Uncomfortably Numb

I don't really do Nights Out In Town.

Years ago, NOIT tended to end in disaster for me. For instance:

Walking into a canal fully-clothed at the Water Witch in Lancaster and then trying to persuade a cab to take a dripping, stinking girl home;

Ending up in hospital for a week with concussion, after a shoulder ride race round university campus ended with my forehead meeting a low beam and the back of my head meeting a pavement;

But that was a long time ago, so I wasn't particularly apprehensive when, for the first time since moving to East Lancs 13 years ago, I planned a NOIT.

We went to see Think Floyd at the local Met, following up a trip to The Australian Pink Floyd Show earlier in the year in Manchester. They were fantastic.

So far so good.

It was Ginger Rick's birthday, so we had all arranged to meet up after the concert at a local cellar bar to celebrate. Or so I thought.

Apparently dimly-lit, slippery flights of stairs and three inch wedge heels don't mix and I plummeted unceremoniously down the steps to the bottom.

The results from A & E read as follows:

2 bumps to the head,
Cut cheek - now scarred
Cut and bruised arm
Bruised knee
Severely bruised thigh
2 cracked ribs.

I'm thinking I might leave it another 13 years before doing it again.

And in a twist of ironic fate, while the Little Ducks are holidaying in Mexico, I got Flu last week - the coughing from which has re-cracked my ribs!

Thank you and good NOIT.

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.

The Vanishing and Mass Suicide

I watched a great BBC4 documentary recently about the fact that 1/3 of the UK's and US's bees have died.*

The Acting State Apiarist - (what a great job title) explained that they are calling this phenomenon Colony Collapse Disorder.

Am I bothered? I asked myself. I don't have a sweet tooth, so I don't like honey. What's the big deal?

The purple gardener in me should have known better. Bees are responsible for 80% of all pollination in the world.

In the world of flower sex - bees are the King Pimps in gold chains and Hummers. Without them, the planet's flora goes celibate, frustrated and ultimately barren.

Forget global warming. This is literally the end of the world, unless we all pitch in with Q Tips and endless patience, or stick velcro on the backs of wasps to catch pollen so that they can finally perform some useful function on the planet.

In the US, bees get shipped endlessly around the 50 states, purely to allow plants to procreate. The entire almond crop of California alone, which is a mindboggling 80% of the world's output requires 10 billion bees each year for 3 weeks to bear fruit, and almonds are the #1 horticultural export of the US, worth $2 billion annually. The Death of Bees is a seriously-serious economic problem.

I can sense that I still haven't entirely captured your interest yet. I don't like almonds either so it doesn't seem like a great loss. But here's the thing.

The bees are not just dying........

they're disappearing.

There are no bodies.

There is conjecture that it's a virus, or chemical poisoning from the years of ingesting pesticides and whatever else they spray crops with these days, but that does not explain the lack of corpses.

Beekeepers are checking their hives, only to find them suddenly empty, save for a few scattered bodies. And we're talking billions and billions of missing bees - worldwide. If I tell you that it takes 2,200 trucks to transport California's almond bees alone, you can get a sense of the scale. The landscape should be knee deep in stiffening workers and drones.

So theories:

Where are they all?

Have they gone into hiding, fed up of globe-trotting prostitution as a lifestyle?

Are they being stolen to some purpose? Are Evil Rabbits planning some elaborate world takeover?

Have the 456 swapped their drug of choice for getting high from children to honey?

Answers on a postcard please.

Things have taken an eerie turn on Friendly Drive as well. I came down the other morning to discover that the stick insects have committed suicide en masse. All inexplicably dead, in one go. No change of diet or environment or anything.

I can only assume that they've heard about the bees and chose death before privet deprivation.

*Clearly I have no life.

The Secret of Love - Part IV

No prizes for guessing that when head, heart and ladybits all intersect, I believe you get Love in all its finest glory.



"When he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars and he will make the face of Heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with Night and pay no worship to the garish Sun."

Now I know Shakespeare would never have made it onto the back of a £20 note and his sister wouldn't have formed a band, if Juliet had stood on the balcony and said

'My head, heart and ladybits are all intersecting with love for you' instead of the whole stars, night and sun speech.

But the sentiment is the same. It's Heaven and Earth and everything that falls in between.

It's not an exact science, but the triple intersection is the smallest section of the diagram, perhaps reflecting the amount of people lucky enough to experience it and how precious it is.

That is all.

The Secret of Love - Part III

Swap the heart for the head, and you're left with this:




Friends With Benefits, or more commonly - Fuck Buddies*.

Now this relationship should definitely carry a Government health warning on the wrapper. This really is not for everyone.

But I do know friends for whom this has worked very well. Both parties are compatible intellectually - they're friends, but with an added spark of sexual connection. That underlying tension heightening the senses and weaving insinuation and invitation through every conversation like a scarlet satin thread caressing the skin.

They can act on it, knowing that the encounters will be charged with passion, but without the emotional baggage the heart brings to the party. Anything involving the heart has drawbacks as well as benefits. It's never a win-win.

But it's the trickiest combination to manage. Locking that heart out is well nigh impossible and if one partner fails and emotions sneak in, the delicate balance is destroyed.

The road to Fuck Buddydom is paved with broken hearts and ruined friendships.

* Sorry mother. Look away now.

The Secret of Love - Part II

So we've covered friends.

Let's look at another combination.

I love this one. The cause of more tears, sighs and broken hearts than any other, but we wouldn't be without it.

When heart and ladybits collide, you get this:


Crush, or infatuation - whatever you want to call it - it means fireworks.

The butterflies, the loss of appetite, the increased heart rate.

The 24/7 obsession that's never going to end, it burns so brightly.

But sadly, without the head - the meeting of like minds to fuel the flames of passion, it is consumed quickly and the fire dies.

This is the stuff of holiday romances, movies and rites of passage.

The Secret of Love - Part I

While searching the card displays in Paperchase at Euston station recently, I came across this:



Not dissimilar to the Secret of Happiness I revealed on this blog's first anniversary, but the theory differs because it says 'fall in love', not 'get married' for medium term happiness.

It set me thinking about the Secret of Love, which I will reveal in the form of Venn diagrams in homage to Salvadore.

Let us assume that human beings are controlled by three factors - Head, Heart and Ladybits*. Defining relationships depends on which ones intersect.

So: If Head and Heart intersect thus:

You get this:

Perfect Paddy's Day companions.


*or manbits

Things You Encounter When You HAVE Got Your Gun

I don't normally report news stories, but the following item really caight my eye.

A desperate man, out of work, and wanting presents for his kids, took one of their toy guns, sprayed it black and then attempted to hold up his local shop with it.

The Polish cashier was having none of it, shouted at him, grabbed the gun and then called the Police.

Stupid woman, I thought. It's just not worth the risk. Hand over the cash, let the owners claim on the insurance and take 6 months off on full pay with stress.

Turns out, the shop was a toy shop and the cashier recognised the gun.

Quality!

It's In The Bag

There are days when I’d like to be 10’ tall.

Like when I’m standing in Heaton Park with 70,000 others, struggling to catch a glimpse of Noel and Liam on the big screen, never mind the actual stage.

Yummy Mummy and Mr. Yummy Mummy gave up and retreated further back to enjoy a better view and avoid the golden showers*.

Luckily everyone was dressed for the wet weather we’d had all day and I was wearing Bli Guinness’ waterproof coat not mine, so no real harm was done.

The concert was awesome. Barman and I threaded our way to the barriers at the front and bounced to the music as part of a 70,000 strong choir extolling the virtues of Cigarettes and Alcohol.

The layers of clothing did provide plenty of concealed areas in which to smuggle cans of Strongbow**. I chose the back of my jeans and felt very pleased with myself when they went undetected at security. But hats off to Pops, another regular at the Local Pub for cheek and inventiveness and a new gold standard for smuggling.

He’d heard that a friend had smuggled in two boxes of wine the previous day by removing them from the cardboard boxes and concealing them in a 40GG bra worn by his girlfriend. He duly bought his own, ditched the box and arranged the bag down the front of his jeans and under his waterproofs. He made his way to security and was dismayed to see that the boys and girls in Hi-Vis jackets were conducting body searches.

His left breast is patted. - ‘?’

‘Mobile phone’

His right breast is patted - ‘?’

‘Pack of Hamlet cigars’

Her hand moves lower…. – ‘??’

‘Colostomy bag.’

‘Oh. In you go, Sir.’

Genius.



Update: once again Notkeith has come up with a fantastic original cartoon to go with my words. Thanks a million. Do go and admire his brilliant artistry here.

*Seriously, I get why you’d pee in a cup to avoid the queues at the 40 toilets (the amount deemed adequate for 70,000 people who’d been drinking all day) and also to guard your place near the front, but why feel the need to fling it in the air? If golden showers are your thing, that’s fine, but surely reserved for the privacy of your own home.

** Can’t do the black stuff in cans. All kinds of wrong and lager is just a golden shower in a can, IMHO.

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.