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.

Immortalised

Last week over at Misssy's she had the inspired idea of suggesting that notKeith base his cartoon Pic A Day on blog posts. He duly obliged with this after she posted about dog poo.

On Saturday, he chose one of my own posts about finding sex toy packaging in the ginnel, (after I cheekily emailed him) and produced this brilliant, brilliant cartoon.





I am grinning from ear to ear, particularly since I think I can remember which washing line I've seen those boxers on!

A big thank you and hearty recommendation to go over and check out notKeith's inspired artwork regularly.

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.

Tactics

JP and Tiddler have entirely separate approaches to surviving school.

Not that it’s a school that requires surviving. It is an excellent, over-subscribed primary school and we are fortunate to live within its catchment area.

JP has sailed his way effortlessly through the first four years with reports of enthusiasm, excellence, hard work and peer popularity. He is currently wowing Male Teacher with gifts of stick insects and requests for extra maths homework – obviously making up for the video exposé earlier this term.

Tiddler has trodden a somewhat rockier path, particularly in Reception with visits to the Head’s and Deputy Head’s offices after Jason-style threats to his peers and numerous

‘Could I have a quick word about Tiddler please, Mrs Tiddler?’ - from Stern Teacher

to the extent that I used to dread picking him up and took to wearing dark glasses and a wig to remain incognito.

Things have picked up since then and he is negotiating year 2 and its forthcoming SATS testing with aplomb.

But this week he has surpassed himself. He asked if one of his friends could come for tea after school on Tuesday. I confirmed with Tiddler’s Friend's mother and we entertained a small dark-haired boy with football, NotRats and sausage and mash, before taking him home as agreed at 6.20pm.

I knock on the door to deliver my charge and am confronted by the Deputy Head.

My initial confusion and panic that somehow Tiddler had found a way to turn an innocent play-date into infant kidnapping and that the Police were lurking behind the Head with cuffs and a caution, turned to relief when I realised he was smiling.

Genius! Tiddler has recognised the power of influence and networking and gone straight for nepotistic gold.

His new best friend is the Deputy Head’s son.

Nice one Tiddler!

Suburban Stick Insects

When I hear the words 'Stick Insect', I immediately think of tropical rainforests, Attenborough voiceovers or the vivarium at the Manchester Museum. Exotica at the very least.

So when the Chicken Farmer offers me some as pets for the Little Ducks, I jump at the chance. He has hundreds as they breed like rabbits, apparently, but are not as evil*

I beg an empty Bensons Licquorice and Blackcurrant jar from the lady at the sweet shop and prepare for our new arrivals.

The NotRats lick their lips and gnash their orange teeth in anticipation - then remember that they are vegetarian and return to flicking poo and chewing their playtunnel.

10 stick insects of varying size turn up on my desk in a jar, with a net cover like a jam pot. There are extensive instructions printed on the side.

'Eat privet and bramble. Spray once a day with water'

Privet? How suburban. I am fascinated.

I had been scoping out the local garden centre, looking at rubber plants, palms, cheese plants and banana leaves and working out the cost of keeping the little Peperamis happy. But privet? I picture Sir David striding through the jungle, showcasing the privet topiary as he exposes the secret suburban life of our fauna.

Unfortunately, Friendly Drive was built in the 60's - and the front gardens are open plan and largely festooned with Laurel and Leylandii.

I decide to check out 1940's and 50's suburbia, by taking secateurs out on my running routes. But there is a problem. The kind of people who have privet front hedges are also the kind of people who keep them closely clipped (and have pictures of ivy on their wheelie bins) so finding somewhere to pause and snip a few branches proves difficult.

Eventually I find a house with both green and variegated privet - shockingly neglected and ideal Stick Insect food. I knock on the door to ask permission. Cash In The Attic is on the TV, visible through the greying net curtains in the small bay window. No answer.

It is the only untrimmed option in the row of terraces, so I ignore the 'No Hawkers' sign on the door and knock again.

Now to be fair, If I peeped round the nets and saw someone in lycra Capri pants with a see-through crotch**, a baseball cap, a swanky iPod armband, brandishing secateurs and jogging on the spot on my doorstep, I probably wouldn't answer either.

I backtrack 50 yards, assume the start position, take a deep breath and perform a perfect run-by pruning.

I make it back to Friendly Drive in record time, put the week's insect food shopping in some water and touch my toes

- in the kitchen.


* Actually my evil rabbit theories have now been confirmed on national radio - I heard a vet talking about them last week saying they were insuitable pets for children as they can be evil and vicious. I sat in gridlocked traffic with a smug face for at least 20 minutes.

** I kid you not. I didn't notice when I went out running in them for the first time with red lace knickers underneath, until I was touching my toes as part of my warm down on the driveway afterwards.

Straight To Video

'Have we got a video camera?' - demands JP after school.

'No, sorry.'

'Can we use the video on your mobile then? I'll get my costume sorted and you can film me.'

I trail upstairs after him, question marks punctuating the air.

'We can upload the video to the computer (waxing his thick, dark hair into a shock of upright spikes)

.... and I'll put it in a Powerpoint presentation (donning my white dressing gown in lieu of a lab coat).

... then I'll need to export it to a USB stick to take to school to show Male Teacher' (posing in front of the mirror and practising an Austrian accent).

Whilst I am happy to encourage initiative and creativity in the Little Ducks, I decide to enquire further before Orson Welles gets going on his project.

'Male Teacher taught us something today and he's wrong, so I'm going to prove it.' - he explains.

The world has turned on its head, while I have been busy in the Purple Garden. Not only does JP feel empowered to challenge the word of a teacher, but he's making a documentary film to expose the unfortunate pedagogue.

It turns out that Male Teacher had the temerity to suggest that the world was round, when every 8-year-old worth his salt knows that Neil Armstrong's pictures from space prove that the Poles are flatter and the Equator is fatter.

JP faces the camera and indicates his readiness with a brief nod. After half a dozen takes, he is satisfied with the result. We upload the video and he sets to work in Powerpoint - custom animation, imported images of the earth and the all important video evidence.

I hand over a datastick and go off to toast bagels - glad that I at least have charge of something in the house.

Although I can't help feeling that I'll have little more to contribute in the none too distant future.

Geek? Who am I kidding?

What Are The Odds?

JP, Tiddler and I have now had the house on Friendly Drive for six months. They love it. There are lots of children their age on the Close for communal snowman-building, bike riding, trampolining and Football Card swapping.

So far we don't seem to be as unpopular as the previous owners, despite the Little Ducks' Morningtime habits. Bizarrely we all appear to share a communal doorbell system. The receiver in our house picks up everybody's doorbell rings. Luckily we have all selected different tunes, so if it's Twinkle Twinkle, or the theme from Disney, I don't get up.

The electrics are dodgy, the new purple garden is only slightly purple so far and very boggy and the donated TV has such an orange hue to the screen that everyone looks like David Dickinson. But things are coming together.

So far so good I thought. Until I found myself in conversation with the next door neighbour recently. He was enquiring politely about my job and on finding out where I worked, told me that his son-in-law used to work there and that perhaps I would know him...

'What's his name?' I asked

My face dropped when he mentioned the name of someone who I'd fired a couple of years ago.

Somehow I think things may get slightly less Friendly when the son-in-law finds out who moved in next door.

The Price of My Soul

Yesterday, I did a very bad thing.

We did a great local walk to Jubilee Tower at Darwen - known affectionately as Thunderbird 3. We climbed to the observation platform and surveyed the familiar landmarks we have walked over the past few months, including the wind turbines at Scout Moor which we walked last week. Elegant, extraordinary and spectacular. I loved them.

Anyway, on returning from the walk, we headed to the pub to watch the game against Chelsea.

Hang on, I hear you cry. Shouldn't you have been at Old Trafford in your seat, where no-one else can sit when United are playing, for as long as you live?

Yes, I should. But someone offered me £110 for the ticket, and I didn't have anyone to look after the Little Ducks for me to go anyway, so I took it!

So there you have it. I am a sell-out! The price of my soul is a measly £110. I feel like I sacrificed a puppy.

This year, as has become traditional, I had 10 pints of Guinness - on my nails. A belated Happy New Year to all.

Celebrity Stalker

Lizzie's daughter Juju has been over from the States via France for Christmas and it seemed only fitting that she should take in a game at the Theatre of Dreams as part of her visit. I usually park on the street a few minutes from the ground to avoid the gridlock and to save the extortionate cost of so-called security parking -whose attendants are there when it's time to take your money but seemingly absent when the actual business of guarding your vehicle has to be done.

I was therefore slightly perplexed when a car pulled alongside us as we were preparing to leave the car under a street light. The driver gestured for us to wind down the window and advised us against leaving the car in that particular spot - taking us for first timers, I believe.

I assured him that I had been parking there for years and was prepared to take the risk. But nevertheless, thank you Nigel Pivaro - aka Terry Duckworth, for your interest.





Incidentally this wasn't the first time Mr Pivaro has been my Guardian Angel. A couple of years ago he spent some months guarding a building site adjacent to my office and looking up at our windows.

To be honest, despite Corrie's best efforts to perpetuate the Terry Bad Boy Duckworth image, he's not particularly big or threatening without his make-up and without Jack's pigeons as back up, but I'm now slightly concerned that he might be stalking me...


Either that or he's out for revenge after the incident with Marlon.

Take a Letter

This time last year we were in Lappland, where the Little Ducks were astounded to see that Father Christmas was actually reading their actual letters when we popped in to see him (rude not to, having gone all that way). Knowing that their missives really did reach the Man Himself made this year's task of writing even more meaningful, and even more deserving of a charm offensive.

JP went down the route of softening the blow of the long and expensive list by neatly boxing all his entries and adding please to every one - as follows:




Watch please
Winter Prem Ball please
Super Mario Bros on DS please
Triop Park please (prehistoric shrimp again!)
Cluedo Discover the Secrets please
Scalextric Street Gliderz Set please
Donkey Kong Jungle Climber on DS please
Deluxe Indiana Jones costume please
Horrid Practical Jokes please
Crystal Growing Kit please
Professor Layton and the Curious Village on DS please


Tiddler went with flattery, bribery and a single purpose - as follows:




Dear Father Christmas,

Thank you for the presents that you brought me last year.

I hope you have a safe jouney on Christmas Eve. Please can you bring me a new premier league football and please in red and white.

I will leave you a cup of tea and a mice pie and some carrats for your riand dear.

Love from Tiddler xxxxx I love you Santa

We will await the results with interest next Thursday.

Scout

'Hello. Is that Duck, from East Lancs Under 7's?'

'Speaking - I reply, putting down my paintbrush carefully, trying not to get emulsion on the new and completely unworkable Nokia E71 I have been issued with - my hints about the object of my desire going entirely unnoticed at work.

'It's Junior Academy Manager here from Manchester United. I'd like to arrange to come and watch your Tiddlers play this weekend.'

On the scale of Coolest Phone Calls I Have Received In My Life Ever , this is right up there with Philip and Fern ringing to give me £7000 on This Morning.

I refrain from leaping up and down, or blurting out that I'm a Huuuuge Fan and Season Ticket Holder and set about a professional to professional discussion about our tiddlers, their performances so far and the competition in the League. I hope he's picturing me sitting in my office, with an assistant and everything - player contracts at my fingertips, match videos and training schedules spread out before me.

Standing in Tidder's bedroom, spattered with paint, wearing low slung tracksuit bottoms* and an ancient baseball cap doesn't really convey the right impression.

Weather permitting he's coming to the next game. I dust off my sheepkin coat in preparation.



*Not a fashion statement. With no elastic left in the waist I have no option but to show off my pants while decorating.

Brunette Moment

I have been having excellent Ebay karma lately.

You know what I mean - when the exact thing you are looking for pops up in the search results with about 10 minutes left in the auction. Just time to swoop in at the last minute and secure the item.

I have become a bit of a swoophound to be honest. Never showing my hand until the end. Watching the other bidders tussle it out, then pouncing at the last second.

Someone tried to outswoop me last week - firing in with 6 seconds to go on a vintage little black dress. Luckily I had set my maximum bid high enough to swoop right back, so there's my outfit for New Year's Eve sorted out. (As you can see here)



I've done lots of Christmas shopping (can't divulge what, for obvious reasons) and also bought two big boys' cabin beds for the Little Ducks for their new bedrooms.

Yummy Mummy was round the other day - checking her 'watching' items, while I shovelled snow and spread grit on Friendly Drive. Incidentally, I was the only one doing so - much to the disgust of all the Little Ducks enjoying the sledging.

When I stopped for a brew, she was busy doing a little swooping of her own.

'It's weird', she said. 'Bidder 1 always seems to want the same items as me'.

I check to see if there are blonde roots showing through in her brunette hair.

Tockholes and Treacle

I do Local Walks with Local People at the weekends, following on from the inaugural walk at Grasmere in August. Last weekend, despite the rain, Two Socks, Bli Guinness and I ventured to Tockholes. Now I don't know if it was the proximity to Hallowe'en and Bonfire Night, but there was a definite spooky feel to the afternoon.

When we entered the woods, there was an extraordinary avenue of trees with black, twisted trunks, set against a burnt orange carpet of leaves on the floor, and an ominous dark sky. The photos don't do it justice.

We proceeded along the Witton Weavers Way through the woodland, over swollen streams to the Roddleworth Reservoirs. Feeding into the reservoir was a river of Guinness - opaque dark waters with white foamy edges. We restrained Bli from jumping in at this point.

Crossing the streams involved a variety of bridging mechanisms including a cambered cicane, designed to be taken at speed, or risk falling into a Guinness tributary.

At some point, the conversation turned to the Slaughtered Lamb - and the Locals' sage warning not to stray from the path. By sheer coincidence at the end of the walk, we found ourselves in our very own Slaughtered Lamb, aka the Royal Arms Pub.

From the stereotypically creaky door, to the tiny stone-floored rooms, filled with the scent of woodsmoke from the real fires in the blackened grates, the atmosphere was distinctly Local. Think Royston Vesey.

But definitely not unfriendly. There were more dogs than people for a start, which is never a bad thing. The home-cooked food was fantastic and plentiful; the beer interesting - from Warsteiner for Two Socks, to Tockholes Treacle Ale for me. There were even old-fashioned treacle lollipops in a jar (we bought several), and an eclectic-bordering-on-surreal music shuffle on the jukebox. The pub is always in the Good Pub Guide and we will definitely be back.

Unlike the individual who left his underpants on the reservoir emergency helpline sign. I know fresh water is the life blood of the nation, but I can't condone going to the extremes of stripping down to the buff to plunge in to save it.




Now where did I put that Brita filter?...

It's Just Like Watching Brazil

After two years of intensive training, East Lancs Under 7s League Football has started in earnest for Tiddler. The season had opened with 7 straight wins including 2 with scores in double figures for us.

It's Just Like Watching Brazil, I thought.

On Saturday, however, we tasted defeat for the first time against another, as yet unbeaten side, although it could have gone either way.

This Is How It Feels To Be City, I thought.

As predicted, Tiddler is one of football's natural defenders and spends the game prowling the 18 yard line, protecting the keeper and watching for danger. It does mean his chances of scoring are few and far between and largely restricted to corners and free kicks. Twice the ball fell to his feet from a perfect corner on Saturday. Twice he balanced himself, turned and shot in one movement. Twice I prepared myself to leap in the air screaming like a mad eejit...

Tiddler's blonde head is just visible, lurking behind the girl defender.

and twice the net failed to bulge, as the keeper gathered the ball at the first shot, and the second went narrowly wide of the post.

So near and yet so far.

I console him with the fact that if this were fantasy football he'd have as many clean sheet points as some of our strikers had goal points, so his contribution is as important as theirs.

Speaking of fantasy football. JP, Tiddler and I have entered teams in a fantasy league this year. Tiddler and I languish somewhere around 20,000th, but JP is right up there in 1000th place in the country. He spots players coming into form and makes canny transfers week after week. Unfortunately there's no cash prize in this one, but next year I'm signing him up for the ones with the Big Money - provided I can prevent him from ratting out on himself for being under 18.

Off Road, Off Piste

The Little Petrolheads had a day out with Sister in China, Cousin and Mrs Duck Senior recently at Park Hall Farm near Oswestry. As well as the obligatory feeding of small furry things, the Park has the added attraction of JCBs, Quad Bikes and an off-road dirt course with mini landrovers for Little Ducks aged six and over.

Tiddler was beside himself with excitement.

Unfortunately it was just before his 6th birthday, a minor detail not lost on serial-rule-obeyer JP, which he felt duty bound to point out when they were on the starting grid. Despite frantic shushing from Sister in China, his voice could be clearly heard declaring Tiddler's ineligibility to race.

Tiddler was having none of it. Before the race officials could step in and black flag him, he revved his engine, floored the accelerator and took off round the course. He pushed the landrover to its limits, managing to crash and then roll it on a particularly steep section.

This is nothing new. In Lappland last Christmas he managed to tip a snowmobile up on one blade, nearly rolling it and that was when it was tethered to a tree for safety!

So if you're watching Top Gear on Sunday, wondering why the The Stig is on a booster seat, wonder no further.

Under The Hammer

The Little Ducks love made-up stories and also made-up games

So we have taken the basic ‘I went to the supermarket and bought…….’ game and customised it to our own preferences. The latest version is Cars – so ‘I went to the Auction (pronounced Oction in this part of the world) and bought ….’

Of course, it can’t just be a Make, or even Make and Model. The Little Ducks insist on exact Model types, so my offering of Red Mégane is rejected with scorn.

It starts simply enough.

JP – ‘I went to the auction and bought a Lotus Elise’
Tiddler – ‘I went to the auction and bought a Lotus Elise and an Audi TT 3.2ltr Quattro’
Duck – I went to the auction and bought a Lotus Elise, an Audi TT 3.2ltr Quattro and a Fiat 500’ (more scorn, but hey, they’re cute)
JP – ‘I went to the auction and bought a Lotus Elise, an Audi TT 3.2ltr Quattro, a Fiat 500 and a Ferrari Enzo’
Tiddler – ‘I went to the auction and bought a Lotus Elise, an Audi TT 3.2ltr Quattro, a Fiat 500, a Ferrari Enzo and a Toyota Celica’.

Several rounds later Tiddler is stuck on JP’s first Ferrari (by now we have the F430 in the list, the Bugatti Veyron, the Koenigsegg CCX, the Aston Martin Vanquish S and numerous other super cars). Note to self: the little petrolheads watch far too much Top Gear on Dave.

Now, in a game of three people where two are great lovers of lists and have fantastic memories, we do try to help 6-year-old Tiddler along the way.

‘Ferrari ……… Umm ……’, - he pauses, angel face screwed up in concentration, staring hopefully at Dave in search of inspiration.

JP mouthes ‘Enzo’ between cupped hands. But Tiddler cannot lip-read.

‘Ennnzzooo’ – JP prompts, in a luvvy-style stage whisper which could be heard all over Friendly Drive, but not by hard-of-hearing Tiddler.

In desperation, with Tiddler still not getting it, he tries a Whittock-style cough - ’CghEnzo’ (covering his mouth with his hand), then looks innocently at me. I pretend I haven’t heard.

‘Cghpardon’ – coughs back Tiddler, from behind his own hand. I cannot contain myself any longer and collapse into giggles.

‘You’re Out’ pronounce the other two contestants, unanimously. ‘You put Tiddler off!’

God Squad

I lunched in Kro Bar with a former colleague during Freshers Week.

Oxford Road is filled with open-topped buses, balloon-bedecked floats, rollerbladers, sandwich boarders and leafleters urging the new student intake to join their clubs.

As I wait for my wild mushroom and stilton ciabatta to arrive, a rapper in black shades with a mike and an amplifier starts up on the opposite side of the street. Eminem he’s not, but it sounds good and goes down well with the fresh-faced hopefuls wandering up and down looking for freebies, the Maths Building or the nearest cashpoint. His entourage unfurl a banner and fix it to the railings behind him, rolling their fists and bobbing in time to the rhythmic and hypnotic monologue. They proffer leaflets to the passers-by.

‘Live A Real Life with Jesus Christ.’

And not a tambourine in sight!

Faithless were right. In the 21st Century, God is A DJ.