About a Boy

After the last entry's exercise in navel gazing, normalish service is resumed.

We've just got back from a visit to that London to see a lovely production based on Oliver Jeffers Boy books.

Bandits at 11 o'clock

It was the first time that we'd taken J to see anything like this and I wasn't sure that his patience would last the course, even though he's a fan of the books.

How wrong could I be. He, and his friends, were rapt. As were the three babies, who are all under a year. Well done Big Wooden Horse.

Afterwards we had a mostly pleasant lunch at a nearby Italian, where J had a meltdown which I didn't handle especially well. However, all was well that ended well, after ice cream all round. Then we headed for a local adventure playground, which seemed like a lawsuit waiting to happen. It's not a good idea for two guys, slightly the better of a good Italian lunch to try and shepherd three full of beans kids around a splinter infested deathtrap. Still, we didn't lose too many fingers.

Then it was home again, home again, on the not very fast InterCity service and straight to bed for two very tired, but hopefully happy kids.

Being a dad

I was recently asked to contribute to a feature on what it's like to be a dad in these modern times.  The feature itself isn't due to be printed for several months, and as a journalist myself, I doubt they'll use much of what I provided. Hardly surprising as I got a bit over-excited and came up with a screed of self righteous copy about what a great father I am. It was particularly ironic as the day after submitting it I proved my fathering skills by letting our three year old tip over on his scooter on to his face resulting in a fat lip, grazed nose and lots of blood.


Anyway, I was asked to comment on a few areas, and on the basis that I don't necessarily practice what I preach, this is what I said.


ON DADS' DEPRESSION 

Luckily for me I didn't experience anything that I would call depression, although I know somebody who did.
I think it is something that many dads are not even aware of. We're all primed to look out for symptoms in our wives and partners, but don't really consider it among ourselves.
Becoming a parent is harder than many of us imagine. Nothing you are told can really prepare you for the lack of sleep, worry about doing things properly, and frustration when things don't go right (the baby won't feed, won't sleep, won't stop crying). The first few weeks in particular are like baby boot camp.
It's a real eye opener and the wonder is that more men don't crack up. You're trying to be the strong, capable male role model you've read about and seen on TV, and often combining this with work. It's like having two jobs at once.
I got through it the first time by just getting on with it. I expected it to be a challenge and it definitely was, but it does get better eventually. And because it's all new, there is a sense of discovery and joy as the child develops which overcomes the bad times. The slightest thing, like a smile, can turn a really crappy morning around.
Funnily enough I found the birth of our second son tougher, because I underestimated how hard it would be with two kids. I thought that having done it once before, it would be a walk in the park, which is definitely wasn't.
Kid A was a worse sleeper than his brother, and suffered really bad colic when he was very young. Both my wife and I had this rose tinted idea that as our first son had been such a bad sleeper, we would be blessed with a sleeping scond son, and it was almost like a slap in the face when it didn't work out like that. There was almost a sense, of "Here we go again!" this time round. You've also got the other child demanding your attention, so it's a real plate spinning challenge.
I've definitely been less stoical this time round, and more grumpy at times. It probably made it a bit harder to bond with A  if I'm honest, although that has passed and I love him to bits now. It does strain your relationship unless you talk about it. Both parties inevitably think that they are getting the rougher end of the deal and that neither understands the other. Just being open about how you feel is a great release, as is humour. There are times when it gets so bad that it's hard not to laugh - perhaps a bit hysterically.

ON DADS' ROLE IN THE FAMILY
 
I always assumed that I'd have a central role in bringing up our children. As much as things break down along gender lines to a certain extent, we try and have equal roles. Obviously I can't breast feed and my wife can't assemble flat pack furniture, but we try and do the same things for the boys, whether it's cooking, playing, reading bedtime stories or bathing them (although this is something that I've found that I do, mainly because my wife was nervous about doing it when they were young).
I've never been a man that thinks it's beneath him to change a nappy. As far as I'm concerned, if you want a full role in your child's upbringing, then you need the full range of skills.
And they are skills. Very little we do with our children is completely innate. You have to pick stuff up by trial and error. You need to be able to soothe your child when they are upset and not just think that mummy will do it. She's not always there!
My dad died when I was 13, but my memories of him are of a family man, and that's what I wanted to be.
So, right from the start I've thrown myself in and got involved. In the early days I would even wake up in the night when my wife was breastfeeding as I felt I should be doing something. It seems like madness now, but at the time I think I felt I was being supportive by not getting any sleep as well - duh!
I don't think I've ever felt excluded, even when the boys have preferred to go to mum. It's understandable that they have a closer relationship with her in the early days, and I've never felt threatened by that. They quickly become individuals and you realise that even quite early on you will have your own relationship with them. As they get older (ours are 3 and 11 months at the moment), I'm probably the go to guy for boisterous play, which I absolutely adore.
My relationship with my wife has changed because we have less time for each other. We can both be irritable with each other because of tiredness and perceived lack of empathy from the other person. It can get like the Monty Python four Yorkshiremen sketch in the "I'm more tired than you" stakes. But at the same time we're closer than ever because of what we have in common. I don't think either of us truly wishes for our pre-children lives back. (Although a bit more time for personal interests would be lovely).
I didn't join any dad's groups as there wasn't one where I used to live in East London. However I did spend about 18 months working part time and looking after our first son, when my wife went back to work. During that time I gravitated to a number of dads that were doing the same thing. As much as the mums I met were lovely, I think there is something about the dad experience that makes you want to share it with other blokes. It was fun to hang out with them. Dads groups definitely have a role though. I'm quite confident about my role as a dad and wouldn't have a problem going to a class or group where I was the only man there. But I know that some men don't feel that and value an exclusively male group. It probably makes it easier to ask some of the many dumb questions that occur to us all. We're probably less worried about feeling silly in front of other men. And how can you feel intimidated by a hulking bloke who is carrying round a pink dolly and pastel shades changing bag.

ON PATERNITY LEAVE AND RIGHTS
 
I'm a freelancer, so I didn't have any paternity rights. At the same time, I have more flexible time, so I knew I would be able to spend as much time as required or desired at home.
Having said that, the nature of my work is feast or famine, and some work came up about a week after J's birth that I felt I had to take. It was just beginning to sink in how hard it was all going to be, so at the time I was a bit guilty about leaving the house knowing I was making my escape from the crying fury that was our baby. Then I'd come back to a wife in floods of tears who would thrust him into my arms and disappear upstairs for a break. Tough times.
I'm used to being around, so I think I would have found it hard to be content with just a couple of weeks paid paternity leave. My temptation would have been to set aside some money and sound out my employer about the possibility of taking a sabbatical from work to spend more time with the child. The benefits are obvious: you're a help at home, you can bond with your child, and it gives you a bit of perspective on your career - what are you working for in the first place?
Would I like to see better paternity rights? Probably I would, although I can appreciate the concerns of small companies especially who worry about all the new fathers suddenly wanting six months to spend with their child. Not everybody wants this, but I think the option should be there.
In a wider sense I hope that Sure Start doesn't get broken up. Both my wife and I found the Sure Start groups in our area a great resource and a great way of meeting other parents. It would be a real shame if they suddenly became unavailable to a few parents. 

As I said, it's pretty self righteous stuff, but it's a snapshot of how I feel that in a few years time may be a handy reminder.


More light-hearted posts to follow.

Forever friends

Formerly HackneyBoy is very excited today as his friend, LondonBoy is paying a visit to us in Colchester. They are both just over three years old and as the only boys in our small group of NCT-accredited parents, they bond quite quickly as youngsters.

This manifest itself in the rumbustious nature of their play. Whether it's nature or nurture, boy's playtime is definitely more physical, in my experience. Admittedly, my experience is of having two boys, and all of their cousins are boys too. 

Anyway, both also share a boys' love of trains and Thomas the Tank Engine. (Before becoming a parent, I don't think I had any appreciation of how big a franchise T the T is. I doubt I've met a parent of boys whose son wasn't obsessed with trains from about two onwards. Sod the pension, plough your savings into HiT Entertainments. It's hard to see how it's a passing fad after 65 years. Incidentally, it seems that the uber-commercialisation of T the T is relatively recent. My elderly uncle [and another model train nut] visited us a few months back and was telling me how it was more of a cottage industry in his day. The Rev Awdry, who wrote the books, was quite a feature at train preservation societies in his time, but it was far from the global brand it has become.)

Trains: not just for boys

Anyway, I digress...

HackneyBoy and LondonBoy both disappeared upstairs as soon as they arrived at the house. They are playing HB's newest game, Deliveries. This involves trains (of course) and the delivery of sundry items, and in a new twist invented by mummy last night, messages. He has some Brio wooden track and a battery powered engine to pull the carriages. The track is laid out along the floor and shuttles backwards and forwards with the deliveries. This can go on for hours, so I am particularly glad at LB's appearance today.

But I'm more glad that they still seem to be friends. They are only young and friendships are fragile things, so it wouldn't be surprising if their camaraderie gradually whithered over time. For now though, it seems strong. HB gave LB a big hug when they got into the house, and LB reciprocated by helping HB remove his shoes.

And I haven't heard crashes or crying yet!

Night out

Last night my wife and I wandered into town for a night out - the first we've had together since HackneyBaby was born ten months ago. Praise be to nanny and grandad for babysitting, especially as the little fella is teething at the moment, so was a bit of a handful.

It's quite a strange sensation being childless, even if it is for only a few hours. Mind you, as the main topic of conversation was kids - ours and other people's - we were never truly alone.

The Missus delighted in dragging me round the pubs of her youth, particularly the Hole in the Wall, which was the Goth pub of Colchester she informs me. Not that she was a Goth. In fact,she says that she used to get stared at for being too shiny and not wearing regulation black. Last night we probably got looked at for looking old or because I looked rather like an off duty policeman.

The other pubs we tried were:
- the Hospital Arms, which was rammed and is definitely one to revisit - nice ales, and the homemade bar snacks sounded good
- the Kings Arms - also very busy, but with a more officey crowd, so we didn't stop. Probably nicer for a relaxing daytime pint
- the Fat Cat, which is ostensibly my local. It has a very impressive ale selection, although the locals seem a little cliquey on the evidence of my few visits (apart from my very first visit, when the barman regaled with "Hello, I haven't seen you for a while!" Or ever in fact). I have a suspicion that the Cat is the Coppers local as it is very near the Police station, so I'm a  bit surprised I wasn't greeted more warmly this time. Perhaps I failed to give the proper Masonic greeting as I palmed my change.

Anyway, the morning after I am slightly paying for this debauched evening as it was my turn to get up with the kids. However I was rewarded by seeing HackneyBaby's (or should he be ColchesterBaby now?) first steps. Onwards and upwards.

Tributes

When we lived in Hackney, it was sadly not uncommon to come across moving, makeshift floral tributes on the streets. Often these were for the victims of violent crime, such as Jahmal Mason-Blair, stabbed in a fight he was trying to break up, Edward Thompson, shot by mistake, and Shaquille Smith, stabbed by a gang as he played outside his home.

When Jahmal died there was an incredible shrine that sprung up under a railway bridge that I used to pass when dropping my son at nursery. Like many young boys, he had aspirations of being a footballer, and was considered by Tottenham Hotspur. His shrine was made up of flowers, pictures, candles, football shirts, poems and pictures from friends and people who probably didn't even know him. It was a touching sight, and I remember the care that local road sweepers used to take in tidying around it.

Yesterday I came across something similar in Colchester. It was to commemorate Cassie McCord, a 16 year old schoolgirl who was killed when a car mounted the pavement on Monday. Again, the flowers were piled up on the pavement. Schoolchildren stood around crying and comforting each other. Another tragic waste of life.

It's easy to see these sorts of tributes as a bit mawkish and another example of how our famed stiff upper lip has given way to Diana-ish public displays of emotion, but I think that they serve a useful purpose. They remind us of the inevitability and the sometimes arbitrary nature of death. As we live longer, death is something that we don't encounter very often, and we don't always know how to react to it. 

The first funeral I ever attended was my father's when I was 13. The formality of the occasion and the ceremony was something I didn't know how to react to. I can still recall the shock of being pushed forward at the graveside to be one of the first to throw some soil on the coffin lid. The finality of the gesture hit me like a hammer. I've never really liked visiting his grave since then. It just doesn't feel like the best place to remember him.

An interesting take on the role of the grave was shown on Channel 4's Big Fat Gypsy Wedding programme this week. A father, Paddy, was shown visiting the grave of his first son, who had died in a car crash. Rather than being an overly sombre occasion, it was a time for remembrance and celebration of the boy's short life. CDs were played loudly and beer was drunk by the assembled crowd, who came every year on the anniversary of his death. In a programme that has been labelled as rather voyeuristic and mocking, it was extremely touching and a demonstration of the different ways we have of remembering those we love.

Another non-conventional tribute is the 'ghost bike'. These painted white bicycles appear to mark the spot where a cyclist has been killed in traffic. In Hackney, they are becoming almost as common as floral tributes to young people. The latest is for Dan Cox, who was knocked over at Dalston Junction. The bikes are a reminder of the individual and a somewhat chilling warning of accident black spots.

One uplifting element to the sad story of Cassie McCord is that she carried a donor card and her family agreed that her organs could be used. In this way, she will be remembered by many more people in future.

Cooking with kids

First catch your child...

I do most of the cooking in our house. It's something I really enjoy and I think I'm not bad at it, but this evening's effort brought home to me how degraded my skills have become.

The thing about cooking for children is that there is little appreciation for your efforts and little discernment. A carefully crafted, nutritious, homemade meal could inevitably be trumped by a turkey twizzler and chips. Kids don't really care about provenance or how long it took to make. They care about having something that they recognise and having it now, or five minutes ago.

This relentless drive to get food on the table at an allotted time is what makes cooking drudgery, and it's why women of my mother's generation turned to convenience foods as their saviours. I can well remember as a child the close correlation between what was advertised on TV one week and what appeared on your plate the next. Crispy pancakes, chicken nuggets, and my particular favourite crispy batter fish fingers. I loved these so much that I'm sure I had them every day for a week until I was completely sick of them.

Anyway, I'm enough of guilty Jamie and Hugh disciple  to try and go down a different route (as well as being a hypocrite for denying my children the tasty treats I so enjoyed). By and large we cook meals from scratch, try and use fresh vegetables as much as possible. However this can take so long that inevitably you end up eating the same as the kids. This in itself is not necessarily a bad thing. It's good for the family to eat together. The problem is that I don't always feel like eating at 5.30 when the kids do. And the lack of seasoning and adult flavourings like chili, does result in slightly bland fare.

The upshot is that I'm falling, ever so slightly out of love with cooking. I don't get many chances to indulge my love of cheffy touches these days. It's a bit more of a bish, bash, bosh approach. Hence tonight's meal, which was a hurried Annabel Karmel salmon tagliatelle, albeit with a few ingredients missing. It just looked a bit of a mess to me, and I cooked it.

Of course, the kids loved it!

Today we drink!

Reaches the parts other gassy liquids can't

Or at least we could if there was a reason beyond the sheer love of alcohol. For today is the first of February and the end of January's self imposed no drinking rule.

And yet it seems such an anti-climax. Probably because it is a doddle for me these days. I've been doing no-drink Januaries for years and it definitely gets easier with practice. Last year I went for a couple of months without drinking in (enforced) solidarity with my wife after the birth of our second son. It was only supposed to be two weeks, but I felt a little aggrieved about being reminded of the promise I'd made to not booze in those tough early days. I grumpily took this to be a slur, so to speak, on by fathering abilities. Surely I could switch seamlessly from glass in hand to wipes and nappy. So, to demonstrate to my wife what an uncaring woman she was, and how lucky she was to have such a self-sacrificing other half, I stayed dry for eight weeks or so.

That showed her!

Actually, it was probably a good thing that I did lay off the ale, as HackneyBaby was not, and indeed, is not, a good sleeper. There is nothing that erases the pleasure had from a few convivial evening drinks quite like a screaming baby. Early morning soothing sessions are better faced with a clear head. Firstly, you're less likely to drop the child. Secondly, any relaxing effect those drinks will have had, are now gone.

So, here I am again, ready to reenter the world of drink. In the past, this has been a day I have been counting down to, whereas this year it's a bit of a 'so what' moment. As I say, it's too easy these days. I feel like an old lag keeping his head down and doing his time quietly.

So, in the spirit of disruption and personal challenge, I'm setting out to do something that will be infinitely tougher for me.

February is designated sugar free. Apart from fruit and unavoidable added sugar, I'm going to try and avoid the sweet stuff. No chocolate, no biscuits, no cakes, no soft drinks, no fruit juice, no jam on toast. I have a massive sweet tooth and am starting to worry that my predilection will be passed on to my boys. It's hard to deny HackneyChild a chocolate digestive when I'm happily ploughing through half a packet with a cup of tea. If they are not around - or perhaps replaced with something more child friendly for the odd treat - then that has to be a good thing.

It's a good job there are only 28 days though as I'm rattling already. And I might need a few drinks to complete it.

Rubbish entry

It's been ages since I posted, and the longer you leave it, the harder it gets - ooer!

I keep coming up with ideas for posts and then not writing them, or playing around with them in my mind until the fancy has gone. So I'm not promising any great shakes with this post. It's just to get me back into the habit.

One of the reasons I haven't posted for so long is that we finally moved house just before Christmas. We've swapped Hackney for Colchester and a two-bed flat for a three to five bed Victorian semi with garden. I'm just coming to the realisation that a house this size is almost like having another child in terms of the demands it places on your time. Never mind keeping it clean - we haven't even got it clean yet after the state the previous owners left it in - everywhere I look I see a job to be done. Painting, decorating, shelving, carpeting, gardening... the list just goes on an on. Now I know what people mean by a project.

Although we've only been here a month, it does seem like home already. This despite the fact that the house is absolutely freezing and holds heat like a sieve does water. The kids love it and as well as having their own bizarrely decorated rooms, they have a play room for all their toys and lots of other rooms to spread their toys about in. They don't understand compartmentalisation.

It's nice though. We can see lots of possibilities here for the future and the neighbours seem nice, if a little less exotic than our Hackney neighbours. We miss our London friends, but they're just down the line, and in the next week or so we will have a guest room for their - hopefully frequent - visits. Just remember to bring long johns.

Oh, and Happy New Year.

More autumn fun

Is there anything more fun for a young boy at this time of year than kicking rustling piles of leaves? Well, yes, there probably are, and it depends on the youth of the boy where he gets his kicks, but it has to be in the top five. Especially when dad sanctions throwing armfuls of them in the air too.

Ready, steady...

Wheeee!

How sad am I?

It's been a tough week. HackneyBaby is not sleeping very well so we've been up at all hours through the night. To make matter worse, just as his big brother is discovering the joy of a lie in, he has taken over the 6am - or earlier - shift.

I've been feeling a bit low recently. I've only just managed to shake off a cough that has been lingering for weeks. It didn't really develop into a full blown cold or flu, but just left me feeling a bit crap. Combined with my sore foot and the lack of sleep, I haven't been the happiest of bunnies.

This week has been especially wearing as we've been trying to get HB to stay in his cot when he kicks off. Up until now we've been walking him about, taking him downstairs to stop him waking his brother. Anyway, we've decided to stop that because:
a) it doesn't really work, and
b) he's getting too heavy to cart around in the middle of the night, and possibly...
c) because his brother scared the bejeezus out of me the other night by appearing silently by my side in the darkened front room and loudly asking "What are you doing?"

So this week we've been trying to keep him in our room and his cot. On one hand this has been easier for me as my wife has been dealing with him when he wakes up. However the unspoken quid pro quo has been that I've been getting up with him in the morning. We used to take it in turns to do this, so by the end of this week I was shattered.

My wife is not an unfeeling woman and she offered to take the kids out today and let me have some down time. (They went to the St Joseph's hospice Christmas bazaar, where Barbara Windsor was there to open things up and was, by all accounts a real sweetheart.)

This left me free to do whatever my heart desired - go back to bed, go to the cinema, head for the pub... whatever I fancied. In the event I found it really hard to think of anything to do. I eventually went for a walk and found myself looking at all the weekend dads out with their kids on bikes, playing and having fun. Although I was only divorced from mine for a couple of hours I felt an irrational envy, almost a separation anxiety, as I wondered what my two lads were doing.

It's crazy. I see them every day and for a lot longer than many fathers do. As much as I sometimes think that they have completely taken over my life, it is obvious that they now are my life.

And yes, I realise how icky that sounds.

Autumn gold

It's been a downpour today, but it was glorious yesterday. Even mucky old Hackney looks quite nice in the sunshine, especially when we're having such a glorious autumn for leaf colours.
Back in the day, before we had kids, we'd be heading out to Suffolk at about this time of year for an autumn break in the lovely seaside town of Southwold. Invariably we'd drive through beautiful golds, reds and yellows which would make me wonder why New England in the Fall is such a big deal when we have such wonderful scenes in our own country. 
Plus, I doubt you can get real ale like Adnams in New England. Nor find a boozer like the Lord Nelson.
These pictures aren't great, but I just wanted to capture how lovely the leaves look at the minute in case there are no more sunny days before they all drop.

 

Clay man

He sits... and waits... for a 38 bus

Not a great picture I know, but I had to climb on to somebody's wall and lean out to get this shot of the mysterious clay man. As he is looking away from me it is impossible to tell what look he has, or if he has any features at all. I'm thinking that he is perhaps Hackney's answer to Anthony Gormley's Event Horizon statues.

More bus stop top art

Following on from the under the radar success of the space potatoes and the wooden clacker things, the guerrilla artists of Hackney are at it again. Last night I noticed a small clay figure on top of the bus stop at the top of Graham Road. From my vantage point on the top deck of the 277, through the rain and condensation smeared windows, I could just about make him out. He seems to be sitting on an armchair as if watching an invisible TV.

It reminded me that I'd spotted another miniature figure on Kingsland Road a few weeks back. He also seemed to be made from unpainted clay, like his chair bound brother. However he was standing atop a wall with a life belt round his midriff. Poignant it was!

Unfortunately lifebelt man he has now gone as I tried to find him later to get a picture. But I wonder where the next clay man or woman might crop up and what they'll be doing.

This hurts

I have just discovered I've got a bunion. I don't know if this is good news or bad as I thought I'd broken my foot somehow or maybe developed gout. Which is worst?

All I know is that it bloody hurts at  the moment - throb, throb, throb. I am currently self-medicating with Kronenbourg, which I don't think conflicts with the anti-inflammatories I'm on. For now though I'm a hobbling, limping fool and I don't like it. This really makes me feel like the old dad I am. I can't descend the stairs with any ease. I can't actually walk very far at the moment. It's a real pisser.

Our two boys are so physically demanding that I feel like a bit of a spare part at the moment. I'm only marginally more mobile than the six month old, who is already hauling himself up on things and standing gummily grinning at us: "Look what I've done."

CRUNCH!

Advanced Police driving course - failed

We were sitting in the house yesterday when there was an almighty crash on what sounded like Graham Road. Being, like most people, nosey by nature, I halted what I was doing at the time - dressing down J over something or other - and rushed out to see what was going on.

A crowd of other rubber neckers had gathered on the corner of Graham Road and Navarino Road, where a couple of rather embarrassed PCs were surveying the scene. By all accounts they'd tried to undertake a car that was already turning into the side road, completely misjudged and kerrunch!

Although this tableau provided no little amusement, particularly for the guys who frequent the nearby bookies, it was extremely fortunate there was nobody on the pavement at the time as the results would have been terrible. Perhaps the police drivers wouldn't have been so foolhardy if there had been pedestrians, but this was the spot where Arina Romanova was knocked from her bike and killed a couple of months ago. Navarino Road is heavily used by parents and kids going to and from London Fields. On a lovely sunny, Saturday afternoon, it could have been much worse.

They knead the bread

I yield to no one in my love of a nice spelt sourdough, but it's getting so you can't move around here for artisan bakers. Maybe they are the new plumbers. A couple of years back there was the idea that the middle classes were chucking their jobs in the City, accountancy and law to make their millions fitting U-bends and Armitage Shanks three pieces. Given the price of the average pain de campagne, perhaps dough is going that way.

The latest addition is the E5 Bakehouse, which is located in a railway arch just off London Fields. We stumbled upon it this morning, after stumbling upon it on Facebook. We bought some rather rich, but fantastically yummy muffins for £1.50-1.75 each, which although pricey is still cheaper than Violet. The USP seems to be the organic nature of the goods on sale. They are to be very into the provenance of the flour and such like. But ultimately the proof of the pudding is in the eating and the chocolate and cherry, and carrot cake muffins we tried were fantastic.

(Not E5's yummy muffins. These cakes are for display purposes only)

Bread is their big thing though and there was a baker hard at it on Sunday. Apparently they will be making bread every day, which opens up the fantastic opportunity of strolling up there of a morning and picking up a still steaming round of bread. Or going for a run and dropping in for a baguette on the way back. Jeez, I love Hackney!

They are also running baking classes, which sound like fun. For £65 you undergo a full day course which will show you how to make the perfect sourdough. As a bit of an amateur baker, this sounds very interesting. I kept a sourdough starter for four or five years, but recently gave up on it as I was making bread with it so infrequently. Partly this was due to the fact that I have so little time for indulgences like baking what with the kids' demands. But another was the fact that I could never get the same taste that I would buy on Broadway Market from Degustibus, whose Californian sourdough is the Holy Grail. Maybe I can perfect my crumb and crust with some tuition.

I worked in an industrial bakery when I was younger - summer holiday job. Oddly it never left me with a desire to make, or even eat bread. Probably because the process was so deskilled. You basically did one small part of the process - classic assembly line stuff - so you couldn't really feel much ownership of the final product, which wasn't much to write home about anyway.

Getting your hands into the dough is a completely different matter.

The 6.30 Club

In which Dad tries to do some surreptitious blogging while keeping an ear out for the almost crawling baby behind him.

Baby A is what you would call an early riser - 6.30 is a bit of a lie in. My wife and I tend to take it in turns to do the early shift with him. By rights I should probably get up with him every morning as she feeds him in the night, which is usually a drawn out affair. However, for the past week or so I've been getting up with him as well. He's been sleeping so badly that it's almost like a return to the baby boot camp of the early weeks. It seems as if he's been waking up every hour, although in my sleep deprived state I can't be sure of anything. Yesterday I mentioned to Mrs Holiday that he seemed to have slept well only to be met with a withering rebuke that I'd slept through the worst of it.

Not that it's usually possible to sleep through and most nights I end up pacing the living room with him. At the moment he's still in our room as we've only got a two-bed flat until we move to our Essex mansion. So, when he wakes, if he won't go back to sleep quickly we take him downstairs so he doesn't disturb his brother.

It's a funny thing. Even when he's bawling his eyes out, he is often asleep in my arms by the time we get down the stairs and into this room. Maybe he finds the peculiar odour relaxing. Here I will walk him or rock him, which can be for anything between 10 minutes (hooray!) and an hour (lots of inward swearing at this point). He seems to be thriving on it though - he's a happy little chap when he wakes up. For us, it's sleep deprivation torture and leaves us zombified for the rest of the day.

For now, we're waiting for the day when we can put him in his own room and not hear his every whimper, which is probably part of the problem at the minute. His brother was similarly restless, although in a different way. We used to have to lie beside his cot and hold his hand, but at least you got a rest. With Baby A it's a full body work out in the small hours with no warm up.

Reinforcements have now arrived in the shape of big brother who is currently keeping A occupied by distributing various toys to him. One thing to be thankful for is the fact that they generally get on well at the moment. I hope that remains the same as little brother's crawling progresses. J already finds it annoying when he wrecks his carefully constructed train layouts. Will I be an early morning peacekeeper in the months ahead?

Anxious times

As we get closer to moving to Essex, I'm getting steadily more nervous. Not just because of the usual worries about leaving the little corner of East London that has been home for the past 11 years.

I'm starting to worry about everything really. The buildings report on the house we are buying came in today. Overall there's not a lot to worry about - it's not going to fall down the week after we move in. However, seeing in black and white what you are buying, and seeing all of its little blemishes highlighted is quite sobering - we're buying THIS! Mind you, I'd hate to see the report on our current property.

A bigger concern is the school catchment we are in. We specifically bid on the new place, and dropped another property because of the school we thought it was nearest to. I consulted with the local education authority about this as finding out catchment areas is like trying to uncover the recipe for Coca-Cola - there are a lot of pretenders out there, but you're never sure what's the real deal. Surely the council would know.

Apparently not. In my original conversations with the LEA, I was talked through a map of where the boundaries were by a lady in the schools team - "Up this road, down that one...." It all seemed very thorough so we went ahead and put in our bid on the house which, fro her information was in the catchment of the school we wanted.

Weeks later, by which time we were up to our ears in costs of moving, the surveyor, of all people, mentioned that we might not be in the catchment we thought we were in. I checked again. This time the process seemed a little more robust. The guy I spoke to said he had to access a computer programme to get the definitive answer. Except it wasn't initially definitive. Firstly he said that we were in catchment - cue huge relief and air punching - then he added "Unless you are in Road X". Since this was our prospective road and the basis of our entire conversation to this  point, I felt a little like the beauty queen who was announced as winner only to have the crown pinched from her head seconds later due to the announcer giving the wrong name.

We've missed out by one street, which is rather galling. One of the reasons that we are moving is that some schools in Hackney are not great (although not the one that J would probably have gone to had we stayed - Gayhurst gets decent reviews). We're now in the odd position of escaping from inner city London, with all its perceived problems, to leafy Colchester, where it's possible our son will go to a worse school than he would have had we stayed here. As my wife pointed out, we are possibly the most crap, pointy elbowed parents.

We did think briefly about pulling the whole deal, but we're so far down the line that it was a bit too scary to more than contemplate. Maybe the sink school will have pulled its socks up in a couple of years time.

Another worry is work. Specifically will there be any? It's still very quiet in my line these days and I'll be at the end of a very long line should I need to get back into the Smoke. I haven't yet identified the media quarter of our new home. Surely there is one!

So really I've got to keep accentuating the positives: bigger house; garden; closer to the seaside; near to family; nice town... Phew, it's good to know there are still reasons to cheerful.

Easy rider

I finally got round to testing the Boris bikes today. The nearest ones to Hackney aren't actually that near so it meant a trip down Kingsland Road to the Geffrye Museum where there is a rack in nearby Falkirk Street.

First impressions were favourable. There were plenty of bikes to choose from and they all seemed to be in good condition. Rightly or wrongly I'd expected that they would already be showing the signs of unwanted attention from vandals and drunkards, but the docking station itself was well kept and the bikes looked very impressive in their serried ranks. These ones hadn't been stickered either.

The process of obtaining one was pretty straightforward too. You just insert your key into the docking station, wait for a green light and you're away. The bikes are pretty robust but not uncomfortable. The seat is easy to adjust to the required height, the chain is enclosed so your trousers won't get caught in it, and the seat is padded and sufficiently wide to accommodate most bottoms. They also have built in lights which flash funkily as you ride along, drum brakes which were efficient without throwing you over the handlebars, and a 'basket' at the front for strapping in a bag or coat. They also have a stand.

There are three gears which ranged from the hilariously frenzied - ideal for getting off at lights - to a decent third which made me feel I could actually get the beast moving at a decent pace. I was actually able to overtake a few people on their own bikes. They were probably in a more leisurely frame of mind than me as I raced to the next docking station to ensure I stayed within the 30 minute free window. It's actually remarkably easy to do as the stations are thick on the ground in central London. There were also plenty of bikes at all stations apart from Clerkenwell Road where only two were left. Maybe this is due to the difficulty of hiring the bikes. Unless you have a key (not that difficult to apply for and they only cost £3) you still can't use the bikes. I'm sure the casual use scheme will be up and running by summer and by then I can't imagine it will be so easy to get hold of a bike, on a sunny Sunday afternoon for example.

I did go a bit bananas on the first leg with the result that when I descended the bike my legs were as jellyish as Simon Pegg's character in Run Fat Boy Run (filmed partly in Dalston actually) after his first spinning class. I took it easier after that and cycled from Kingsland Road to Borough Market, then on to the Royal Festival Hall for lunch before heading back through the West End, Bloomsbury, Old Street and back to Falkirk Street.

The overriding sensation was how being on a bike really shrinks the city. It was Saturday so traffic was probably lighter, but I was getting around much quicker than I would have done on any other mode of transport. Also, although the bike is hardly a design classic, I didn't feel as much of a plonker as I thought I would, and saw lots of other people on Boris bikes.

Overall, I can't think of much negative to say, apart from the fact that they don't extend very far into East London. If Boris really does intend to be a mayor of the whole city and not just the West part, I hope that this changes very quickly. There should already be a stream of them leading up to the Olympic site to get people used to the idea of visiting what is for many a strange part of town. Let's be 'aving 'em!

The Spurstowe in a former life

I came across this ad today, which I remember being shot at the Spurstowe on Wilton Way about five or six years ago. At the time it was still an old man's boozer, complete with the stripey wallpaper that you can just about make out in the picture.



Now, it's on its second incarnation as a trendy gastropub/cool hangout. So cool in fact that it doesn't even have a name. The current owners took down the name when they were redecorating and said that they were looking to rename it. I suggested they have a competition, but it looks as if nothing came of it.

My own suggestion is the Hotchip and Mumford, in celebration of the major sartorial influences for the drinkers... and the fact that they serve chips.

It is amazing how the fame of the this particular area has spread. First with Grazia dubbing London Fields the coolest park in London. Then the New York Times alighted on Wilton Way to number its charms. I did wonder if the backpacker parked outside our door yesterday had cabbed it straight from Heathrow to soak up the Wilton vibe.

But of course, what goes up, must inevitably come down, and it seems the backlash has already started. It has to be said that although there are a lot of dickheads about, they are mostly polite middle class youths who do add a certain vibrancy to the area and some comic appeal. There was a decidedly Nathan Barley-ish picnic going on outside the Lido on Saturday, complete with a DJ working a sound system from the back of a shopping trolley.

Sweet.