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.

Of Dogs and Dragonflies

JP and Tiddler do yoga at school with Lovely Teacher. Dog, cat, shark, whale, turtle, frog, dragonfly and cobra are all practised at home accompanied by relaxation breathing.

'It's good for our stress levels' I'm informed by JP.

The days of playground elastics are long gone....

Guest Post

William J. Clough, author and former reporter with Nottingham newspaper Central Times files this report:

SESAME STREET GANG STRIKES AGAIN
The gang of crack thieves known to police as the Sesame Street Gang struck again late last night on Thursday Street in Nottingham. The thieves broke into three parked vehicles and stole all articles beginning with the letter 'H'. One of the victims, a man in his thirties who cannot be named for legal reasons, said this morning: "It's an absolute disgrace. When I went to my car I found they had stolen my hat, my headrest, a bag of Hula Hoops and some of my CDs, including 'Hatful Of Hollow' by The Smiths and 'Hunky Dory' by David Bowie. To add insult to injury, I had to call the RAC out to help me get into my car as all the handles had been stolen too."
The gang, which incorporates three members, has been known to police for sometime, but as yet no arrests have been made. The Chief Constable of Nottingham, Inspector 'Legs' Templeton, told our reporter: "We know two of the felons go by the name of Burt and Ernie. The third member of the gang should be easy to spot – he's an enormous flightless yellow bird with red and white striped legs."

Geek

I am in love.

He's dark, sexy, good-looking, intelligent and I'm determined to make him mine. You can see his picture here and see him in action here. I am captivated.

I rush to the bedroom window, searching the garden for the tell-tale pod. The real Duck must have been replaced. I don't do gadgets and technology. I don't own an i-Pod or a Blackberry, and have only a rudimentary knowledge of how to load Spongebob Squarepants into the PS2 for JP and Tiddler. The DAB radio Mr Duck got me for my birthday is permanently on Radio 2. Predictive text remains a mystery, as I punctuate my way meticulously through all communications.

Is this blog leeching into my bloodstream? Am I now XML positive instead of A?

UPDATE

December 3rd 2007. As you know (or as you will find out if you're reading this chronologically). I do now own an iPod, and I'm happy to say I have mastered predictive text. I can switch between Radio 2 and Virgin, and I've got a BOSE docking station on my Christmas list. I'm definitely a clone. RIP Duck.

Theme Song

I have always had a fondness for Do Wah Diddy by Manfred Mann. One of my very earliest memories is riding in the back of my uncle's Austin Healey Sprite over mountains in North Wales, singing along with the chorus.

JP and Tiddler, have also developed the same fondness for the song and are gradually converting the rest of Mixed Infants. It's their first choice on Singstar - and also for singing in the back of the car - my car at least. In Mr. Duck's, it's Green Day and Blink 182. Seeing them headbanging and playing air guitar to American Idiot, makes me reach instantly for Simon and Garfunkel and a kaftan.

Today, moving swiftly on to the point of the post, I checked out a site showing what was #1 on a given date and it turns out Do Wah Diddy was top of the charts on the day I was born.

'Aha! That explains it'. I thought.

I'll let you know when I figure out exactly what...

Apprentice

JP is a budding zoologist. He was going to be a paleontologist, until we delivered the shocking news that dinosaurs are, in fact, extinct*, and that Nigel Marven does not really own a time portal to travel back 65,000,000 years to rescue T-Rexes called Terrence and Matilda.

Dinosaur hunting is a serious business, requiring the wearing of khaki, walking boots, and Indiana Jones-style hats. Your kit must include binoculars, water bottle, Milky Way (snack size) magnifying glass, glow-in-the-dark stegosaurus figure, bug viewer, triceratops keyring, compass, notebook, pencil, ThomastheTankEngine pop-up tent - and that's just for watching the Prehistoric Park DVD.

Nigel Marven Jr. has an ant farm in the kitchen. We tried to catch ants in the garden to populate the farm, but failed to attract sufficient numbers from the same family to prevent gang warfare, murder and cannibalism on a shocking scale. In the end I resorted to ordering ants by mail - probably the strangest parcel I've ever accepted delivery of on the doorstep. The prominent 'Caution: LIVESTOCK' label on the very small jiffy bag must have aroused the curiosity of the postman, because it would easily have passed through the letterbox, but he chose to ring the bell. His unspoken question went unanswered and a petri dish of ants was dispensed into the farm.

As far as we can tell, it's much like a human community. The women set about unpacking, checking out the local schools and hiring a windowcleaner and the men scoured the perimeters for opportunities to wage war on the neighbours.

Keeping the ants company in the kitchen, is a pool of baby Triops - aka prehistoric shrimp. Hatched from eggs kept in suspended animation for thousands of years - reawakened with rainwater and the promise of fish flakes. They too are cannibals and the hundreds we hatched are now down to about 8. They're just about visible to the naked eye now, and their pool is surrounded by an attractive boundary of home-grown grass, which we have also 'hatched' from seeds that came with the Triop eggs.

Father Christmas delivered Worm World last month - watch this space.

*Apart from Dung Beetles, Dragonflies, Crocodiles, Scorpions, Triops and Ron Atkinson.

Ritual

Assemble essential kit:- season ticket, flask of milky coffee to share with Fellow Fan who will bring brandy, blackcurrant Lockets, money for chips and gravy, phone, keys, #1 hat, gloves.

Stow kit in Coat with Pockets of Magical Proportions.

Choose shirt.

Go.

Drive the same route, traffic permitting and park in the same spot. Far enough away to avoid the post match gridlock and the huge parking fees. Also far enough away for vandals to smash car windows without the police noticing - but hopefully not my turn this week.

Chips and gravy from the same van - and exactly enough time to eat them before arriving at turnstile N41.

Watch MUTV in the concourse until the music starts - Do do do, do do do-do. Iggy Pop - Lust for Life. This is my cue to enter the arena and mount the stairs to my seat - my very own piece of Old Trafford. When United are playing, no-one may sit there but me, for as long as I live, or at least as long as I can climb the stairs unaided.

Shake hands with Fellow Fans in their seats, their very own pieces of Old Trafford, where no-one may sit but them, for as long as they live.

Look for my singing partner 2 rows back. Prepare to sing on behalf of the whole block.

Wait.

76,000 become 1. Heart rate up - senses heightened - skin tingling - united.

Or maybe it's just me?

Happy New Year

This week, I will mostly be wearing 10 pints of Guinness

on my nails.

Pension Plan

We haven't really spoken about football yet. I'm assuming that if you're interested, you'll read the results in the paper, or watch the games live on Sky, or even go to watch the beautiful game.

It has long been my ambition to play professional football for Manchester United, but apart from an all-too-brief spell in goal for the Watership Down ladies team, the chances of having a peg with my name on in the home changing room at Old Trafford are slim.

My hopes and dreams now therefore rest on JP and Tiddler. Both enjoy sport in general and the lawn sports a variety of mud patches from goal mouths and improvised wickets to run between. JP and Mr Duck confine their golf activities to the Club and the driving range so there are no divots or pitch marks as yet.

Tiddler shows some aptitude for football, so it was with delight and excitement that I took him football training for the first time last Monday at the Church Hall - under fives, bring your own shin pads.

There were 8 tiddlers in total with a coach from a local football club who have, in the past, sent boys up to Blackburn and Manchester City - not the best of credentials, but it'll do.

Imagine my delight when Tiddler turned out to be pretty good - hat trick on his debut and control with both feet (something for the purists). The coach turns out to be excellent and has the same mysterious power of command over Tiddler as Stern Teacher.

Imagine my horror as I caught sight of myself as Pushy Football Mum on the touchline urging him to tackle Tiny Boy with ball. I can't help it. I beamed my way home (that's smiling not Star Trekking) and whooped when he asked if he could go tomorrow.

The vision of the peg in the changing room might be fading, but I'll be checking out the Players' Families area at Old Trafford on Boxing Day to see which seat has the best view.

The Knight Bus

After living here for 10 years, an unplanned and unexpected opportunity arose to return home from Manchester on Saturday night on the late bus. Let me issue a health warning here. The late bus bears no resemblance to the gridlock of double deckers prostituting themselves before unsuspecting pedestrians by day in the city centre in what Granada Reports calls 'the bus war'*.

No, this is an entirely different species, sharing its DNA with the wizards' Knight Bus in Harry Potter and Frankenstein's race car in Death Race 2000.

The Senior Ducks were over for the Christmas Classical Spectacular concert at the MEN arena (indoor fireworks, laser light show, communal singing, soldiers and cannon) as our gift to them. Mr Duck Snr. has emphysema and really can't walk any distance, so we elected for public transportation in order to land at the Arena itself and not have to walk from a car park. When the queue for the tram home turned ugly - union jack-waving, geriatric concert-goers, fuelled with Britannia and Jerusalem, squaring up to Metro staff, we decided to get a cab. When we reached the taxi rank, it became clear that others shared the same thought and we could be in for a long wait. Suddenly, we were nearly mown down by a #98 which skidded to a halt at the bus stop in front of us.

In hindsight, this should have sent us scurrying back to the tram platform and the angry mob. But it being late, and the #98 going right past our house, we boarded. At first the driver refused to sell us tickets saying it was too expensive. Mr Duck practically had to stuff used fivers - all two of them, down his shirt to get him to accept us as passengers.

There followed the most extraordinary 25 minute ride, through red lights, over speed humps - at least, I'm hoping it was speed humps, with an occasional emergency stop when someone dared to press the stopping bell. If you bear in mind this journey is normally at least 40 minutes by car, with no passenger stops, you have some idea of the reckless, yet curiously exhilirating trip we had. Mr Duck Snr. sucked on his inhaler and gripped the handrails. Mrs Duck Snr. clutched a Lambert & Butler King Size, ready for lighting on alighting.

"Merry Christmas!" - we wished them, as they departed on Sunday. "Come again, won't you?"

*not to be confused with the Rochdale Coach Battle of '92, or the Wayfarer Warfare of '78.

Possessed!

It's official. Tiddler is not the only demon in the house.

Lately, of an evening, there have been strange noises emanating from the dining room. Sudden, unexplained loud cracks. We check for shattered lightbulbs, cracked mirrors, Indiana Jones' whip etc. but nothing.

Then on Sunday night, while Mr Duck was ogling a selection of enticing and expensive Srixon drivers* with their come hither graphite shafts and shiny titanium heads on ebay, he stopped in his tracks and advanced on the Basket of Trains, from whence a persistant clicking could be heard.

In my head, the theme from the Twilight Zone began. I mute the TV. Seconds later, in triumph he holds aloft Spencer - the shiny, silver express train that's putting James, Gordon, Percy et al out to grass in ThomastheTankEngineland. Spencer is clicking, but the power switch is in the 'off' position! Mr Duck removes the battery. Spencer continues to click defiantly.....

We bury Spencer in the garden in the dead of night. Does anyone have Yvette Fielding's phone number?


*Golf plays a major part in our lives, mostly in relation to the credit card bills. A curse on the House of Nevada Bob.

Parents' Evening

We go to Parents’ Evening. JP is doing well, first with his hand up and madly enthusiastic about everything - soaking up knowledge and storing it in his filing cabinet brain, or should that be 8gb hard drive brain, now we're in the 21st Century?

Tiddler is a different story. While we talk to Stern Teacher about his progress, he’s busy doing Peter Kay knee slides across the beautifully polished new classroom floor.

‘Tiddler, you know that’s not how we behave in here. Please sit down quietly at the table and talk to your brother’ - she commands, in a voice so quiet that only dogs can hear.

To our astonishment, Tiddler stops in mid-slide and heads straight for the table.

‘Can you come and live with us?’ I blurt out.

We are delighted to hear that he hasn’t hit anyone, hasn’t called anyone ‘Poo Poo Head’ (21st century expletive of choice for 4 year olds, thanks to A Bug’s Life - nice one Pixar) and hasn’t shown anyone his willie.

We return home proud.

Power Cut

The power went out at teatime on Saturday as I returned from the Pink Palace* with Midnight Rouge nails and JP. I'll return to the power cut story in a minute, but you must hear about the 5 foot headless Santa.

The Pink Palace always make an effort to do the windows. Last Christmas the display was a big fireplace with a fairy light fire. This year the girls have made a huge papier mâché Santa. Unfortunately when we arrived, his head was still drying on the radiator and his body complete with belt and boots stood waiting in the cutting room like something out of a Christmas movie by Tim Burton. To his credit, JP wasn't phased at all and proceeded to fashion a homemade gum shield out of chewed up tooty frooties from the gumball machine. I love what passes for normal in his world.

Anyway, to the power cut. For the first few minutes the power was dipping in and out like bad strobe lighting at Phoenix Nights. In the bursts of light, I made for the garage to find a lighter to get some candles going or at the very least, a torch. My 21st century boy stood quietly by the door and said - "why don't you just use the light on your mobile?" In the blackness, I couldn't think of a suitable maternal putdown for such practicality, so I fired up the Nokia and retrieved the matches.

Within minutes the house was aglow with tealights and a pan of water was boiling on the gas hob. "What's the water for?" asked JP. I had no idea. I'd boiled water for no reason other than I could.

Mr Duck and Tiddler returned from Tesco and we stowed the chilled and frozen goods in timed precision, opening fridge and freezer in short bursts to preserve the cold inside. Obviously we drank all the beer which was perishing before our eyes.

There followed a most enjoyable couple of hours. We put batteries in the Little Ducks' torches and they helpfully guided us back and forth to the toilet as required. United beat Blackburn as we listened on the transister radio I got for my 21st birthday and the boys played lego by torchlight.

So we camped out in our front room on Saturday - allowing the Little Ducks to curl up to sleep on the sofas with their 'blankies' rather than confine them to their cold bedrooms with no nightlights and planned our evening of backgammon. When the power returned later that evening it was greeted as much with disappointment as with relief.


* Beauty Salon with regular clients who fetch up there for tea, acrylic nails and a brief escape. A bit like Dolly Parton's place in Steel Magnolias, but pink - very, very pink.