Dear Santa

The Little Ducks have decided on BMX bikes for Christmas. I explain that this means there won't be much else from me on Christmas morning as the bikes are big presents.

'That's ok' - they announce 'because we'll still have our Santa presents.'

'Of course you will' - I reassure them.

I'm amazed that at 10 and 8 they're not ready to give up Santa.

In due course lists appear. Mr Duck Senior, Mrs Duck Senior, Sister in China and The Ginger One will be forwarded copies to spread the load. Thanks Guys!

Thankfully they are not long, and unlike last year, they've done away with the niceties of enquiring after Santa's health and enticing him with goodies and come straight to the point with a list of demands.

JP:

• Bike (ticked as we have already been to Halfords and chosen)
• Call of Duty Black Opps
• New DS case
• New Professor Layton
• New bra and new knickers
• Video Camera
• Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows book
• Wee on a jellyfish sting

Tiddler:

• ACB*
• Pacman alarm clock
• Need for Speed shit*
• Movie Deathly Hallows

Ladies and Gentlemen I give you the Transvestite and the Pottymouth.


* Assassins Creed Brotherhood
* I'm fairly certain he means shift - but as it's Tiddler.....

Mind The Gap

I have finally been able to unpack my books after two and a half years in Friendly Drive, thanks to the arrival of Billy bookcases (no relation to Bli Guinness).

JP volunteers to assemble them and spends a happy couple of hours with Allen keys (no relation to Alicia), screwdriver, hammer and nails.

They fit perfectly in the recess in the front room and I spend a happy couple of hours cataloguing and sorting books, DVDs and CDs in my own unique OCD way.

Think John Cusack in Hi Fidelity with his vinyl collection and you have some insight into the pleasure it affords me - genre, format, author, series, chronology and so on*

There is a small gap between the bookcases, perfect for a CD and DVD tower - giving me even more space for books.

We step back to admire our handiwork and I realise that JP is staring intently at the bookcases.

'I think I can fit in that gap' - he announces.

'Knock yourself out' says I.

So here it is - proof positive that my 10 year old is no more than 6 inches from front to back and has more of Tiddler in him than I suspected.

* Unlike Yummy Mummy who displays books by colour, to match the room decor.

Legend

Tiddler's team has now entered the cut and thrust of competitive football - in the East Lancs Under 9's League. The core members of the team have been together since Under 5's and play some exceptional football for their age group. Three of the team already play in the Excellence Academies of my beloved Manchester United and Bury.

JP has just moved from 7-a-side to 11 a-side and is also captaining the school team this year. He marshalls the defence from his position at full back and is mastering the art of the off-side trap to great effect.

So football continues to dominate the domestic landscape, although they are also doing yoga, street dance and have just taken up karate.

As far as I can see, this just means they can kick the shit out of each other more effectively, do a Michael Jackson spin and crotch-grab to finish, then chill out with a half-Lotus and a glass of herbal tea.

Anyway, back to football.

Tiddler's team are currently second in the League and still in the Cup. He was Man of the Match last week, too and we have goalscorers galore in the squad.

But this week came the news that we have just lost a vital left-footed player, who's been snapped up by Blackpool and they don't allow their Academy players to play for anyone else. Gutted.

No matter. Young Ollie - currently playing for a local rival team - has been on trial with us at training for a few weeks now and so we are signing him up instead.

As assistant manager, this is my first foray into the transfer market*.

Negotiations are swift, but there is paperwork to be completed and new registration forms.

I hasten to the League to get everything stamped before Saturday's game.

I give the paperwork a quick check before signing it and stop in my tracks when I see Ollie's full name.

I am actually signing up none other than Ole Gunnar LancsSurname.

I kid you not.

Ollie, turns out to be Ole - whose namesake is a United legend and personal hero of mine.

I take a photocopy of the form for posterity, break out a new kit - (shame it's shirt #11 not #20) and pray that our new signing has the same magic in his boots as the Baby Faced Assassin himself.

*Yes, I know the transfer window doesn't officially open till January, but East Lancs must be in a different time zone.

Black and Blue

‘You think that jacket’s black, don’t you?’ JP observes as I twirl, Anthea Redfern-style, in my vintage suede jacket, courtesy of eBay.

'Not again', I groan.

I simply cannot get into the habit of checking the descriptions on eBay to verify that the colour I can see in the photo, is the actual colour of the object of my desire. My suede jacket is clearly listed as being blue.

46 things about me #2

I am slightly colourblind.

To whit:

My new black jacket is blue*.

My green Faithless t-shirt is brown.

My grey coat is black.

My gold coins are copper, and worth peanuts.

My black gun is green.

Comedy Gold for my friends – or at least Comedy Copper.

The Little Ducks have a fancy dress day at school on the topic of superheroes.

JP is going as Agent K, but doesn’t have a black suit jacket. I buy a black school blazer on eBay and turn my attention to Tiddler’s costume (more later).

The black blazer arrives and JP rips open the packaging.

You know what’s coming next.....

‘IT'S BLUE', he shouts.

‘No, it’s not. It’s black. It’s fine’ I try to placate him, before defeat rears its ugly head and looks me square in the face.

'It’s blue', he repeats. 'I’m not going as Agent K from Men In Navy!'

I hasten to the haberdashery to purchase some Dylon (remembering to verify with the Checkout Charlie that the black dye I am waving about is actually black) and don my marigolds.

All is good.

Until Tiddler announces that he's going as Captain Underpants.

In just pants and a cape.

In October.

Superhero day dawns. JP is resplendent in black (with a green gun). Tiddler has long black thermals under his red pants and cape, for warmth and decency.....

..... and 6 pairs of assorted boxer shorts on his head.

He strikes a Ninja pose, whips the first pair off and flicks them at me with a battle cry.

'Fear me, for I wield the Boxers of Mass Destruction!'

*Although it does mean it goes with my black jeans, which turned out to be blue.

It's A Date

‘Am I busy on Saturday night?’ enquires Tiddler, casually.

‘Not as far as I know, why?’ as I busy myself pairing socks for England*

‘I’ve got a date’.

I pause mid-sock and turn to face him.

‘Girl and I are going to see a film’, he explains. ‘There’s a note in my school bag from her mum’.

I agree to liaise with Girl’s mum and say nothing further. JP looks on grinning.

The following morning, I give him the rendez-vous details. He is still very casual. ‘I’m not that bothered anyway, she’s already had 4 boyfriends this term, but…..

At least I’ll get a cinema trip out of it’

In my mind I fast forward 10 years, when I fully expect to hear him say ‘

At least I’ll get a shag out of it’

I decide that 8 is still too young for The Talk (Embarrassing Mum) or slipping condoms in his wallet (Cool Mum) – and return to Sock Mountain.

Today is POAD’s 4 year blogiversary. We started with Tiddler and his then girlfriend, so it seems appropriate to post this today.

*6 feet x 7 days = 42 socks a week by my reckoning, so why do I end up with a sock mountain worthy of the European Commission?

Morningtime 2010 aka Dawn of the Red

Morningtime has settled into a more civilised routine these days.

There are fewer awkward questions and even less bra-sniffing.

House rules are that all Little Ducks remain in their bedrooms until 7am. Spywatches and alarm clocks are provided to mitigate against claims of not knowing the time.

All good.

There are occasional blips. Tiddler has a tendency to slip downstairs and address the issue of an empty stomach or a need to compete in a PES10 World Cup competition using his body clock instead of an Accurist to calculate 7am; but generally goes about this in a stealthy fashion.

I choose to stroll downstairs at 7 to make my first brew; arrange breakfast; then head for a leisurely shower, having already put out uniforms and squeezed Aquafresh onto 3 matching toothbrushes.

Today I head down at 6.45 - the need for tea outweighing the need for bed - to be greeted by a scene from a comedy horror flick.

JP is in a school play, requiring a zombie costume. Last Hallowe'en I provided him with one, so as far as I am concerned we are all sorted. This morning he decides he needs new zombie trousers and takes it upon himself to dig out some old pyjama bottoms for the job.

He then selects the best red from my brand new Acrylics painting set and pinking shears from the sewing box, for the purposes of customisation.

Not good.

The front room, hall and kitchen have traces and splatters of blood red on furniture, floor and walls. Tiddler has joined in enthusiastically and both are also covered in red.

'They're not drying very well' - JP informs me, ruefully - ever the astute observer.

I send them to the shower and head for the pantry in search of a scrubbing brush and Marigolds, pausing only to put the kettle on Continuous Brew mode.

Permission Slip

Now, if you're 7, you will already have learned to ask permission before leaving the dining table.

You will also have heard the phrase,

'Not until everyone's finished'

Every minute lasts an hour at this age, so having permission denied can be frustrating and the ensuing wait interminable, especially if your 9-year-old sibling eats so slowly that the snails of Friendly Drive race to his plate and help themselves before he has a chance to finish.

Yummy Mummy and her family came for lunch on Easter Sunday, as Mrs Duck Senior was over for the weekend. With 10 at the table, laden with food, 'permission denied' was always going to be the answer if Tiddler asked to go and play.

'Can I go to the toilet please?' - he pipes up.

I beam proudly at his excellent manners and congratulate myself on my brilliant parenting skills. I am truly a maternal goddess.

He exits stage left and we carry on eating. After a few minutes, he has not reappeared. JP is despatched to the bathroom to fetch him.

He returns with a note, instead of a small blonde boy.

It's genius. Well-planned, well-executed and rounded off with a perfectly placed comma. I find it impossible to be cross - particularly when JP produces a second note.

He'd taken so much trouble finding just the right words, before settling on a final version - even to the reassuring 'P:S I'll come back' - complete with a correct apostrophe.* 

When he does eventually return, I say nothing -

other than 'Nice grammar Tiddler'

*Come on people! If a 7-year-old can, then so can you.

George II

JP is quietly developing into a pretty good footballer. On Saturday, in the unexpected post-Easter sunshine the under 10's got a crucial victory against one of the division's top sides to keep the threat of relegation at bay. JP won his fourth Man of the Match trophy of the season after an awesome performance at right back. These accolades don't usually fall to defenders, but his team mates unanimously pointed to JP, even before the coach had started his post-match review.

It's just like watching Ferdinand or Vidic (except for the height and the foreignness and the occasional cornrows). He's calm, collected and efficient. No heroics, just tracks the oncoming forwards, times his interventions perfectly and sends the ball sailing back into the path of our forwards or safely into touch as appropriate.

It's a small note of comfort in a week where United's season ended abruptly early and my trip to Madrid got cancelled. Boo.

A couple of weeks ago, as we followed our normal Sunday morning ritual of bacon butties and Match of the Day, Fabregas scored to beat Pires's record of goals from midfield for Arsenal with a strike against Burnley to make his total for the season 14.

I pointed out that United's record for midfield goals is 42, set by Ronaldo. I further pointed out that the previous record was 32, from George Best.

JP pondered for a moment and responded.

 'So he's not Georgie Best any more - he's Georgie Second'

Oh Tiddler, Where Art Thou?

Tiddler was in hospital for minor surgery last week*.

The nurses instructed him to make sure he took a rest every day, whilst enjoying a week off school.

So on Saturday he announces that he's going for a rest and will see us later.

Then promptly disappears.

JP searches the house and I scour Friendly Drive, convinced he's made a break for the outside world.

No sign of him.

JP and I rendez-vous on the landing to review the situation. I recall last summer's Gotcha and check above my head to make sure he's not clinging to the ceiling, about to drop down on top of us.

Suddenly JP pricks up his ears and shushes me.

A persistent, but muffled metallic tune is emanating from the spare room.

'That's Tiddler's DS' - identifies JP.

We pursue Mario's annoying little signature tune, but the room appears empty.

Just as I am about to check my wardrobe to see if Tiddler has stolen my Invisibility Cloak, JP darts forward, lifts the valance sheet and slides back the storage panel under the bed.

Inside, in the small, dark space is Tiddler, complete with pillow and duvet - taking his required rest. His nesting instincts are obviously kicking in again.

We persuade him to leave the panel slightly open to avoid oxygen deprivation and leave him to it.

* More anon about fellow patient 'Catwoman'.

Run JP Run

JP is running for the school cross country team. After his stellar performance in the Manchester Mini Run last year, I'm not surprised. A real chip off the old block. Like me, he obsessively plots his runs on walkjogrun.net and frets about his shoes. We're planning to train together for this year's Great Run event.

Even Tiddler.

Which is more problematic.

Although his performance at right back continues to fill me with pride, Tiddler still skips around the football pitch like a girl and has recently taken to Premiership-standard petulance and on-pitch swearing. In the Under 8 League, this is an automatic sending off and he's lucky the ref hasn't heard him yet. The odds on him being the first player to be sent off for the team are so short, I'd have to bet the farm just to win a pot plant.

Owen Goal Update

19 games have come and gone since I last reported and it's perilously close. Despite maintaining unusual fitness levels and a frankly unnecessary hat trick at Wolfsburg which skewed all the figures, Owen's appearance rate and average minutes played haven't improved at all and he remains a bit player.

He compensated for the hat trick with a barren spell of 9 games without a goal, but popped up in the last week with one against West Ham and one at Wemberley.

His fitness isn't that surprising given that he's only played 1 full game since the last report, played less than 20 minutes in 6 and not appeared at all in 7. Sure enough, he picked up a hamstring injury on Sunday which puts him out for a week or two. A third of the remaining possible games are Champions League, and the projected goal tally assumes we'll reach the final. After the performance in Milan last week, I'm optimistic. He hasn't featured in the recent big games against Arsenal, Villa and City, and we still have the Rent Boys and Mersey Reds to play again at home, with his selection unlikely.

Appearances: 30/42
Minutes Played: 1160
Goals: 9
Goal Frequency (mins): 1:129
Goals Per Appearance: 0.3
Projected Season Tally*: 12

* Calculated as follows: His average playing time per appearance (39 mins), goal frequency (every 129 minutes or 3.3 games at current minutes per appearance rate), number of possible appearances left (10 Prem games and c5 cup games), and appearance frequency (currently 71%). So 15 games x 71% = 11 appearances. 11/3.3 = 3 more goals

Your Very Good Health!

The Manchester Run is less than 3 months away and my target of 55 minutes for this year seems enormous at present. After breaking my ribs and getting swine flu last year, my running regime has been somewhat sporadic and I find myself carrying a few extra pounds and horribly unfit again. Boo.

I can't do diets - my maths is too dreadful for counting calories or points and I'm colour blind, so the whole red days/green days malarky is a non-starter.

I don't think I could do slimming pills - the TV ad for the leading brand is enough to put me off. They're called 'Adios', the soundtrack is Burn Baby Burn and the active ingredient is Fucus.

Adios, Burn and Fucus.

Seriously?

It sounds more like the executive committee of the Assassins Guild than a diet aid.

Speaking of diet aids, I was in Holland and Barrett last week for dried blueberries and Dead Sea Mud (tagging along, not shopping).

They really need to rethink their marketing strategy or at least employ doormen to vet the losers trying to gain entry, in the same way posh clubs only allow beautiful people in.

It promotes itself as a health store, yet its customers are the very worst advert for their products. The shop is packed with fat, wheezy pensioners, dragging their tartan trollies while they stock up on prunes and cod liver oil; or pale, obese men eyeing up the instant muscle powder.

Everyone's a before, not an after*.

No, it has to be running for me - and soon - before my clothes start to protest even further.

It could be worse. JP and Tiddler were having a oneupmanship contest in the back of the car recently - largely involving threats of exposure to school mates, regarding valentines, love and girls worth kissing. It was about even, until Tiddler stuck the knife firmly in with:

'If you do, I'm going to tell everyone at school you're secretly fat!'

Game, set and match, Tiddler. There's no comeback to that.


*although if they're taking Adios, they may never reach after.

That's My Boy

I swear.

A lot.

I make no apology for it. I don't do it in front of the Little Ducks or Mrs Duck Senior and I try to keep it to reasonable levels at work; but apart from that, my speech is peppered with Fucks and Bollocks and Twats*.

I embrace the Anglo-Saxon as an important and useful part of our heritage, but tend to stick to the classics to be honest. The Urban Dictionary is a closed book to me and I am astounded at some of the expressions from everyday life that take on a whole new meaning therein**

JP shies away from it. He even spent the Transformers 2 movie counting the swear tally, while Tiddler just watched the fighty fighty bits open-mouthed.

Tiddler just keeps getting better at it. Normally when you hear kids swearing, it's comical. They can't get it right at that age. They use the wrong one, or put it in the wrong place, or use the wrong tense.

Not Tiddler. When he thinks he's out of earshot, he relishes in bloodys and fucks and hells. Obviously there's trouble if I catch him. Current punishments are confiscations of Go-Gos or Playstation privilege withdrawal.

The trouble is, there's part of me that just wants to give him points for getting it so right. Perhaps it's in the genes.

* But not the C-Word. I just can't bring myself to say it, ever.
** Look up tromboning or bathing the dog. or don't. I'd go with don't.

Morningtime 2009

So we haven't talked about early mornings for a while. 'Are the Little Ducks sleeping till reasonable o'clock these days?' - you ask.

Thank you, but no. They wander into my bedroom, sometime around 6-6.30am - but their established routine of awkward questions has branched out.

Tiddler's had a particularly good week.

Day One: It's still dark outside. He comes in quietly, gets in bed and starts speaking French - specifically counting from 1 to 12. 'We're doing 13-32 next week', he informs me. I'm curious. If you can get to 32, you can pretty much get to 69 - same principles. I don't push it - soixante-neuf is not something I want to hear from Tiddler's mouth at the moment*.

Day Two: I hear a strange noise and open one eye. Tiddler has his face buried in my red bra and is sniffing it. 'Your bra smells really nice', he comments. 'It's Comfort' - I inform him. 'Same as your boxers. Go sniff them'.

Day Three: I am awakened by a flash. Tiddler has my phone and is photographing me asleep in sepia. 'I videoed you asleep as well' - he announces proudly. Then he plays back videos from the Oasis concert. 'How did you get all the pictures and videos back?', I ask him. I had thought they were wiped off by mistake. He shows me and also demonstrates how to zoom in and out for good measure. I resign myself to never getting in touch with my inner geek.

Day Four: Much better. I am awakened by a kiss. Tiddler gets in and snuggles up. I relax.

So JP takes up the baton. 'You can actually rip flesh with your own teeth if you really tried' - he tells us both as he strolls in. 'The Aztecs did it if they didn't have any weapons'.

I reflect on how nice it was to wake up in peace in a hotel last week, as I reach for my dressing gown and go in search of a reviving cup of tea.

*The swearing debate continues with Pink joining Lily Allen as a PottyMouth - more on that another day.

Owen Goal Update

Appearances: 8/11
Minutes Played: 237
Goals: 2
Goal Frequency (mins): 1:119
Goals Per Appearance: 0.25
Projected Season Tally**: 10

** Calculated as follows: His average playing time per appearance (30 mins), goal frequency (every 119 minutes or 4 games at current minutes per appearance rate), number of possible appearances left (30 Prem games and c15 cup games), and appearance frequency (currently 73%). So 45 games x 73% = 33 appearances. 33/4 = 8 more goals**

Gotcha!

So I'm quietly going about my business in the house, when I happen to glance out of the kitchen window at the Purple Garden and see this:



I rush outside to check if Tiddler has a pulse, a string of expletives trailing behind me.

I kneel beside him and reach out gently.

He opens one eye, places his thumb and forefinger on his forehead in what is clearly a 'Loser' gesture, grins, and shouts 'Gotcha!'

I am ready to kill him!

But then I realise he has only just turned 7 and this is a quality prank, well-executed.

I grin back. 'Nice one, Tiddler'

We high five, and I get him to reassume his pose so that I can photograph it for posterity.

Noel's House Party is alive and prospering in Friendly Drive - although he doesn't award me a Golden Gotcha as a memento, which is slightly disappointing.

Back To The Future

After school each day a motley collection of under 10's with grey shorts and scabby knees dump their schoolbags and congregate on the street.

There is a patch of wasteground by the ginnel with shoulder-high grass and climbable trees - perfect for dens and hide and seek. It's also home to frogs which are carted in tupperware tubs back to home-made habitats in buckets.

Leslie, the icecream man, in an ancient Whippy van signals the children for 99s with raspberry sauce and flakes every Wednesday.

They spend hours making sand out of rocks by grinding them on the pavement.

They build dams with sticks, stones and leaves when the cars get their weekly wash and streams of soapy water trail down the gutters to the drains.

They use traffic cones for goalposts, bins for stumps, and play endless games of Tig, requiring no props save laughter, enthusiasm and the ability to dodge and weave.

Sunny days bring swim shorts and water guns for running battles in the cul de sac.

They trade football cards and Go Gos, ride their bikes in endless figures of 8 and knock on for any child who hasn't reappeared outside within 10 minutes of arriving home.

No, I'm not reminiscing about my childhood in the 60s. This is 2009 in Friendly Drive.

In the 2000s, if the Daily Mail is to be believed, your stereotypical child sits in front of a screen for entertainment - playing Guitar Hero and befriending 400 people on Facebook. He watches TV on demand, takes no exercise and is losing the art of conversation, his social skills and his childhood.

Unless Friendly Drive is in a time warp, I beg to differ.

And I'm glad.

Highs and Lows

High

So JP and Tiddler did the Great Manchester Mini Run on Saturday following their inaugural run last year. They were both 'going for it' so I made sure we were at the front of the 2000+ kids waiting for Usain Bolt and Haile Gebrselassie to fire the starting gun. JP came an astonishing 8th, yes 8th, in an equally astonishing 6 minutes and 21 seconds. Tiddler wasn't that far behind him having finally discovered how to run without skipping. But then they're both slim and weigh about as much as a bag of fluff, so there's very little to carry round and they're aerodynamically streamlined.

Low

Unlike their mother, who had to try to keep up with them (failing miserably, I'd add here) as the 'designated accompanying adult'.

It was only when I crossed the finish line that it dawned on me that doing a one mile sprint race the day before the Great Manchester Run wasn't the best idea I've ever had and totally wrecked the months of training I'd put in. I never sprint. I'm definitely built for endurance rather than speed and came away red-faced and limping. Not good. Next year I shall watch from the safety of the finish line. The whole course is barriered off and marshalled so even Tiddler couldn't get in much trouble on his own.

High

So I limped off to Old Trafford to watch United win the title at home for only the second time since the Premiership started and ensure that the Fat Spanish Waiter has an empty trophy cabinet again.

Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be
We're going to Italy
Que sera, sera

Low

So I was stiff and sore yesterday morning - and not in a good way. My 55 minute target was out of the window as dosed to the eyeballs with Ibuprofen, I was just looking to break the hour. It was close all the way round and I was relying on a sprint finish to clinch a sub-60 time. As I passed Mr Duck Senior and the Little Ducks on the Cheering Bus at 9k, blowing me kisses and waving their giant foam fingers I tried to kick for home.

Nothing happened. My legs just wouldn't respond. The petrol warning light had been on for at least 2k and now I was down to vapour. I finished in a tantalisingly close 61 minutes. Boo.

High

So a little despondent and VERY stiff and sore, the Little Ducks and I headed for the Local Pub and a celebratory lunch. We had steaks and Belgian waffle stacks and I reflected on the fact that I improved on last year's time, came 2000 places higher than last year and 639th in my gender and age group. I also raised over £500 for Cancer Research. Not bad for a lame Duck.

Things You Encounter When You Haven't Got Your Gun #6

Champions!

No, I'm not being premature here, although after 3 points on derby day yesterday, United edge ever closer.

Top of the League and THAT'S A FACT, Rafa.

No, Tiddler's team have just won their East Lancs. Under 7's Strictly Alphabetical Order Because That's Fair Division with an impressive:

Played 20 - Won 17 - Drawn 1 - Lost 2 - Goals For - 101 - Goals against - 27

We had a presentation night last weekend, at which they collected a huge league trophy, half the size of the proud captain, who kissed it and held it aloft in finest premiership tradition while the crowds cheered.

Tiddler himself collected his individual trophy and was photographed with the League trophy. Last month's Flock of Seagulls look has been replaced with a Floppy Tulip*, but the smile was worth a thousand jars of hair wax.

The United Junior Academy Manager came to watch an Under 7's tournament we were participating in at the weekend, and we got a sneak preview of some of the teams we'll be playing next year in the East Lancs Under 8's Tough Division. The boys were somewhat disappointed when at the end of the group phase, the organisers announced over the PA that everyone was a winner and would be getting certificates.

Our success-hungry Tiddlers looked confused. Who won? When were the semi-finals and finals? Was anyone going to Rome?

Can you imagine the outcry if at the end of the Champions League Group Phase UEFA issued certificates to all the teams, with a press release congratulating everyone on being winners just for taking part?

I think not.

And in a double TYEWYHGYG whammy, I am not eligible for a ticket to Rome because last summer when I renewed my season ticket, I opted out of automatic Carling Cup tickets. Had I known that this penalty was in the offing at the time, I would have gritted my teeth and resigned myself to watching the reserves progress through the Mickey Mouse Cup, with a Champions League Final ticket at stake. So there will be no mooning over Messi for me in Rome in 2 weeks.

Boo.

* Starts out as an impressive Beckhamesque mohawk, but with fine, long blonde locks, droops and twists to resemble a floppy tulip after a few minutes despite a ton of hair wax.




NB If you're wondering why POAD has been silent for a few weeks I don't really have an answer I'm afraid, other than my dreaded insomnia has been back and Nothing, I repeat Nothing is funny when you're sleep deprived.

If I Had a Photograph of You

I don't like shaven heads on small boys. There is enough early onset thuggery without the obligatory grade 1 or 2 clippered look. So every 7 weeks we head for Trendy Salon for consultation, hot chocolate, spicy biscuits and expensive cuttage.

JP and Tiddler - have completely different hair type and colour and therefore have different stylists at the Trendy Salon.

JP has thick, dark hair that grows sideways at the back instead of down and sticks up adorably in the front in a calf lick that will dog him his whole life (as mine does). He has his cut pretty short all over, with a little wax in the front for that Cheeky Charmer finish.

Tiddler has fine, blonde, static-prone hair (like mine) which sticks out in all directions when short, so has to been kept in a longish moptop for control and order to reign.

It therefore offers him a range of bizarre styling options, to his own unique requirements.

For Red Nose Day he sported a 5-inch red mohican spike, which rapidly collapsed to a flopping tulip, given the length and fineness of his hair. Headteacher was most impressed, as he took the stage in assembly to receive a certificate for not killing anyone at Fencing.

Last week he informed me that he sometimes takes girls' headbands at school to look like Tevez.

But this week, he has surpassed himself. Trendy Salon being busy, he trooped upstairs with stylist Wendy - out of sight. I should have known better.

Twenty minutes later he catwalks down the stairs, bewaxed and grinning. The entire salon clientele collapses in laughter - foil, caps and rollers shaking in unison.

'It's like that man from The Wedding Singer, Mummy. At the airport check-in.' - JP observes.

Sure enough, the sides are plastered up into two wings and the centre is flattened forward over one eye - a la Flock of Seagulls.

Wendy returns the tub of wax to the drawer and walks off to her next client.

I just stand and stare, trying to calculate the appropriate tip.

Early Kick-Off

'Star Player - Emanuel Adebayor - attack 96 points'

It's 5.30am.

I know it's 5.30am because it's still dark outside, and a reminder that the crocuses might be out, but Spring is still a week away.

The Little Ducks are playing Match Attax Football Cards on the landing outside my bedroom.

'Man of The Match - Ashley Cole - defence 82 points'.

Our Dogforaweek is still quiet downstairs, but I know that once I put foot to carpet, his Steve Austinesque hearing will kick in and his bladder will demand that I take him for a tour of The Lampposts of Friendly Drive 1967-2009.

I resign myself to another early start and reach for my dressing gown.

'Why are you playing on the landing outside my bedroom, waking me up instead of staying in one of your bedrooms?' - I demand.

JP drops his shoulders, sighs and rolls his eyes.*

'It's a Cup Semi-final' - explains Tiddler.

When the light of comprehension fails to flicker on my face, JP adds

'Neutral Venue' **


*I hate that. I hate that. I hate that. It's getting so that it invokes a Pavlovian response in me. As soon as I detect the first hint of a revolving iris I find my nails digging into my palms and a pique of inadequacy welling up. By the time he reaches his teens and really knows it all, I shall be sitting in my dressing gown all day, talking to the Stick Insects and licking the barred windows, while Dido plays on an endless loop in the background.

**He doesn't say 'Duh', but I can hear it clearly in my head

Could you be more explicit?

Tiddler has reached the swearing boundary, peered over the top and likes what he sees.

Sly V-signs with the extended fingers innocently rubbing against the face - when I put the Chocolate Fingers into the special biscuit tin with electric fences, combination locks and attack dogs*

'What's the word for a female dog, Mummy?' - as I wrestle the remote away to switch from Clarkson to Candleford.

'The F-word rhymes with Duck, doesn't it Mummy?' - watching me remove the Football Legends sticker residue from the newly-painted bedroom door with nail varnish remover.

And I'm fairly certain he flicked me the Bird from the bath under the cover of bubbles when I pointed out that he'd been luxuriating in the waters for 45 minutes.

I am now discovering that song lyrics can be a minefield when you have tender but sharp-eared Little Ducks.

'Here's my new download list for my iPod please' - begins JP, handing over a Post-It with blue glitter writing and little kisses and hearts on it**

'Have you got any money?' - (more in hope, than in expectation)

'You can use your iTunes account, can't you?' - the logic of which, of course, settles it.

It's not a bad list - Glorious - Andreas Johnson, The Reason - Hoobastank, The Fear - Lily Allen, Wire To Wire - Razorlight. So I set about the purchasing, copy the new tunes to both their iPods***, and burn a mixed CD for the car including the new tunes.

The Fear comes on. We are all humming along merrily - trying to learn the verse lyrics (we nailed the chorus from the radio weeks ago)

Life’s about film stars and less about mothers
It’s all about fast cars and cussing each other
But it doesn’t matter cause I’m packing plastic
and that’s what makes my life so fucking fantastic

Clear as a bell and definitely not in the radio version. Too late I recall the big, red EXPLICIT warning next to the song menu on iTunes.

Quick as a flash, Tiddler pipes up triumphantly.

'Lily Allen sang the F-word. That means we can sing it too when we sing The Fear.'

'No you can't sing the F-word - we'll sing Flipping Fantastic instead.'

'But it's part of the song and Lily Allen sings it' - he persists.

'No.'

I can't see him in the rear view mirror, but I can feel the Bird through the back of my seat.


*He still manages to get in
** I think he thinks it softens the blow
*** For iPods read Pirates of the Caribbean MP3 players - way cooler than my black 8g Nano.