And So We Begin Again

The Little Ducks are at Football School this week as part of a wide and varied programme of summer holiday activities.*

With Tiddler's football career in the balance, the intense skills training will come in handy. By 6.15 this morning the wake up question was 'which shinnies shall I wear?' and 'shall I take these goalie gloves or these?' In the early morning gloom I dispensed my sage advice.

'Whatever!'

The real excitement for me this week is the first home game of the season. A friendly against Inter Milan on Wednesday. The football drought is ended and the ritual begins again. I can't wait.

To celebrate, let's relive those glorious goals against Roma.


Click the play button in the bottom left corner.


*known in our house as 'WTF can we do with the kids this week?'

Things You Encounter When You Haven't Got Your Gun #4

I hate shopping.

But with a conference looming and having lost a few pounds, Yummy Mummy talked me into going to the Trafford Centre. Fed up of using safety pins to keep my trousers up, I agreed to an evening trip - nothing on earth would induce me to a daytime or weekend visit*.

We are making our way along a two lane ringroad, when the rear door of a taxi, parked outside a pub, swings open into the busy road, at the exact moment we pass by. There is a cry from YM and a loud bang. We manage to pull over, some way past and survey the damage. Megane's wing mirror glass, now cracked, hangs sorrily down from its housing, attached only by some wires. Minimal. We clip the glass back into the mirror and reset the housing back into position.

We walk back to the taxi where the driver is shaking his head and looking at his rear offside door which is severely dented! Surveying this, I am now somewhat embarrassed to admit that my only damage is a cracked mirror glass - not even full-blown wing mirror devastation to report, which would seem only reasonable and fair, in light of the state of his door. (Although, at the same time, I am secretly in awe of the tank-like resilience of Megane and resolve to treat it to a wash and polish.)

We swap numbers and he is perfectly decent about paying for the damage.**

The woman who caused the accident is nowhere to be seen. She's paid her £2.80 fare and gone into the pub!


*well, maybe if Mr Palin was signing copies of his diaries in the bookshop, with a free pint of Guinness for every customer.

** which he does immediately, when I replace the glass two days later. Thank you Mr Azad.

Karaoke Pirates of the Universe

Tiddler went to a Pirate Party on Sunday - stripey britches, waistcoat, bandanna etc. etc. He doesn't like facepaints, but did agree to tattoos, so I duly painted a skull and crossbones, anchor, ship and cutlass on his forearms. And made a pretty good fist of it, if I do say so myself.

Not to be outdone, JP dresses up too and asks for his face to be painted. Eyepatch, beard, moustache, scar and dripping blood. The resemblance to Jack Sparrow more than passes muster.

After the party, they ask to go on the PS2. I have now advanced sufficiently to load the eye toy and Kinetic. So their 18th century pirate alter egos appear on TV, battling with virtual space bombs and missiles. Bizarre enough.

But things become surreal when they ask to switch to Singstar.

Pirates in space I can cope with, but Jack Sparrow and First Mate with microphones, gyrating along with Ricky Martin is just too much.

La Vida Loc-aha, Jim Lad.

Selection

Football training is suspended for 3 weeks. When they resume, Tiddler’s group is going to be split into two – by ability.

He’s only 4 and he’s to be pitted against 19 other tiddlers to make the first team squad, or sink into reserves oblivion, taking my dreams with him.

Instantly, I assess the competition in my head. Is Tiddler top ten material?* I try to size him up with an independent eye.

He shoots well.
He dribbles with both feet.
He can kick out of his hands
He doesn’t shy from tackles.
He’ll play the man if the ball has gone.

But

He’s a bit lazy
He’s not very fast
He shoots well, but only with one foot.
He’s a bit reluctant to head the ball
He’ll play the man if the ball has gone


It will be a long three weeks.


*I’d put him at about 7th if I’m honest

Sex Toy

Yummy Mummy babysat on Sunday, so that I could watch Mr Duck being presented with a large silver trophy and a prize from the Pastel Sports Jackets and Brylcreem Committee at the Golf Club. It joins the other trophies in the cabinet from a recent St. Andrews Golf Trip and Mr Duck’s handicap has been cut again. Well done, that man.

Yummy Mummy is in the sex business - educating the youth of the Borough in the ways of safe (and legal) practices. I raised my eyebrows the first time I saw a gross of condoms on her dining table, but anyone who travels in daylight with a laptop bag with DUREX emblazoned on the side in large letters, deserves admiration.

When we return from the golf club, she is busy packing something up on the rug.

‘I’ve been testing my new toy’ – she explains, pulling out a large, wobbly, transparent willie on a stand. ‘It even ejaculates’.*

Mr Duck instantly appears from the kitchen with Big Bertha and a smile on his face.

'You might at least have closed the curtains' - I admonish, as the sound of our names being scratched from party invitation lists resonates up and down the street.


*It’s a demonstration tool for practising putting condoms on. I don’t understand why it ejaculates. Perhaps it’s a novel ‘It’s A Knockout’ game against the clock?

Temptation II - Txt Message

11.02
Duck. Sun out. I’m waiting. Come now. :) SS xxx

11.14
Not much time. Hurry up :) SS xxx

11.25
I’m warming up nicely… :) SS x

11.38
Where are yu? :( SS


11.51
SS. F***ing London. D

Temptation

I would like to apologise to all for the dreadful weather we have been experiencing, which I fear, is all my fault, due to my committing the deadly sin of lust.

A couple of weeks ago, I treated myself to an early birthday present - a swing seat. Ever since I saw the Waltons swinging on their porch* in the 70s, I have craved one.

Mr Duck assembled it, and I ignored the mutterings about me being old and wanting a rocking chair**. I couldn't wait to get my hands on it.

It's beautiful, it's funky, it matches my garden furniture.

It's a 'glider seat' - I am reliably informed by JP - confirming my status as a 21st Century girl with cutting-edge gliding technology on my deck.

I position it carefully to catch the evening sun, open a bottle of beer and take my first glide.

For a few blissful minutes I dream of us spending long, lazy summer evenings together, moving gently back and forth.... until the first drop of rain splashes on my nose, rapidly followed by a second and then a deluge.

Two weeks have passed and I have yet to sit on it again. Oh, it's out there - enticing me into the storms - the gliding mechanism ever-responsive to the wind and rain. I am being seduced, but I am powerless to resist.

'Come to me' - it beckons, 'you know you want to'. I'm very tempted.

But still I sit here, gazing upon the object of my desire, waiting for the clouds to part.


*That's the wholesome TV series about a family in the Depression in the US, before you go looking on Youtube for juicy clips.
** Duly noted though - expect to hear about a cold dish sometime in the future.