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.

Where's Duck?

Things are a bit hectic at the moment and life and stuff is getting in the way of writing. Sorry for the erratic service. I'm hoping to get back on track when I get my head round things a bit more.

Can You Guess What It Is Yet #2?

I hate fun fairs.

I am totally risk averse and have never been on a normal-flesh-coloured-knuckle ride, never mind a white one, in my life. At best I'll throw darts for goldfish or hook ducks for cuddly toys. Oh, and I have been known to gobble a candy floss on occasion

Also people tend to die or get injured when I'm there, so it was with some trepidation that I accepted an invitation to Alton Towers last weekend with Two Socks, Bli Guinness and Amazing Dave. 'I'm only looking at the gardens though', I warned them.

In the end, Two Socks buggered off to London with the entry vouchers, so the three of us set off for Grasmere instead.*

Led Zeppelin, Metallica and AC/DC provided the soundtrack, and I provided the packed lunch (not a picnic according to Dave, on the grounds that we didn't have a tasselled tartan travelling rug).

We headed for Easedale Tarn, trying to avoid Bli's extensive wind display, which was impossible, even upwind of him. The tarn was reached easily and we rested for a few minutes to watch a couple of brave souls taking a swim.

With time on our side, we continued upwards. At a particularly breezy and desolate spot we turned to look back down towards the tarn. It was spectacular. There wasn't another human for miles and the silence was broken only by Bli's backside.



As we scrambled back down in the warm sunshine, an impromptu dip in the Tarn to cool off was mooted. There was talk of dangling and paddling, but I insisted that only a full dip would do (unless the water was icy).

In the end, I swam, Bli waded and Dave dozed on a rock. The water was fantastic. Clear, exhilirating and shared only with a few other ducks. I felt revitalised, alive, and happier than I'd been in weeks.

Back in Grasmere we bought Sarah Nelson's famous gingerbread, which is unequivocally the best I have ever tasted and went for a couple of pints of the black stuff.

All in all a brilliant day.

We walked back to the car to head home, when I stopped in my tracks outside an art gallery, unable to believe my eyes at the sign outside.

Now, we'd already passed a shop called Rock Bottom and were disappointed that there were neither sculpted nor candied rears to be had. But this was in another league altogether.




Now I definitely don't remember climbing that, I thought, as I peered closer.






* Just as well, as there was a fatality at Alton Towers. I'm seriously jinxed.

44 Things

1. I draw smiles in my Guinness
2. I am slightly colour blind
3. I was a finalist on The Weakest Link
4. I once said I Love You to Ian Botham
5. My favourite food is sausage and mash
6. I have a phobia about balloons7. I can do the Rubik's Cube
8. I love the perfect stolen kiss in The Wedding Singer
9. I have tiny feet
10. I carry a Mighty Sword*
11. Technology baffles me
12. I am a blood donor
13. I speak fluent french
14. I don't like tomato ketchup
15. I would love to have a tattoo
16. I rub my nose after playing a pool shot
17. Old Trafford is my favourite place in the world
18. I drink warm milk at bedtime
19. I would like to model for a life class
20. I own a set of flying ducks
21. I have medals for ballroom dancing
22. I am terrible at geography
23. I am proud to be Welsh
24. My talisman is a tiny wizard.
25. I know how deja vu works
26. I make great cheesecake
27. I remember everything
28. I am completely buoyant
29. I do not park
30. I love the Beatles31. I hate shopping
32. I have no pain threshold
33. I once held a tarantula
34. I shared a lift with Brad Pitt on my honeymoon
35. I wish my teeth were straight
36. I cry at Coronation Street37. I wear red underwear to football
38. I get cranky when I'm hungry
39. I know the secret of happiness
40. I hate being tickled
41. I can say the alphabet backwards
42. I like toy boys

43. I hate fun fairs
44. Today is my birthday


*Aka Swiss Army Knife

NotRats

We welcome Torres and Emma - Chilean Ground Squirrels - aka Degus (or NotRats as they have recently been christened) to Friendly Drive.

JP and Tiddler have been keen to have pets for sometime since the demise of the ants and I refuse to allow evil rabbits in the house - it's bad enough just to rodentsit everybody else's. At the local garden centre they have Degus. They're like Dwarf Chinchillas on speed - about the size of rats, but with furry tails with a brush on the end.

With JP's birthday last week, we collected the two six month-old female NotRats, complete with cage, special sugar-free food, toys, hay, sawdust etc. A luxury two-storey accommodation has been set up in the sun room.

Torres and Emma appear to be settling in and will allow us to handle them, grinning all the while with their orange teeth.

The real issue is poo. They seem unwilling to go within the boundaries of the cage. Small mouselike droppings are appearing at a disturbing rate, up to 8 feet from the cage.

My main concern is how on earth they are doing it.

1. Are they presenting their backsides to the wire mesh and firing at will? Is it some kind of bizarre South American pissing contest, if you'll forgive the pun?

2. Are they spitting them, in the absence of cherry pits?

3. Have they hired a pixie cleaner to keep their luxury interior pristine?

4. Have they buried a miniature bazooka in the sawdust, smuggled in by guerrilla rodents, in preparation for defending themselves against invasion by the evil forces of rabbitdom and the poos are for practice?

5. Are they doing their business, then picking it up in their hands and throwing it, like a shot putt?

Which gives me this week's millionaire idea.

Is there a market for Animal Excrement Olympics? I could train mine by painting targets on the floor of the sun room for them to aim at, create special diets to produce perfect size/weight/aerodynamic ratios and invite the world to send contestants.

There must be a lottery grant available for this. Torres and Emma were born in the UK, so would qualify for Team GB.

We could even attract sponsorship from Flash and Domestos, or in a perfect synergy of branding - Toilet Duck

I pen my letter to the Olympic Committee for 2012 and sit back to wait for the money to roll in, all the while avoiding the far-flung dung.

Gotta Light?

As kids we camped a lot - in open fields with torches, tiny primuses and smelly ex-army sleeping bags, directly on ground sheets in little ridge tents - and LOVED it.

So last week I decided to borrow a load of camping equipment off Guide Leader, Sister in China organised the food* and the Ginger One dug out some familiar-looking rusty primuses. Our respective Little Ducks were beside themselves with excitement.

We head for Anglesey.

Guide Leader's equipment is a small 6-man tent with assorted chairs, table, airbeds, groundsheets, sleeping bags and so on. We couldn't have done it without them.

Unfortunately, 7 people and 3 dogs make for some overcrowding, and when the heavens open on Tuesday, we acquire a gazebo from the local Focus store - the cheapest, plastic one, with fake Playschool windows.



Bear in mind that we have already borrowed from other campers an electric hookup cable, fridge, swimming shorts, pint glasses, airbed stoppers and plasters.

I consider whether to spray Chez Chav on the side of the gazebo, as it nestles between high-tech pod tents and tourers with oversized awnings.

However, the Biggest Headache of the Week award goes to lighting.

On Sunday night after putting the kids to bed, Sister and I cannot get the borrowed light to work, so we sit in the tiny communal area of the tent (pre-gazebo), on folding chairs, with tins of beer in the arm rests, reading** by torchlight - his a low-beam cheapie tucked under his chins and mine a wind-up high-beam from the glove box, whose charge lasts two pages at a time.

So Monday, I set out in search of a gas lamp and some airbeds which don't go down in the night.

Monday night at dusk, we settle in the tent again, same chairs, fresh beer and Sister assembles the gas light. He burns the mantle off, replaces the glass and asks me for the gas canister.

'Gas???' I reply.

The silence echoes for a second evening to the tune of a wind-up torch.

Tuesday, I set out in search of gas, but no-one stocks the non-standard canisters for yesterday's bargain discontinued light. So on Tuesday evening we sit in the gazebo, drinking beer in the rain under the apricot glow of an brand new electric Argos table lamp - another bargain.

On Wednesday I return to camp in triumph with correct gas canisters...

.. only to discover that the Ginger One has gone home with our only lighter!


* 'I'm in Tesco - I've got beer and crisps - is there anything else we need?' - (pauses to consider) - 'No.'
** - Equal Rites - Terry Pratchett (him), The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross (me), if you're interested***.
*** - NB, and if you're not interested, please feel free to skip footnote #2****
**** - oh, too late - sorry.

The Addams Family Garden

I know I should be shopping and doing things in the new house, but that would mean shopping. So, no.

On the other hand, the new garden....

It's not purple. It's concrete and Leylandii trees and a Goal (which the Little Ducks are delighted about).

On Saturday the Ginger One - ant-free, thankfully, brought my Sister in China, some serious chain saws, some even more serious chains and a 4x4 with trailer and ratchett straps. The residents of Friendly Drive looked on. There's not much call for Extreme DIY in suburban East Lancs. Most people just get a man in.

I hate Leylandii. Who in their right mind plants these monstrosities in 2008? They're parasites, vermin, the pigeons of the horticultural world. But there were 15 in my new garden and they had to go, despite the pouring rain.

The people in the garden behind had planted clematis against the Leylandii on their side to try to mask them. Over 28 years, it had grown and spread so much that by the time we got to the last tree, it was left draped round the last trunk standing, which now looks like Cousin It. I hadn't the heart to remove it.



The highlight of the day was the Ginger One trying to impress the unsmiling receptionist at the tip. By the third trip and third failed attempt at raising a smile, she admitted that she had a cold and felt lousy.

So on trip four he presented her with a packet of Lockets, which has to go down as the best pick-up effort of the week.

But still no smile - she didn't like blackcurrants! There's no pleasing some women. Maybe I should have offered him one of my bottles of Rosé?

What's in a Name?

The Second Hand Car Dealers have just had a new baby. She arrived a month early, making Tiddler look like the Hulk in comparison.

All is well with Mrs Second Hand Car Dealer and Baby Scrap, but it is strange having a really titchy one around now that the Little Ducks, the Little Yummy Mummys and the Little Second Hand Car Dealers are all growed up and in school. We all look on with a touch of envy until she screams, pukes and poohs and then envy turns to relief and double-checking of condom use-by dates.

Only D is slightly disappointed, Scrap's big brother who wanted a baby brother. He even had the name all picked out - 'Spiderman Jeff'.

Eat your hearts out Nicole Kidman and Gwyneth Paltrow.

We have baby girls of our own arriving in the next couple of weeks - to coincide with JP's and Tiddler's birthdays. Torres and Emma will be joining us in Friendly Drive. They are sugar-intolerant, have orange teeth and their cage at the Pet Centre has a big 'Sold' sign on it. Oh, and another one saying 'We are not rats'.

The Little Ducks can't wait.

A Bollocking Or Two

Dear Tooth Fairy,

Thanks for nothing, you lazy-arsed git.

You know, JP was pretty excited, finally losing that lone front tooth after weeks of being called Nanny McPhee. We spent ages finding a box to put the tooth in under his pillow, since the official tooth box is at the old house.

I know it was a very long, hot day, and a couple of beers were consumed, but how could you let it slip your mind?

Imagine the scene on entering his room to wake him this morning when his first act is to reach for the box under the pillow and his beautiful face drops when it's rattling with enamel rather than nickel and brass. My heart sank.

I comforted him, saying that you must have had a really busy night, and perhaps you hadn't realised he's moved and that you would DEFINITELY come tonight.

But we both know the truth - you totally forgot, didn't you? Just what kind of magical, mythical role model are you?

Duck


In other news.

My brother, The Ginger One, who has been accused, man and boy of having ants in his pants on account of his inability to sit still, found out exactly what that metaphor means on Sunday.

After sitting for a short while outside, he felt a sudden and sharp sting, where only gentle caressing and light licking should take place. He promptly dropped his trousers and boxers, in company, to discover 4 red ants, two of which had bitten him - once on each testicle. Ouch doesn't begin to describe it, apparently and he refused to put his clothes back on, due to the rapid swelling and nauseating pain. Get well soon, Ginger One and let us know when it's on YouTube.

Welcome

I spent Friday being White Van Woman in a Transit borrowed from Mr Guide Leader.

It made sense to ferry boxes and small stuff from the old house to the new on my day off, so that we could just get on with the big things on Saturday when there were helpers.

I arrived in the cul de sac where the new house is situated, to be greeted by another transit van with a mattress aboard. The Van Men despatched the mattress to my bedroom and one of them handed me a bottle of Rosé. ‘Welcome to Friendly Drive, we live on the corner.' How thoughtful.

A little later Scurrying Woman from opposite came over with an effusive welcome and a wide smile.

Then flowers arrived.

And cards.

And pink champagne (well, sparkling Rosé).

What is the sudden infatuation with Rosé? It's everywhere. Blush bottles line the shelves of the local Co-Op and the Local Pub has at least 3 varieties on offer. Mateus must be sitting smugly at home now watching the New World Cab Savs gathering dust, preparing to follow Blue Nun into viticular obscurity.

Anyway. Just when I'd started to develop a suspicion that I'd moved into Stepford and was checking the Transit for a glazed-eyed Duck clone clutching a bottle of Echo Falls, Next Door appeared.

He seemed eager to come in and emphasise just how welcome I was, as if the flowers and card he was bearing weren't clue enough. 'We had champagne last night, in anticipation' - he started.

By now, I'm slightly worried that White Zinfandel isn't the only fluid neighbours exchange on Friendly Drive, and sniff the air for traces of leather, chocolate body paint and cheese fondue.

'We still can't believe that the Neighbours From Hell have finally gone' - he continued.

My self-esteem crashed through the floor. The welcome committee had nothing to do with me personally, but was more of a leaving do for the previous inhabitants.

Tales of contemptuously-discarded cigarette butts, late night parties, dumped leaf sweepings and excessive and persistant staring filled me with horror.

And then I started to feel something more akin to delight.

If the bar had been set so low by the previous occupants, what dangerous excesses of mine might now be tolerated? I plot a new life of devilment and debauchery, safe in the knowledge that there will always be a welcome and a bottle of Blossom Hill Blush on Friendly Drive.

Football Matters and Size Matters

5.57am - 'Children are smaller than their mums and dads, but some dogs are bigger than children'.

I'm sensing it's a rhetorical question and offer no response.

Blackout linings and blinds are no deterrent to a determined Tiddler, who knows it's morningtime much earlier in June than in winter. Either that or he's in league with the Birds to make my early mornings a misery.

The Little Ducks have been totally gripped by Euro 2008 - sticker books, charts, learning Portuguese (United fans) and Spanish (Mersey Reds), but mostly from comics, so I'm not planning to ditch the phrase books just yet. They've been staying up later than usual as well to watch the first half hour of the evening games, and their first questions of the day have been, who won, who scored, which minute... (apart from at 5.57 today).

It's heartening that for them, the football is everything. As far as I can tell, most of the country is ignoring the tournament without an England team's presence. As a Welsh person, I have yet to see my national team qualify for a tournament, but never let it stop me watching.

Tiddler had a second friendly game last week, and my first chance to cheer him live. It was fantastic. The opposition turned up in full matching kit - warm-up routines at the ready and a girl! 'They're a feeder club for a local League 2 side' - confided another parent.

I needn't have worried. Our Tiddlers were 3-0 up inside 10 minutes and 5-0 up at half-time. It was just like watching Brazil. Now, on some level, seeing opposition faces drop each time our striker got the ball, you want him to slip up. You want them to get a goal back, because they're 5 and 6 years old and this is a friendly. But then you remember that this is football and scream till you're hoarse.

Our coaches had a stronger sense of what's right than the crowd and substituted Tiddler and 2 others at half time. The game ended 6-2, and I tried to feel happy for both teams.

We then had a penalty shootout, with everyone having a go from both sides. Our keeper saved 8 penalties - yes E-I-G-H-T. Our boys put most of theirs away.

There is an air of expectancy around the ground. The coaches sense that this could be a special group. There's potential with a capital P, and our Tiddler is part of it. I will definitely be getting a season ticket for this.

In other news. We are moving house at the weekend, so there may be some service interruption for a short while. Please talk among yourselves.

The Talisman of Superstition

I got a tearful phone call from Yummy Mummy on Friday, as I waited outside her house for a post-school cuppa.

When she appeared a minute later sporting a bloody face, and leading a sobbing child, it was clear something was amiss.

She had tripped on the pavement while holding the girls' hands to cross the road and basically headbutted it with her face, which was bleeding and swelling by turn.

After an application of Germolene, Birds Eye pea compresses and hot sweet tea in a lidded cup with a spout, we realised it was Friday 13th.

'But I'm not superstitious,' bemoaned YM.

And THAT, Alanis Morrisette, IS ironic.

But it did set me thinking.

If you’re not superstitious and something bad happens on the so-called fateful date, do smug astrologers around the world punch the air with delight? Or is it even more sinister?

Perhaps bad things only happen to non-believers on Friday 13th and the believers are protected by the Talisman of Superstition, which makes them extra vigilant. Maybe Friday 13th is their big recruitment drive? I am considering a precautionary Rabbit’s Foot, if I can bring myself to get near one.

Separated by a Language

Before we left Iowa, we went to recycle everything we'd used over the weekend. As we pulled up in the pick-up, I noticed a big sign.

Clarinda Cheerleaders Can Drive.

Now this puzzled me. Can they? I thought.

I couldn't see why it was such a big deal. Do cheerleaders have a hard time mastering the art of driving? Was it a mass promotion to encourage the pom-pommed teens of Clarinda to take the wheel? Was the sleepy mid-west town so devoid of news that this was the best they could come up with? Given that there had been a mini-tornado only 3 days previously, I doubted that this was the case.

When Lizzie returned to the car, I had to ask for enlightenment. She pointed to the large cage of recycled aluminium cans in front of the sign, unable to speak over the sound of her own laughter.



I was still muttering over this the following day at Newark airport when I realised that I'd left my jersey in Omaha and would freeze on the plane back home without it, so I went to buy a new one. Helpfully they had labelled the clothes in English, so I got what I needed without the need for a translator this time.




Update: July 2009

And just to prove it, here are the Cheerleaders retrieving their cans.

Playing Twister Naked with Dead Cats - (Sort Of)

From New Orleans to Omaha to Iowa and Lizzie's farm on Friday, to find that a mini Tornado had hit on Thursday night, destroying a couple of buildings. The big workshop was a mangled pile of steel about 30 yards from its original position, with its contents strewn across the fields, and a smaller shed ended up half a mile away in the sorghum field. The damage wasn't on a par with the devastation I saw in New Orleans, but my friends literally built this farm themselves. Seeing months of work destroyed in one night, less than 24 hours from when we were due to arrive was very sobering, but not enough to prevent us sitting on the porch, drinking wheat beer and listening to the frog chorus from the lake by the cabin.

Saturday was spent retrieving tools and furniture and other assorted wind-blown objects, and in the evening we had a Jedi-style funeral pyre for three kittens who didn't make it through the storm.

Early Sunday morning, while talking to the Little Ducks across the Pond, I spotted wild turkeys over the ridge. Lizzie called to Andre, who set off after them with his gun in only his skimpy underpants, in his haste to bag a bird. The turkeys took one look and shot off before he could.

Voodoo Queen

Today we went to see Marie Laveau's tomb.

Oh, did I mention that I'm in New Orleans?

'I'm in New Orleans!'

Which is brilliant.

But my luggage isn't.

Which is not brilliant.

I have nothing. This is the third consecutive trip to the States where my stuff has gone awol. Twice before, it turned up the next day, so things weren't so bad. This time, they actually appear to have lost it. It's not turned up anywhere and is currently untraceable.

The worst of it is that I spent 3 hours shopping on Sunday for clothes to bring, as I have no clothes that fit me. 3 hours! And I HATE shopping. And, now, when I should be enjoying jambalaya, crawfish pie and filet gumbo, I have to do it all over again.

So far, I have managed to buy a T-shirt, a cowboy hat and moisturiser. Not exactly what a duck needs for an important conference.

I have even had to borrow a laptop for the evening - mine was in my luggage.

I am in the process of compiling a list of contents while it's still fresh in my mind. So far there are 3 things I am upset about.

My Mighty Sword aka my swiss army knife - a 30th birthday present from the Ginger One which I treasure.

The Cancer Research running vest with my name on, which I wore so proudly last weekend for the Great Manchester Run.

My favourite Guinness T-shirt.

Anyway, back to Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen.

Her tomb has a strange assortment of tributes and gifts in front of it and is covered in graffiti in groups of 3 crosses - like this - XXX. All the other tombs are pristine. The historic St Louis cemetary is bizarre, as all the tombs are built above ground. Because New Orleans is below sea level, you can't bury the dead underground as the graves flood.

There are a few shops with voodoo paraphernalia and XXX marks around the older parts of the city. But I was particularly amused to see one souvenir shop selling voodoo charms and figures. In the window was a sign that read '24 hour CCTV security surveillance on these premises'.

That doesn't exactly instill confidence in the powers of the merchandise, now does it?

Reasons to be Cheerful

Part I

I wasn't the only Duck pounding the streets of Manchester at the weekend. On Saturday JP and Tiddler ran in the Great Manchester Mini Run for 3-8 year olds. One mile around the City of Manchester stadium. No mean feat for a seven- and five-year-old.

They raised £160 for the new children's hospital, got T shirts and medals and better goody bags than we did on Sunday! I ask you. You run 10k and all you get is a packet of lemon-flavoured pine nuts and seeds, and a tube of extra strong mints!

Our fears over Tiddler's running were groundless. As soon as the race started, he set off like a mad eejit. He was buzzing and beat JP by a decent margin. I wonder where he gets it from?

Part II

Tiddler had his first football game on Sunday and I missed it. There was the small matter of the Run, so I do have a note.

They played another tiddler team from Bolton and won 4-0. Get in! Identical Twin's tiddler scored a hat-trick and has trials for the local League 1 side. We have a decent goalie, a boy who can throw in half the length of the pitch at 6, and an utterly brilliant, two-footed, pin-point corner-taking, fast, can-pick-any-spot-in-the-goal-and-put-the-ball-there midfielder. I want to adopt him. His dad's pension plan is a cert. Still, we have him on video, so in 10 years I can sell the footage to the Red Tops when he's playing for United and dating Apple Martin.

Mr Duck took the camcorder, so that I could have my very own Match of The Day, but then was so engrossed in the action, he forgot to follow it with the camera lens and I spent a frustrating time watching off the ball footage, while parents encouraged and Coach shouted instructions -

'TIDDLER, STOP SKIPPING!'

So despite the Mini Run, our little Michael Flatley is still at it, it seems. But he tackled like Wes Brown, defended like Nemanja Vidic and went forward like Patrice Evra when the opportunity arose.

Part III

Mr Duck has gone to St Andrews for a spot of golf, so I booked a babysitter and headed to the Local Pub for the small matter of the game last night. It wasn't the same as being there and I felt more than a pang of regret, but it came pretty damn close, as the passions rose and the faithful willed Van der Sar to save us. Which he did.

Que sera sera
Whatever will be, will be
In Moscow we made it three
Que sera sera

So I'm still grinning.

Hyper

Sunday was the big day. The Great Manchester Run.

I woke up, childishly excited at 4.45am. By 6am I was ironing my name onto my Cancer Research running vest and pinning on my number. By 7.30am, when Mr Duck Senior, a marathon veteran arrived, I was talking nineteen to the dozen and pacing.

I wasn't due to race till 11am! 'You have to calm down or you'll burn out before we even get there' - he counselled.

It was a perfect day for running - sunny but cool. Mr Duck Senior and JP went to watch from the Cheering Bus, while I headed for the Green start. My phone buzzed with good luck messages that warmed my heart.

I just couldn't stop grinning. It was brilliant. I fired up my iPod as I crossed the start gantry at my normal running pace, despite the temptation to set off like a rocket. The course is very flat, unlike my usual routes at home.

I grinned as I ran down Chester Road.

I grinned as I ran up to Old Trafford.

I sang Viva Ronaldo as I ran through the tunnels around my favourite place in the world.

I grinned as I headed towards the canal and the 5k sign.

I felt fantastic, full of energy and slow! So I abandoned my dad's advice and started to run like a mad eejit.

The spectators were calling my name and cheering. I couldn't believe so many people recognised me. Then it occurred to me, perhaps they were mistaking me for a celebrity presenter who shares my first name. They smiled and waved, so I waved and smiled back.

After 8k and a shower, I finally worked out that they were just reading the name that I'd ironed on at 6 that morning.

I waved at my personal support team on the Cheering Bus, who waved back with giant foam fingers.

I sprinted for the finish and posed for an 'after' photo - still grinning and amazed that my teeth weren't black with flies.

I donned my medal and almost headed back to the start. I felt like going round again.

I was hyper all day Sunday, and not much calmer yesterday. Normality was eventually restored today.

With just a hint of grinning, as I stare at the medal on my desk.

And For Dessert?

Now I don't want anyone to get the impression that Yummy Mummy and I are the kind of ladies that lunch all the time, but yesterday, with a last minute day off, we went for lunch again - SomewhereNormal this time, after last month's experience.

YM is bemoaning the pressures on the local Chlamydia Coordinator, in the current climate of public sector targets, not to mention what's expected of the Condom Coordinator*.

I am struggling with the very fact that these are real job titles and ponder the interesting conversation stoppers they could provide at dinner parties, when the inevitable 'and what line of work are you in?' question is raised.

Her work life is so much more interesting than mine, as I keep pointing out. The sexual universe of the under 25s is an utterly alien world, as becomes clearer every time we discuss this.

She then fishes in her handbag and hands me a small, bright orange tube. Now, I don't generally wear my glasses outside work, so I'm holding it aloft and peering closely to read the words on the side, when the waitress appears to clear our plates and then smiles.

At this point, the words 'Fresh Peach-flavoured Water-based Lubricating Gel' finally come into focus.



Hastily, I thrust the tube behind my back. 'God, you're behaving like a naughty schoolgirl,' - YM teases. 'It's perfectly normal'.

'There's 12 flavours including Bubblegum Blast, but that's in a pillow, not in a reusable tube, so it's not very environmentally friendly.'

'Yes, I can see why that would be important, with the Government's green agenda' - I reply, not actually seeing at all. In truth, I haven't yet gone beyond why there needs to be 12 flavours.

* Remind me to tell you one day about the Postman and the Trail of Condoms.

Are You Pondering What I'm Pondering?

It was the usual Sunday morning Match Of The Day ritual. JP commenting in a stream of factual yet inconsequential narrative and Tiddler gawping idiotically, with one hand down the front of his pyjamas.

JP plots, plans and exercises his rather scary intellect memorising the Periodic Table and remembering exactly what he has eaten for the past 7.5 years. Tiddler giggles when someone says the word fart and is fascinated with his willie.

'Who wants Flake icecream?' I asked yesterday. Tiddler's two hands shoot up.

JP then waves his legs in the air as well. 'I've got 4 legs up, so I want more than Tiddler'.

'I've got 5 up including my widgie', announces Tiddler, trumping JP and earning himself an extra scoop.

'They're Pinky and the Brain!' remarked Mr Duck in a perfect, revelatory moment of clarity.

Virginity #2

Losing your virginity has been covered by me before, and yesterday, I'm proud to say, was Tiddler's turn.

For the last home game of the season, Tiddler came with me to OT for his very first game. He has been going to see the Mersey Reds with Mr. Duck and JP of late and has been sporting a Gerrard shirt and singing 'Fernando Torres, Liverpool's number 9' in lieu of 'we all know that Johnny is going to score'.

This was effectively damning me to a life sentence of going to the Theatre of Dreams alone. Not exactly a stretch in Strangeways, I know, but sharing the experience with my son and not having to rely on Amazing Dave to take me when I'm an OAP, was something I have been dreaming of since JP and Tiddler were born. I grew up in a family of Mersey Reds and then married one. It couldn't be my misfortune to rear two as well, could it?

It was utterly brilliant. He pored over his programme, munched his way through a big picnic and it was my delight to thrust him aloft in his United shirt for each of the four goals. My fellow fans welcomed him, tousled his hair and shook his hand, as we marched imperiously towards retaining the Premiership crown.

I took him pitchside for the lap of honour. The proximity of the Great and the Good, smiling and waving just for us, or so it seemed, hopefully secured a corner of his Tiddler heart for the future. He may never share my passion and OT may never be the one place in the world where he feels truly alive, as I do, but as we walked back to the car, eating chips and gravy and singing Viva Ronaldo, I felt a small flicker of what I recognised as hope. Life is good.