'm also more than partial to a bit of bob-sledding when time necessitates it.

But for the majority of us, that usually means heading down to the local park for a bit of fun with the kids, not picking up the yellow pages to find the nearest skeleton track.

The simple fact of the matter is the Winter Olympics is the poor cousin of the Summer Olympic Games and I can't see this changing anytime soon.

Nor do I think this needs to change.

Indeed, it would probably come with the fully-fledged blessing of our chariot-racing Greek forefathers who who probably never saw a flake of snow in their lives.

It's time for the former British Winter Olympians who are lampooning the BOA for their lack of financial support to an Olympic Team who will measure success as landing on 29 February at Heathrow airport with three medals in the bag - incidentally, which would mean it was Britain's best Winter Olympics performance for decades - to have a severe reality check here.

Maybe someone should throw them in an Alpine ice-bath.

That would certainly refresh their cognition and perhaps then they'd be more in tune with, and watch the Winter Olympics like, the rest of us.

For a laugh.

Any chance of a heatwave?

2010-02-18T16:19:00.012Z

Got a call today from a holiday rep at a caravan park we stayed at last summer.

It was a direct marketing call, not a call back.

He introduced himself and asked if it was convenient to talk. I said okay.

He proceeded to explain to me how the park (Coome Haven, Hastings - pictured above) had recently undergone some improvement works - ie. the swimming pool had been expanded, a new indoor kiddies slide had been installed and if we booked now for March and April, we could get 25% of the booking price.

We'd already booked to go elsewhere in March/April, but I didn't say that and decided to let the guy finish his spiel, as he sounded young - maybe no more than 21 years old - and nervous.

Having made nervous cold calls to customers in my banking days as a fresh-faced, beardless 21-year-old I felt for him a bit. So I tried to sound interested so he could relax a little and say his piece.

Now there's a piece of advice to would-be cold-callers out there. We customers are sick of hearing the same old telephone voices cold-calling us. Try sounding nervous and earn our pity. It will do wonders for your sales revenues.

Then, I thought, I'd try to get some more information out of the guy,

I asked him where the park had got all the money for these sudden improvements. He said last year's sales revenues were higher than expected.

I then asked him what were park bookings like for March/April. He said, at the moment, they were no more than 20% full on average.

I thanked him, said it was a decent offer and asked him to send me some more information in the post.

He hung up feeling a bit happier about himself and glad that he didn't get his head chewed off by another customer unhappy at being cold-called. I hung up knowing a little more about the world, if only a little.

However, it would appear that our coastal holiday resorts are at a rather low ebb. Most people have made their spring/summer holiday plans long before mid-February.

I read only last week that record numbers of 'Brits' were planning a British summer holiday this year. I know we are. We're piling the pounds into the people's republic of Yorkshire.

Still, the offer is tempting. We could have the newly-expanded pool to ourselves.

What's the odds for a March/April heatwave?

New Sky thinking

2010-02-16T16:59:00.021Z

Supertelly has just arrived in our living room.

Ellen and I stayed loyal to Virgin Media, and its predecessor NTL, throughout all of our married lives. And before.

But that loyalty has now come to an end, certainly as far as TV is concerned. We've defected to Sky.

We'd stayed with Virgin Media throughout the infamous spat between Branson and Rupert that saw Virgin customers lose every single one of their Sky channels, while Branson found enough time and money to fly around the world in his hot air balloon and launch spacecraft.

It felt a little like dumping a girlfriend, as we picked up the phone to end our contract with Virgin.

In theory, they'd done nothing wrong.

Since the spat with Murdoch, Virgin had been a perfectly faithful partner. Dependable and not too costly on the pocket, it didn't talk back and always made us laugh.

It had even become an integral part of our family fabric, growing to become a dedicated grandparent to the kids, always available to entertain them during the day and even reading them a story at night before bedtime.

However, loyalty almost always has a price.

Sky's 'Supertelly' offer was simply too good to turn down.

They were offering to give all new customers a Sky+ HD box for free and install it for free too. By comparison, Virgin Media extorted £75 just to "set-up" their equivalent V+HD box.

I watched the Sky 'Engineer' carefully as he went about the "set-up" process.

This feat of 'engineering' took about 10 minutes.

The 'Engineer', erm, opened the box, put the HD box under the telly, plugged it in to the power supply, connected it to the phone socket and then got out his Sky blackberry that only Sky 'Engineers' are allowed to have, fiddled with a few buttons, presumably to send encryption/authorisation codes from our living room back to Sky HQ to activate the box and that was it.

How the heck can Virgin justify charging £75 for that?

It was still a tough decision to switch.

New Supertelly offer aside, there wasn't much between Sky and Virgin Media as far as price was concerned.

In terms of television bundles, they were both fairly evenly matched as far as I could see. Quantity was an entirely different matter. Sky surged into the lead with its abundance of digital channels - 264 compared to Virgin's 65 - and even further into the lead with it's superiority in the HD market.

At the moment, Sky gives you 37 HD channels. Virgin gives you 7.

However, Virgin Media hauled Sky back, almost level, with its amazing on-demand service.

This massive database lets you enjoy a week's worth of pre-recorded 'Catch-up' TV as well as storing hundreds of hours of great programmes and series of the past and present in all genres, alongwith a massive music database with old and contemporary music. All this for free. And...its gives a free karaoke facility and movies too.

It was a wrench giving up Virgin Media on-demand, and it simply dwarfs Sky's extremely limited 'Sky Anytime' on-demand service and sweeps Sky's other on-demand service - 'Sky Player' - aside with ease, which only allows you to watch on-demand tv on your, erm, PC.

If that's not a contradiction in terms, then it certainly is a step down in viewing experience.

Despite this, I'm more than willing to give Sky a go. That's why I agreed with Ellen's suggestion to swap. I'll happily kick off my slippers, sit back and see what 'Supertelly' has to offer.

But if Sky can get their on-demand service sorted, it'll be time for the Competition Commission to intervene surely.

In the meantime, there no chance of our new relationship hitting the rocks anytime soon.

We're tied into a 12 month contract.

Mummy swaps tantrums for lattes

2010-02-15T23:26:00.018Z

The time has come.

We didn't know when, but we did know it would happen some day.

Since February 2009, Ellen (my wife) has been at home full-time, initially as nest-featherer in anticipation of our second born, and then as nest occupier with both boys. She has been chirping keenly ever since whilst Daddy returned each workday evening from the clutches of the corporate world.

As of today, this is now over.

Ellen returned to work this morning and was just a tad apprehensive about the whole thing.

On one hand, she has not been working under the finger-pointing authority and shrill directive of a 'boss' for almost a year now. Maybe a year to the day. I haven't been counting.

But on the other hand, bless her, she was was more concerned about how her flight would impact on little Ben and Ciaran - 2 years 8 months and 10 months respectively.

I reassured her that it would be good for the kids to interact with other kids their age - emphasis on the latter - on a more frequent basis. Also, speaking from experience, I told her that she would find her time with them more rewarding as a result.

I also tried to make her view the whole scenario less from a regime-change point of view and more from a step-change point of view.

Yes, she would be working full time four days a week, but another way of viewing this is 4 days in the office and 3 days at home with the boys. It was almost a 50-50 split. Hardly an exodus.

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, which helped I guess.

She threw herself into baking me a raspberry cream sponge cake for Valentine's Day to take her mind off things and I surprised her with a bouquet of mixed carnations and a box of expensive chocolates.

Anyway, Mummy's off to work again and the kids' successful trial sessions at nursery augur well for the coming weeks and months ahead.

They'll be fine.

Ben will soon resume his normal routine of protesting loudly when we take him away from nursery.

And Mummy will soon prefer a morning latte to a morning tantrum.

A weekend in Belfast

2010-02-07T21:10:00.037Z

Just back from a short trip to Belfast.

I say Belfast colloquially. I stayed in Saintfield, 10 miles to the south of Belfast where my parents moved to nearly eight years ago. But I lived in Belfast for many more years than that so old habits die hard.

I did, however, spend a substantial amount of time in Belfast.

I landed on Thursday evening at George Best airport, a quick hop over the Irish Sea from Luton, for a two-day break to visit my parents and Granda. I was travelling light so I was outside in no time, greeted by the gripping wind and pouring rain and soon after, my Mum and Auntie. Dad sheltered in the car, the lucky begger.

We scuttled off through the dimly-lit streets of Belfast for a quick pint in a nice little bar on the Stranmillis Road called The House.

It had to be a local brew for me. Harp lager. It was nice for a change, and also just plain nice, and the four of us huddled in a darkened corner of the bar and had a jolly nice chat before setting off for home after much niceness.

We were treated to a DVD of my parents' recent cruise round the Carribean. I wasn't sure whether it should have been X-rated though.

A certain clip had somehow been caught on camera of my Dad in the nip. The said clip hadn't been deleted either. The said clip flashed before all our eyes too, and Dad had to jump up in front of the TV to hide the clip from everyone's view. Everyone apart from me that is. I saw the clip.

I then crawled off to bed at about 11.30pm.

That wasn't the only bad thing to happen to my parents while they were on their Carribean cruise. Their house flooded.

A water pipe had burst in the loft, buckling under the recent freeze-thaw cycle of Arctic weather that had gripped much of Europe for more than two weeks over the Christmas period. The water had poured through the upstairs roof, gushing down the stairs and leaving the entire downstairs under an inch or so of water.

Bad news for my parents and bad news for the insurance companies; good news for carpeters everywhere. They must love the freezing weather.

Next morning, Dad & I threw some bacon and toast down us before leaving (Mum was at work) at around 10.30am to look around Belfast. It was off to the Queens University sports centre first, where my Dad swims regularly.

Dad give me a meticulous tour of the facilities and I have to say, it was very impressive, all modern, clean, nice coffee house for the students with at least 5 plasma TVs on the wall and gorgeous 25-metre swimming pool and diving area.

We then sauntered up to the Ulster Museum, about 5 minutes walk away, where I'd not been in years.

Thanks to gamblers, it had recently been in receipt of nearly £15m or so of lottery funding, which had been put to good use refurbishing the inside and parts of the exterior. Bring on the super-casinos I say.

Walking through a new glass frontage, it felt for a moment a little like strolling into a grand hotel in Bournemouth, with spacious, leather-sofa'd reception area greeting you squarely and white paint and glass darting up and down every wall in sight.

The museum was packed full of interesting exhibits and artefacts that we didn't really have enough time to fully appreciate in any great depth, from ancient Egyptology to the recent 'Troubles'.

I liked the novel touch of consigning the Troubles to the "history" section.

I also liked, and was particularly taken by, the 'Mummy'.

To address her by name, Takabuti had been transported to Belfast way back in 1834.

A legal immigrant from Egpyt, she lay horizontal under a sheet of protective glass, half-entombed and teeth and hair still almost fully preserved. She was some sight. I had seen her before, but not for about 10 maybe 15 years.

I wondered how many of my own grandparents and great grandparents had made the same journey past her ancient sarcophagus, staring at the same teeth and face and making in all likelihood the same remarks that we were.

It was then off to see my Granda, who was in hospital after a recent illness. He was improving, but understandly tired bearing in mind all the medication he was taking. I stayed for about an hour and we had a nice chat.

That evening (Friday), my parents had reserved a table in my favourite Belfast eaterie - the Italian restaurant Scalini's (pictured below).

I ordered my usual - a piccante pizza - and we left for Ravenhill to watch the Ireland Wolfhounds play beat Scotland A at Ravenhill. The Irish won. Comfortably.

After the rugby, we adjourned to the Four Winds Inn for a drink before heading home. No sooner had we arrived when Dad and I grabbed the guitars and somehow, from somewhere, found the energy to begin a guitar/singing session that finished just shy of 2am.

Next morning (Saturday), we rose feeling predictably tired but a festival of sport on TV had the pulse racing. That evening, Mum laid up a lovely candle-lit dinner with homemade garlic bread and lasagne and it was then off to George Best Airport where I said my goodbyes to my parents and my hellos to my newly-found phobia of flying.

It had been a lovely weekend in Belfast.

As usual, my feet barely touched the ground but I wouldn't have it any other way.

(Pictured, right - Ben in his new Northern Ireland football gear that Daddy got him)

Squash championship level

2010-02-03T22:22:00.008Z

That's my third night in a row on the squash court.

I played a match on Monday, had a practice session last night and another tonight and my fitness levels are really improving.

I felt I could, and perhaps should, have won on Monday and the practice I put in last night seemed to have paid off.

My serve, that I'd practised to a tee the night before to get it landing plum in the corner almost every time, was really strong the first set as well my drops and I raced to a 9-2 first set lead.

The second set began a bit like the first and I led 4-1, then Robert starting to fight back a bit. He took a close set to make it 1-1.

My game was getting stronger and I took the next two sets to make it 3-1, when Robert had to retire injured.

3-1 to me on the night to level the championship.

*Two matches played since. Scores updated below.

2010 Standings

0-1
1-1
1-2
1-3

Robert leads the 2010 Squash Championship 3-1

2010 Squash Season begins

2010-02-02T15:35:00.006Z

Robert and I kicked off the 2010 squash season last night.

We've been playing now for three years and we're aiming (time commitments permitting) to join the local squash league later in the year, but our own mini competition will continue alongside this.

Last night's match - the usual 2 x 40 min sessions - was a close contest.

We both began fairly slowly.

The first four sets were really tight affairs and could have gone either way. But he managed to snatch victory in each one and I was feeling a bit miffed to say the least to be 4-0 down.

I did manage to finally take a set next time round, making it 4-1, and I took a 6-2 lead in the sixth set. But I let him back into it and lost the sixth set to find myself 5-1 down.

A quick glance at the clock told me we only had 20 minutes left - not enough time to pull back four sets. So the match entered into a kind of no-mans land where I tried for some shots and didn't really give a damn on others, and I wasn't too bothered to lose them. I just used the remaining time to focus on improving my technique and warming down.

So the match finished 7-1, which on paper looks like a trouncing but in reality was nothing of the sorts.

It took me two sets to really find my game, a little longer than I'd like, but I was fairly happy with my ball contact and drop shots. I've got to resist my urge to go for winners all the time - I'm giving too many unforced errors away - but, overall, I don't think it was a bad night's work.

2010 Standings

0-1

Robert leads the 2010 Squash Championship 1-0

The Mock Assassins to reform?

2010-01-31T21:44:00.001Z

Had a nice weekend.

My brother (aka Uncle Stephen) and Kate (aka Auntie Kate) came to visit for the weekend.

After a long road trip from Newport, Wales, they pulled up outside our house at around 1.30pm. Ben was in full tantrum mode when they arrived and we quickly piled the kids and belongings into the car and headed off to Milton Keynes for a late lunch with the Welsh ones.

Stephen has now taken up full-time residency in Wales in addition to working there and, in my eyes, that now classifies him as being Welsh.

We chose La Tasca for lunch, the spanish tapas franchise to the unaware.

It represented a change from the usual Nandos or TGI Fridays and it never seems to let us down in terms of variety of food on offer and good value. I guess the clue is in the name La Tasca.

My usual formula of five-dishes-per-two worked well, and we dined on a mixture of spanish tortilla, patatas bravas, meatballs, chicken, prawns, mushrooms in garlic and so on.

Ben was taking a definite shine to Auntie Kate by this stage.

Having put the late morning tantrum firmly behind him, there was more than a whiff of defection starting to waft around in the thin winter air (La Tasca outlets don't have heating; they urge customers to add tabasco to their food for added warmth).

Then, just before la cuenta arrived, he crossed the floor.

Finished with his food, he clambered down from his chair and walked across to Kate under the table. We soon caught the wayward toddler and plonked him back on his seat and things were under control again.

After a quick guess-the-bill game, which Stephen won (the only success he had all weekend), we set off home again.

The added driving was starting to take its toll on our Welsh travellers. By the time we all arrived home again, I think they were both happy just to be able to stretch out on a sofa and not have to drive again for a while.

My wife had very kindly bought me Band Hero for my birthday and a night of competition was starting to loom large. Jan/Feb 2010 was an extra special occasion for us as not only was my birthday coming up, it was also our ten year anniversary of dating.

The plan was to form our band that evening and take to the stage online against other bands from around the world and see who came out on top.

Kate & Stephen were seasoned Guitar Hero veterans so, in theory, their skills should be instantly transferable within the 'Hero' label.

Rumours had even circulated beforehand that Kate was "excellent" on guitar and "even better than me (Stephen)" and as I was pretty competent on the drums, I thought our prospects were promising.

With the kids in bed by around 7.30pm, slightly earlier than usual, we ordered a curry and after being informed that the waiting time for delivery was a considerable hour and a half, we got stuck into Band Hero.

The Mock Assassins prepared to take to the stage.

My brother Stephen is a pear cider drinker. He also wears pink. With quaffed black fringe, he was like a post-punk Morrissey minus the gladioli tucked in back pocket.

I thought this flamboyance was just what our band needed in its lead vocalist. What about the voice? Well, Stephen had conveniently been lubricating his vocal cords liberally with pear cider as early as 6pm so they would surely be well oiled by now?

No. He was having none of it and would, under no circumstances, be persuaded to take the mic as lead vocalist.

So, after a handful of songs, I ditched the drums and grabbed the mic. The Mock Assassins had hit the music scene.

We chiselled our way through a variety of pop and rock songs.

With Her Excellency of Gwent and His Excellency of Glamorgan on guitar, we started slowly. We were still gelling as band but it didnt take too long before we were racking up a few 4 star performances and a 5 star performance too if I remember righly.

We called it a day when the curry arrived, at around 9.30pm no less.

The Mock Assassins were done. Done for now that is. But they may be back. May be.

2009 Squash Championship ends in draw

2009-12-31T11:14:00.024Z

So after a massive scramble on my part, the 2009 Squash Championship finished in a draw.

The season really was a tale of two stories.

The first half was mine.

I stormed into a 5-1 lead and had won five matches on the bounce before the season was put on hold as Ciaran was born (April) and Robert succumbed to a nasty back injury. We didn't play for months.

When we both returned to the court, I had put on about a stone in weight and was feeling unfit, really unfit.

I remember that match well. Late summer in Houghton Regis.

I'd got myself into a 4-2 lead. Then I felt my legs completely give up on me in the seventh set and had absolutely no energy left in them whatsoever. Every shot that required me to turn and chase was agony and I lost the set. 4-3 now.

No sooner had the eighth set begun when I felt my deteriorating right hamstring get really tight. I was like a man on one leg at that point and Robert kindly offered to stop, but I didn't want to default the set. I played on and lost it anyway. How sensible. The game finished 4-4.

My fitness that night, or lack of it, gifted Robert a draw in a game I should have won.

But if only I'd known how significant that result would be in the season, I might have tried to work on my fitness beforehand.

That bloomin match, in grubby, sweaty, decrepit Houghton Regis leisure centre (my least favourite venue and one were I have a bad record), was the turning point for Robert.

He was relieved to have ended a five match losing streak and it gave him a much-needed confidence boost. My game thereafter, well, let's just say it fell to pieces.

I lost the next five matches on the spin, a disastrous spell that also saw me break two rackets, struggle to get used to a new racket and suffer some shocking, morale-sapping defeats.

I don't know how many times I came home to my beleagured wife and threaten to quit squash for good. Yeah.

My local sports store had also stopped stocking my favourite racket - Head, Liquidmetal 125 - and I'd invested in a crappy Dunlop. I'm not being funny, but it felt like I was swinging with a piece of balsa wood. My wrist vibrated every time I hit the ball.

Enough was enough. I decided to mail order my old racket. Don't know why I hadn't done it before, really.

It made an instant impact.

Lighter yet much, much more absorbent and sturdy. The power flooded back into my shots, and I thought I had the beating of Robert when I gave its first outing. I lost that match narrowly, 6-3, with loads of sets being decided by a fine margin.

So, it all came down to today.

I had to win for the first time since April, before little Ciaran or Brendan had even breathed their first, to save the Championship from going into Robert's grubby grasp for the first time ever.

He took a 2-0 lead without doing anything special, then a 3-1 lead.

A lot of his mis-hit shots were going in and a lot of my drop shots were missing by inches, and while I thought I was making better contact with the ball than he was, I was getting bloody cheesed off that I was 3-1 down.

The fifth set began. I was 7-4 down, but managed to win the next five points on the bounce to take the set 9-7. Scores now 3-2 to him in sets.

I felt I was in touching distance now and I was building up some momentum for the first time in ages, playing well and putting doubt in his mind. I took the next three sets strongly to take the game 5-3 and save the Championship.

We shook hands on a good year's work, but rather annoyingly, the season ended in an indecisive draw again. Scores below.

I'll be doing my utmost to make sure there's a winner in 2010.

2009

2-3
6-1
5-3
5-1
4-2
5-4
4-4
3-8
1-6
0-10
3-7
3-6
5-3

2009 finishes 6-6
Irish Daddy & Robert share the 2009 Squash Championship

Creeping down the stairs on Christmas Day

2009-12-30T15:17:00.020Z

Christmas is always over in a flash isn't it?

It creeps up on you slowly, ever so slowly, from the first glimpse of those mix-and-match gifts in Boots in mid-October to the sparkle of a Christmas tree in the Tescos’ entrance in mid-November to - bang - Christmas Day.

Ben was first up on Christmas morning.

He stirred at just gone 7am and wandered into our bedroom to get us up too. Not a word about Santa though. Aww. He'll learn. We did try. We then went into Ciaran’s room for a quick nappy-changing session.

When I’d finished with Ciaran, I left both boys with Mummy, closed the door and slipped downstairs to switch on our Christmas tree lights for added effect.

That was it though. No more lights were on downstairs, just the flickering tree.

It was dark and magical, with sparkling white light bouncing off wrapping paper and stockings on the mantlepiece. How would Ben react we wondered. We built him up a bit more.

"Ben, do you know what day it is today? Do you think Santa has been? You've been a good boy haven't you? Shall we find out?" We crept down the stairs slowly, in fact, ridiculously slowly. We were positively milking this moment. Had Santa been?

Erm, he had. In fact, he'd left a bloomin mess in our living room. Presents everywhere. You couldn't get near the place.

Ben was beside himself with excitement.

He ran over to the presents and we grabbed the camera to take some snaps of some very tired parents and some wide-awake boys. Ben got loads of good stuff and so did Ciaran, although Ciaran seemed more interested in tearing down the tree and chewing on wrapping paper.

Keeping with festive tradition, we then beat a track to the in-laws for the remainder Christmas Day.

We pulled up outside the house mid-morning, roads still treacherous with ice and car groaning under the weight of baby high chairs, buggy and essentials.

Auntie Sally rushed out gleefully to greet everyone. Ben couldn't wait to see her. Auntie Sally is never off the phone to him and regularly comes down from York to see the little ones, and they rushed inside.

I, meanwhile, unloaded the stuff from the car. I never travel light at the best of times.

I just don't know how Santa copes, heaving that heavy sack of his around with his bare hands before taking a perilous plunge down a chimney, landing on hot ash more often than not, and then climbing back up the chimney, sooty sack clenched in teeth to free up the hands for grip.

Hot mugs of tea and coffee were quickly exchanged to warm us up and after some more unwrapping of presents, we all sat down to watch Mummy's parent’s video of their recent trip to South Africa and its nature reserves.

My mother-in-law, Gill, had predicted the day before that the video would bore the pants off me. She promptly followed this up with another prediction that it would bring me nothing but displeasure.

How well does she know me!! I've been a fan of the National Geographic for, erm, years, a member of Whipsnade Zoo for, erm, years and I love to travel!!

It was then time for the centrepiece of the day. The Christmas turkey.

It had been waiting patiently in the kitchen for hours. Lush, golden and locally-sourced from a Bedfordshire farm, it arrived on our plates in varying portions generously accompanied by potatoes, stuffing, brussels, sausages-in-bacon and other trimmings.

We all struggled to finish what was before us, all except for Ciaran that is.

I was gob-smacked by how much the little 8-month-old had eaten. Or so I thought. When I lifted him out of his high chair, the little illusionist had managed to spill enough food on his lap and around his bum to feed a cat for a week.

Daddy and Ben pulled their first Christmas cracker and we all assembled to the living room for some much-needed rest and recuperation.

When we'd recovered, we launched into a game of Trivial Pursuit.

Everyone of an adult age joined in except for Barry. Barry always passes up the opportunity of participating in the Christmas Day board game challenge. I never know why. He always ends up barking out answers and helping Gill. The pressure of taking part must be too much for him.

I briefly spoke with my parents, who'd just returned from a cruise in the Caribbean, and later in the day, when I was almost falling asleep after too much food, to my brother, to thank them all once again for their thoughtful presents.

Christmas Day soon slipped into its best evening wear and we all assumed the usual horizontal positions on leather sofas with beer, wine and nibbles never too far out of reach.

A series of Christmas specials flashed before our narrowing eyes and Sally, as always, was the first to succumb to tiredness and went to bed at about 10.30pm. She has no stamina that girl. I don't know how she can summon the energy to stay out night clubbing till the small hours of the morning.

Still, Mummy and Daddy weren't far behind. Mummy succumbed next and we both called it a night.

Ciaran's first Christmas and Ben's third had gone by very merrily indeed and I get the feeling the older they get, the more magical each and every Christmas will get.

What's so good about our adverts?

2009-12-24T10:29:00.008Z

I got my Christmas wrapping done weeks ago.

In contrast, Mummy is running around this morning looking for scissors, sellotape and wrapping paper to get her presents all done in time for Santa.

Nipped out to Tescos earlier to pick up some bits and bobs before its closes for Christmas Day and Boxing Day. That'll keep us going for a while. If not, we'll have to knock on our neighbours door with a begging bowl.

Ben is not getting overly excited about Santa coming I have to say.

And there was me thinking he'd get all excited this year because he understands it a bit more. Maybe he will tonight when we tell him a story about it, but at the moment, he's just his usual self.

Christmas TV looking solid. Don't think I'll need to touch the remote control once on Christmas Day. Everything decent is on BBC1.

That can't be a healthy state of affairs though can it? The recession must be hitting ITV hard as there used to be healthy rivalry and competition in the television market over the Christmas period. Now, it appears, the Beeb have an unhealthy monopoly.

Still, we're spoilt for good TV in this country. A Norwegian friend of mine once told me that thing he missed most about the UK when he went back to Norway was our adverts. Yeah.

Any Americans reading this won't know what an advert is. If you are American and you do not know what an 'advert' is, I say, "Like, kinda, go figure that."

Well, I guess we do do irony well in this country, don't we.

Have a great Christmas everyone.

The Scots are just jealous

2009-12-23T14:37:00.017Z

Barely got out of my pyjamas today.

I gave them a reluctant tug around midday, before slipping into some warmer layers to make lunch in our rather nippy kitchen.

Officially, I was working from home today but there was no work coming in, so I threw myself into house-husband mode, helping Mummy with the kids before making a nice, wholesome spaghetti bolognese to warm up four hungry tummies for lunch.

The bolognese was a big hit, so simple to make yet so tasty.

Ben loved his so much he lost the will live when he was told there was no more.

He came wondering over to the "big table" from his "little table" with a Dickensian whimper and a generous smattering of bolognese sauce splattered across his mouth and nearby regions, and asked for more.

When he was told there was no more, his little world came crashing down around him.

He dropped his bowl and, in that trademark routine of his, ran across the living room floor, flung himself to the carpet, hunched humself up in a ball and sobbed endlessly.

Thing was, there was more.

There was plenty more in fact. Parents need to lie sometimes you see to protect family interests. We'd planned to save it for dinner to have with some garlic bread.

Yet, it seemed a little cruel to not let Ben have just a little more, so we gave in to the tantrumming one and a green plastic bowl of topped-up bolognese was soon winging its way to Ben's table and the eating-spilling-humming cycle began oncemore.

Humming?

Oh yeah, I should explain. You know if your food has passed the Ben test if he hums as he eats it.

It's a repetitive, high pitch hum that mingles in with background noise 90% of the time. The other 10% of the time it can be extremely grating, usually first thing in the morning when you're munching your way, bleary-eyed, through a bowl of cornflakes.

A quick snow update.

Our street, and most in the area, is still completely submerged in snow-ice. We've had no falls since Monday night, but the temperature did reach about 1 degrees this afternoon and the trees are starting to shed their loads. But the pavements and residential roads are still completely covered.

I spare a brief, very brief, thought for the poor Scottish.

Crap football team, crap rugby team, Socialist Government, worst obesity rates in the developed world and...crap climate.

That's right, they'll be freezing their Christmas stuffing balls off right now in their kilts, and I see it's going to drop to about -10 in Glasgow and to -16 in the Highlands. Haha.

Colder in the winter and colder in the summer.

You can see why they hate the English so much.

Snow joke

2009-12-19T10:55:00.011Z

Getting ready for Christmas is always fun.

As the bookies slash their odds for a white Christmas, and our Christmas tree lights have twinkled brightly (much to Mummy's annoyance - she's a bit of a Christmas killjoy) for over a week now, the snow has been falling heavily over Bedfordshire.

We awoke on Thursday morning to see our back garden carpeted by about 10cm of the white stuff.

For some strange reason, Mummy had been rather dubious about the prospect of heavy snow the night before.

Even though the BBC were reporting a "severe" weather warning for heavy snow in the South East and Eastern regions on Wednesday evening, Mummy didn't feel we'd get much, if any. I couldn't quite get to the root cause of her suspicions. She just thought it was some kind of conspiracy concocted in deepest Lapland.

By about 9.30pm, the snow was coming down in thick bunches blown by a pretty fierce north-easterly wind. A small drift had already gathered around the wheels on one side of our car.

The next day, a thick white blanket was upon us. Everywhere.

Ben was wise to it in no time and wanted to be taken outside in it. So we did. We waited until late afternoon though. We waited until another heavy snowfall had finished and then took him out, leaving Ciaran perched in his high chair in the conservatory.

I began by teaching Ben how to make a snowball.

He'd mastered it in no time, even though he was gloveless (aren't we nice?). What he didn't need tuition with was throwing the darn things. I had barely moved back from his snowball lession when my shoe was pelted. I can live with that. Shoe hits are okay. It's the ones in the face I don't like.

I then said, "Hey Ben, look, why don't you kick the snow like this". He then happily became a little snow plough and meandered slowly around most of the back garden shifting the snow with his feet.

Meanwhile, Mummy and Daddy became kids and started targeting random garden objects and ornaments for aiming practice.

I pelted our bathroom, living room and conservatory windows several times each, I then turned my attentions to trying to draw a face on the garden shed by hitting it from 10 feet. It almost looked right. Mummy tried to help me. Unfortunately, she couldn't hit the garden shed from 10 feet.

Ben soon complained of wet feet and that was our cue to take him back inside.

Goodness knows what young Ciaran made of all this. Ben certainly liked it.

Maybe we'll make a snowman next time. There's plenty of winter to come yet, and if anything, the biggest falls over the last few years have come in late January and early February.

Who knows. By then, it may be time to take Ben to the infamous Ampthill Hill for a sledging session!

I think we better get Ben a sledge quick. And a pair of gloves.

Can you pass me some more proscuitto?

2009-12-15T21:38:00.008Z

Long time, no Blog?

Yeah, it’s been a while.

I’ve been really busy the last few weeks with my Mum coming over from Belfast two weekends ago, working most weekday evenings and heading down to Bath for my Dad’s 60th Birthday last weekend.

So, here I am, back at the keyboard.

Dad’s 60th birthday went well I guess.

We went to one of Jamie Oliver’s restaurants in Bath, the rather simply put “Jamie’s Italian”.

It is one of several identically-named eateries scattered across some of the more pleasing parts of the United Kingdom – you know, Bath, Cambridge, Guildford and the like – although I see there are plans afoot to open one in Glasgow. I didn’t say anything.

The restaurant puffs its chest out as a destinataion for “fine dining at affordable prices”, so, being a lover of Italian food, I was quite looking forward to this one.

We had booked a table for fourteen and had all pre-selected from the exquisite looking, if somewhat hard to comprehend, Christmas menu.

The food was flawless, when you could get your hands on it that is.

The starters - “Seasonal Meat & Vegetables Antipasti” – came along on three two-foot-long wooden planks placed in the middle and at either ends of the long dinner table, and much plate-passing up and down the table ensued.

I'm afraid the share-three-planks-between-you format didn't work for me. No.

Okay, it's not as bad as a Pizza Hut buffet on a bad day in Plymouth, but with elbow room already at a premium, I don't think its condusive to fine dining, so-to-speak, to have to ask Bobby-down-the-row to top your plate up with two more slices of proscuitto, when you actually want four, but you don't want to fend off accusations of 'who ate all the ham' later in the evening.

It was quite pleasing when mains and desserts came along and we reverted to the more traditional format of one plate per person, without so much of a sniff of a wooden serving plank in sight.

Interwoven between each course, we were all treated to some live singing. Dad.

No sooner had the starters arrived, when he burst into song and started firing round songsheets like a card-dealer in Vegas and all were encouraged, bullied even, to join in and sing. Some other guests joined in to.

The singing petered out as Dad’s voicebox got hoarser, and Mum then presented Dad with a surprise 60th birthday cake, a fantastic spectacle. A delicious raspberry sponge and cream affair with two guitars and a song-sheet iced on for good measure. Oh the irony.

Dad made a brief speech and we made for the exits soon after to meet up in the nearby Brown’s Brasserie for drinks at about 9.30pm.

I stayed to the not-so-bitter end - about 12.30am - and got to bed for about 1.30am I guess for the 140 mile trip home the next day.

It was a lovely night and I take my hat off to Mum for organising such a fantastic evening.