Flasher

Of course, we've only got ourselves to blame.

As devotees of Friends for many years 'Ugly Naked Guy' has been the affectionate term used for nudity in our house, whenever the Little Ducks are unclothed.

Pointing and shouting 'Ugly Naked Guy/Mummy/Daddy' became something of a Duck Family source of amusement and was one of JP's first phrases. Pyschologists can make of that what they will.

Why do small kids love to take their clothes off and race around naked? I suppose it's because they have yet to observe gravity gradually sucking their body down through the floorboards until they look more like Barbapapa than Barbarella.

Unfortunately, Tiddler has started to take this harmless game to its (un)natural extreme.

It began on the way to school one morning, when he mooned me for castigating him about not holding my hand to cross the road. Not surreptitiously - but brazenly marching 5 yards ahead, dropping trousers and pants and sticking out his bottom - in front of dozens of parents and other Tiddlers on the school run. This was about 3 weeks into his first term. Needless to say, we don't get invited to many reception class parties.

It has now become full frontal exposure - most recently from the top of the climbing frame in the garden, directed at our neighbours' two young daughters H and Em, watching incredulously from the patio windows.

I guess we won't be going to neighbourhood parties any more either...

Outstanding!

When Smith emphatically marked his first European start of the Season with the second of the magnificent seven, 72,000 believers danced in ecstasy and began to chant for more.

Something extraordinary was afoot.

I stood in my favourite place in the whole world, in perfect harmony with all around me. As I contemplated my feelings, my senses afire, it dawned on me that this was pure, untempered joy.

The Mating Game

There being Spring sunshine, we took to the park for a game of football. There is a fenced-off, dog-free compound with climbing equipment and picnic tables, but JP, Tiddler and I chance it on the open grass area, using the space between two fenceposts as goalposts, in the absence of jumpers.

JP is in full Mersey Red kit - just to annoy, and Tiddler in full England kit - equally annoying. The game is going well, with me in goal.

Then we spot M - JP's girlfriend of the past year, with her mum and one of her mum's friends. The mums are drinking Grolsch in the park at 4 in the afternoon! I am impressed - although not as impressed as if they had been drinking draught Guinness.

JP puts his head down and fiercely concentrates on his free kicks. When a complicated step over goes awry, he nonchalantly passes the ball to Tiddler, and fiddles with his laces - thus demonstrating clearly that he has a trainer problem rather than a skill problem.

M strolls away from the play area over to the fence to pretend not to watch. She declines to join in.

No greeting has been exchanged and glances are furtive.

After a while, and without acknowledging her presence, JP walks into the compound and wanders over to the monkey bars. M drifts back to the play area. JP manfully climbs up the ladder and swings across the bars, dropping a few feet from where she is standing. 'I am hunter/gatherer and can provide for you' - his actions are saying. M continues to ignore him from anear.

M sprints up and down the tarmac path. She is a very fast runner and is keen to show off her prowess. JP shrugs and does a few bunny hops*.

Eventually they come together for a race. JP cheats and sets off before M. She flounces away from the finish line in second place - disgusted. Clearly he has a lot to learn about courting women.

Later, when they think no-one is watching, there is a brief hug by the slide. They quickly spring apart.

In a suddenly bold and romantic gesture, a blown kiss from JP is received wistfully by the fence as we depart for tea.



*For as long as any of us can remember, JP has spent hours bunny hopping for no reason other than he can. Many have tried and failed to keep up with him, and should this become an Olympic sport, he is a cert for a Gold medal and Sports Personality of the Year.

Things You Encounter When You Haven't Got Your Gun #2

When Tiddler turned toast into luminous green vomit for the third day running, it was time for a bank holiday trip to A & E. Last bank holiday trip to A & E was New Year's Day when Tiddler swallowed a large ball bearing from the Mousetrap game. I'm already booking my spot for May Day when I fully expect Tiddler to wedge a saucepan on his head.

Anyway. I arrive at A & E to report in for our 3 hour wait. Tiddler is Koala Beared around me, moaning quietly. A Hyperactive Toddler is tearing around screaming with mum, older brother and grandma in pursuit - desperately trying to restrain him.

Mum's solution is to get him a bottle of Coke and some chocolate from the vending machine - a massive sugar fix! Light the blue touchpaper and stand well back.......

Guess My Animal

We have devised our own guessing game to rival I-Spy and 20 questions called Guess My Animal*. It can hold JP entertained for hours on end, but can get a bit tricky for Tiddler who doesn't know his arachnids from his elbow most of the time.

It's testing enough when it's JP's turn - given his encyclopaedic knowledge of animals in general and dinosaurs in particular. Woe betide the contestant who isn't familiar with the differences between deinonychus and mononychus.

It's practically impossible when Tiddler is IT. He changes his mind about who he is supposed to be, has only rudimentary understanding of the difference between land and sea creatures, no feel for diets or habitats and cannot count legs.

The Ducks-in-Law were over at the weekend and we decided to have a game of GMA in the car.

Tiddler's turn went something like this:

Tiddler: Guess My Animal

Duck: Are you a mammal?

Tiddler: Yes

Mr Duck-in-Law: Do you have four legs?

Tiddler: No

Mrs Duck-in-Law: Do you have two legs?

Tiddler: No

JP: Do you have no legs?

Tiddler: No

Now at this point we're a bit stumped. Any amount of legs over four suggests that IT is unlikely to be mammalian.

Tiddler: I'll give you a clue - it's got three legs.

There is an awkward pause until JP pipes up...

Is it a dog having a wee?


* The rules. Whoever is IT thinks of an animal. Everyone else has to ask questions to deduce what the animal is. Questions may only be answered 'yes' or 'no'. There are no limits to the number of questions you can ask. Email me for a starter pack of questions to get you going if you're interested.

Ladies

While using the facilities at Old Trafford on Saturday, it occurred to me that the ladies' toilets at a football match differ from those offered anywhere else in 3 fundamental ways.

1. There is no queue.

Despite the fact than men's facilities outnumber the ladies' by 3 to 1, the queue is always under the sign of the Stick Man. Why do they show a Stick Man with his arms out to his sides outside a gents? As far as I can tell, men looking for a toilet always have one hand reaching for the entrance to their flies long before they reach the entrance to the gents. And generally exit the same way. Too much, boys! Save it for the cubicles.

2. No-one is doing their hair or applying make-up.

There are no fumes from hairspray, Impulse or perfume and no-one is adjusting the tit tape on their cleavage. The mirrors are provided purely to check that the badge on your hat is facing the front.

3. Lots of people are wearing exactly the same outfit

- but no-one minds at all.

The Song I Wish I'd Written

A Rainy Night In Soho

I've been loving you a long time
Down all the years, down all the days
And I've cried for all your troubles
Smiled at your funny little ways

We watched our friends grow up together
And we saw them as they fell
Some of them fell into Heaven
Some of them fell into Hell

I took shelter from a shower
And I stepped into your arms
On a rainy night in Soho
The wind was whistling all its charms

I sang you all my sorrows
You told me all your joys
Whatever happened to that old song?
To all those little girls and boys

Now the song is nearly over
We may never find out what it means
But there's a light I hold before me
You're the measure of my dreams
The measure of my dreams

Sometimes I wake up in the morning
The ginger lady by my bed
Covered in a cloak of silence
I hear you talking in my head

I'm not singing for the future
I'm not dreaming of the past
I'm not talking of the first time
I never think about the last

Now the song is nearly over
We may never find out what it means
Still there's a light I hold before me
You're the measure of my dreams
The measure of my dreams

Shane McGowan

I am a lover of lists. Mark Radcliffe does a great radio feature called My CD CV. The rest of mine can be found here. You can also submit your own....

Go on, you know you want to.

Zippo!

I have a new Zippo!

:)

It is a pen.

:~

It does not make fire.

:(

Things You Encounter When You Haven't Got Your Gun #1

This is not, and never will be a rant blog. Mr Angry does it so much better anyway. But we'll keep a little corner just for special 'Oh For F**k's Sake' moments.

Today's offering: Two lanes closed during rush hour on the M56, in order to remove cones from the one-lane shutdown for roadworks!

Your own contributions welcome.

Last Orders

It's never easy deciding how to approach the subject of death with the Little Ducks. Luckily they have only been subjected to goldfish and soap death so far - the former when they were very tiny ducklings and didn't really notice and the latter on a regular basis, the latest being Charlie Stubbs in Corrie. They are fascinated by the disposal element - happy in the knowledge that the departed spirits will be tucked up in Heaven. It is with great interest that they check out the church service to establish whether the coffin will be passing through the curtains at the back, or out the front again to a pre-prepared hole in the ground. They particularly like the idea of the open air funeral pyre as favoured in Star Wars.

Occasionally the subject of our growing old does crop up. A couple of weeks ago, JP asked where I would be when he was different ages. By the time he got up to 75, I had to break the news to him that I would be dead (having already established that I would be getting a letter from the Queen when he was 60 something).

I steeled myself for tears and upset....

'Do you want to be burned or buried?' asked Tiddler.

I'm just hoping he isn't making arrangements with the Co-Op anytime soon.

Fnarr Fnarr!

I spent Saturday consulting with Mr. Titchmarsh* in the Purple Garden while listening to the Beatles.**

It being a fine day I took the opportunity to tackle a number of chores, especially round the back where it's a bit bare thanks to dormant perennials. Why does any comment about gardening come out as a double entendre? Perhaps it's all the talk of tools and seeds and bedding. The possibilities are endless.

Anyway, here is a list of my outdoor labours, in the style of Finbarr Saunders.

1. Checked my cherry
2. Bedded my pansies
3. Brushed my crusty pots
4. Top-dressed my clematis
5. Lifted my pelargoniums
6. Tested my fountain for good flow
7. Trimmed the sensitive parts of my euphorbia
8. Planted 12" nerines between the rocks
9. Pulled some saggy digitalis
10. Found a perfect damp spot to raise my rhubarb.

Next weekend trimming my bush and rooting some succulents.

* in print not in the flesh, although as one of my personal heroes, he'd be welcome to test my soil at any time.

**we'll discuss the whole indoor v outdoor music question another day - lots to say on that subject.

Men Will Be Boys

The bedroom door opens slowly. He tiptoes round to the other side of the bed and slides in under the duvet. Mr Duck is away. The early signs of dawn are just visible through the curtains as he inches closer toward me. I can feel his warm breath on my cheek as I lie perfectly still, feigning sleep. He brushes my lips with his, in a soft butterfly kiss.

'Mummy. You're not dead.' he pronounces.

He throws back the duvet, flings me my dressing gown and sets off downstairs with the alarm keys - confident that I will follow. Scooby Doo won't cut it this morning. Tiddler requires Mummytime. The kitchen clock tells me it's 5.50am. The kettle nods knowingly - today will definitely require a 3-cup kickstart.

I thank God for PG Tips, as I break open the Gumball Rally Top Trumps.

Tiddler loves these cards. He would - his favourite programme is Top Gear. Both Little Ducks look forward to the child-friendly Wednesday repeats.

I think they identify with the small boys who present it. Someone once told me that men are just little boys with money in their pockets. They must have been watching Top Gear at the time. Last night was laugh-out-loud hilarious. The playground mischief, the one-upmanship, and the 'I Dare You' egging-on make it utterly watchable.

Time Traveller

I have always been fascinated by the idea of time travel*. From Tom's Midnight Garden as a child to The Time Traveller's Wife this last year, I sigh over the possibilities and fret over the paradoxes.

Today, I came across an online book-in-progress Calling Project Hermes, about someone who gets sent through time in 2014, only to land back in 2005, only it's not 2005 as we know it, but a parallel version. I'll be watching the book unfold over the coming months.

I like to be prepared, so in the event of Bill and Ted turning up with the phone booth I keep a list of places/times/events in need of minor adjustment.

1. Lie in wait for the postman outside the house of My First Crush, to whom I sent a love letter after a school trip to France aged 11, and intercept it. Thus saving myself abject humiliation when he showed it to the entire class.

2. Leave a copy of Bluffer's Guide to Snogging by the bedside of my 12-year-old self so that I don't flee for the toilets when My First Boyfriend tries to kiss me during How Deep Is Your Love? at the end of the school disco, thus delaying our 'going out' by a full 9 months, before he plucked up the courage to try again, and I had some lessons on the back of my hand from a friend.

3. Fire bomb the hairdressing salon, where I had the first of a series of disastrous perms in my teens which ended up more like Kevin Keegan, than Kelly from Charlie's Angels.

4. Put away the beautiful vinyl Beatles singles with apples in the centre that represented the best music I have ever owned, or am likely to own, instead of playing them in stacks on the rickety portable record player with the dodgy needles and leaving them in the sun to bake.

5. Put a mattress at the bottom of the conker tree in our garden so that when I fall out aged 9, trying to prise unripe conkers from their shells, with a carving knife borrowed from the kitchen, I don't part-sever my thumb.

6. Confiscate the Gauloise I accept from a French Boy on the aforementioned trip and save myself 18 years of smoking. On second thoughts, after confiscating it, go forward and pop it in my handbag on my 18th birthday, otherwise the Zippo my boyfriend gives me will go to waste.

7. Hide the loft ladder, so that my 27-year-old self can't stash my beautiful pool cue out of sight to gather dust for the next 15 years.

8. Video the late Grandmother Duck making the world's best mushy peas, so that I can recreate the magic for the Little Ducks.

9. Lend myself money in 1983, so that I put more than a fiver on Corbieres in the National.

10. Keep this spot free for future inspiration. Any ideas welcome.


*With the one exception of the really rubbish effort by Christopher Reeve in Superman the movie, rewinding the world to save Lois after the earthquake. No, no, no, no, no.

Speechless

Fugly has just been added to the Oxford English Dictionary. I kid you not. No doubt Twunt will be next.

On that basis I would like to submit the following from the Duck Family Dictionary:

Jim Bobs - n. pyjamas - partic. Happy Feet, Spiderman, Harry Potter, Glow-in-The-Dark Skeleton. (der. 4th male Walton child from US TV series). See also Pyjamaramas, Jimbly Bobs, Peejah Weejahs, Pajumbah Wumbahs.

Niddle - n. navel or belly button - as in the war cry 'Niddle in the Middle of your Tum' followed by large raspberry, blown into said niddle.

Tommy Nod - n. contents of the corners of your eyes, to be rubbed away each morning. orig. school friend of Duck c 1977.

Snippy - n. Sticky-out piece of nail (toe or finger) requiring delicate surgical removal with nail clippers, healed with a kiss.

Doo - v. As in Doo Wah Diddy Diddy Dum Diddy Doo orig. Tiddler (when challenged to a game of 'What Rhymes with Poo?' by JP).

I'll let you know when I hear anything.

Every Little Thing

To celebrate the recently announced World Tour, let's hear it for Linus doing my favourite Police song.

Click the play button on the bottom left of the picture to play.

Happy Birthday Dash and George

Most weekends are spent ferrying JP and Tiddler to and from birthday parties at Wacky Warehouse, Captain Coconut's, Little Rascals (or Dirty Rascals as Tiddler refers to it), Megabowl and Ski Rossendale - the premiership party venues for this particular corner of East Lancs.

Some part of each Friday is spent in mild panic - do we need boy or girl presents/cards/paper this weekend? And this is after we've figured out the acceptable level of expenditure for 4/5/6/7 year olds' presents. This is dangerous territory - not least because I haven't the slightest notion of what to buy for girls, never having been a real one myself*.

Anyway. Over time, I believe I have hit on the right formula and sleep easy in my bed knowing that JP isn't going to be ostracised over an over-budget Lego Inika Hero or under-budget Polly Pocket Camper Van.

This week, the whole birthday plan thing came apart at the seams when the Little Ducks were invited to a first birthday party for two guinea pigs - pass the parcel, bring your own pets.

Now. Do I really take JP's menagerie - and risk the strange glances that will surely come our way? Probably not.**

What about gifts? cards? Do I suffer disappointed faces from the guines pigs' owners if there's no gift or risk the parents phoning the funny farm if we bring something.

I settle for sunflower seeds and a large carrot wrapped up to look like a Christmas cracker, with no card, but not wrapped in edible rice paper (OTT) and hope for the best.

* I'm not a post-op transsexual, nor Pinocchio's sister - just a tomboy, in case you were wondering.

** Update. The triops are now 2-3 mm long and the grass needs mowing. The ants have built a conservatory, put block paving on the drive and joined the pub quiz team.

Reception

This half-term I shall be scouring the school grounds for magic mushrooms, or whatever it is that Stern Teacher is putting into Tiddler's tea.

When he's not singing, or in search of Scooby Doo, he generally joins us in bed in the morning for (largely incomprehensible) chats about life, the universe and under 5's football.

The latest was an explanation of how Reception class works. According to Tiddler, Stern Teacher is the 'Master Teacher' and the other teachers are the 'elves'. I'm not certain which is the more disconcerting. School as the North Pole, carving out toys for deserving children or school as 1930's Germany, carving out a new world order.

Our policy generally is to nod sagely and say 'okaaaay' in a slightly bewildered fashion.

On this occasion it seemed to fit the bill admirably.

Possessed II -

Do not adjust your set - you have not wandered aimlessly into an old post.

The demon has returned.

Neighbour One knocked on yesterday evening to inform me that when he went outside to defrost his car at 5.45am, my car engine was running with no-one in attendance. Given last year's icy theft, he thought this was strange, and doubly so as our house was still shrouded in darkness. He went back inside his own house and exited 20 minutes later to go to work. The car engine had stopped. The car was still completely covered in frost....

The breathalyser result being negative, I considered my options:

1. Send immediately for an ambulance and break the news to Mrs. Neighbour One that he's as mad as an egg, thus jeopardising a long friendship.

2. Lie and say yes, I am the kind of idiot who would leave a car running, when it's taken nearly a year to resolve the theft of the last one - but neighbourly relations remain intact.

3. Promise to ring Renault and ask if there are any circumstances under which the car could decide, under its own steam that it's a nippy morning and things would be a lot more comfortable under the bonnet if the engine was warm.

Mmm.


Update - I shall be taking my car purchasing business elsewhere in future.


Further Update - Spencer is still safely buried in the garden.

Cheers

'The first pint is the best'

- claimed a woman in the Local Pub yesterday. I nodded in assent - remarking that the fifth and sixth weren't bad either. But is she right? After a sleepless night and in the interests of science, tonight I shall be conducting an experiment to prove or disprove her claim.

Is the first pint indeed the best, or can subsequent draughts lay claim to #1 spot? For the purposes of the experiment Ken Barlows* will not be judged.

Assisting me will be Amazing Dave and Bli Guinness.** Each pint consumed will be given due consideration and votes cast.

Next week: 'The first cut is the deepest' - or is it?


*half-pints
** not his real name

All Change

The Pink Palace is no longer Pink!

Not shocking Pink, not rose Pink and not even whitewithahintofPink.

Is this the death of alliteration as we know it?

Can I bear to get my nails done in the Whitewithahintofcream Palace?*

Evil days indeed.


* Update: Yes I can. This week I will mostly be wearing House Red nails with black tulips.