The kids World Cup

The last time the World Cup rolled round I was child free. Come to think of it, I wasn't married either - truly young, free and single (well two out or three, maybe). This time I have two kids and a lovely wife to consider before the quadrennial soccer fest kicks off.

Usually the World Cup period involves a certain level of selective social hibernation as I avoid fellow human beings, pour over the pre and post match build up, gossip and analysis, and only come out for the big matches. These are usually taken in at the pub, or at somebody's house with a crate of ale.

Hmm, it's not so simple this time. Pubs aren't the most welcoming place for kids full stop, and even if they were, the idea that a two year old will sit still for 90 minutes (realistically two and a half to three hours by the time you've blagged an early seat, stayed after to celebrate/commiserate... and don't even mention penalities!) is a fantasy.

So I've started wondering if there are child-friendly places to watch some of the games. I know that some pubs have areas you can hire, which might be suitable, and some cinemas are showing the matches on big screen, but are there are any events that fully cater for the harassed dad who wants to zone out for a few hours knowing that his offspring are being catered for?

We will fight them on the cakestands...

I recently received an email about proposed cuts to Hackney nurseries. The website explains what is going on a lot more coherently than I could. It also seems to be a very fluid situation, so watch this (or that space).

We went to the park to find out more about how local people are trying to fight the cuts. In some ways, it seems a similar story to the recent cause celebre of the Hackney Arts Club. This is a very popular club run by volunteers with a small grant from the the local Sure Start. However because of a change in priorities, its funding was cut and money reallocated elsewhere.

It's hard to argue if scarce funds are being used for people who are in greater need than yourself. In the new era of Sure Start, I'm probably not a key target (although as a male, primary carer I did seem to tick a few boxes and staff got quite excited when I turned up). However the problem in both of these cases is that it's difficult to know if funds are being reallocated or simply becoming 'efficiency savings'.

It's a case often made that services designed for the poor are poor services. It's kind of ironic that middle class users of Sure Start can be characterised as undeserving spongers by a government predominantly elected by the middle classes. Hey ho!

One of the great things about Hackney is that there is a real sense of 'something must be done' activism when stuff like this happens. It was great to see at the Fun Day in the park that facepainting and cakemaking have a role to play in the fight ahead. There's a meeting tomorrow to determine the next steps.

A week is a long time in parenthood

I'm sitting in a quiet, still house for the first time in six weeks. Mrs Holiday took the kids to her mum's for the weekend so I could get some work done.

It has been a tough time for all of us since Baby A came along. I don't think we appreciated how taxing it was going to be. Unfortunately, our hopes of having a placid second child as a counterbalance to the screaming, non-sleeping, dervish that was number one son, were dashed. Number two may be a slightly better sleeper, but he can emit body shaking screeches for hours on end, and refuses to be put down to give his long-suffering parents a break. Consequently you end up with his screaming head closer to your ears than is strictly advisable. It's like psychological torture and I'm sure the top end of my hearing has gone. Ipods come with volume warnings now - what about bairns?

On Monday it all became a bit much for mum, who was reduced to tears by this state of affairs. I had to step in and give her a break, which meant I wasn't getting much work done. It's a real dilemma. On the one hand, I'm the bread winner and should be getting my head down whenever there is work to be done. On the other, it's nigh impossible to to ignore the situation downstairs when an extra pair of hands is called for. It has been really hard to work.

I find it difficult to collect my thoughts and there is always the possibility of J bursting into the room with a question when mummy is otherwise engaged, feeding his brother, and I'm on the phone to someone. It's not the worst thing in the world - lots of people understand the freelance set up and I've conducted many interviews at home to the soundtrack of babies crying, toddlers questioning and/or dogs barking - but it throws you off course at a time when you are trying to be professional and focused.

Anyway, Monday was really bad. The rest of the week was better, although there were a few nights of little sleep for either of us. Baby can be up for a while between feeds and his elder brother has regressed a little in staying in his own room, so there has been a lot of bed-hopping during the night. However, like the weather, things have improved slightly as the week went on. I knew Mrs H was going away for the weekend, so I was probably slightly demob happy at the prospect of some light relief. But Baby A has started to smile more, so by Friday or Saturday it was hard to connect the cutey beaming up at you with the screw-faced demon of a few days ago. Nature, doing it's work again and brainwashing us of the bad vibes.

So what did I do with my 24 hours of freedom? Well I worked until about eight last night, hoovered, did some laundry and some dishes. Basically tried to return my world to how I like it, in readiness for the madness to recommence.

We've reached the six week mark today, which is one of the mental milestones you look out for. After this, it gets better, we say. It's the end of baby boot camp. Although from what I recall, there is no step change so much as a gradual easing of the load. "Wait until three months/six months/the first year," we tell ourselves. Although the danger of focusing on the horizon is that we we miss the gems of experience at our feet along the way.

Ugh! That was yucky, but I can't help it. I am a naturally quite soppy, as my reaction to a series of pictures of Gordon Brown's last moments in Downing Street revealed. It wasn't so much the end of an era realisation as the little details that showed him as a fundamentally decent man.

The real killer was the shot of him and his previously sheltered sons. Suddenly you had a completely different image of the former PM as a doting dad, and one who feels great love for his boys. There was a great feature about this picture by Ian Jack which explained why the image was so touching. For me, it's an easy connection - dad + two sons equals waterworks.

Explaining politics to two year olds

It was the election on Thursday and a gorgeous sunny day. Having finished some work in the morning, I arranged to meet Mrs HH in the park where she had taken the kids. The plan was to vote and then visit the new cake shop for a treat. J was obviously more excited about the cupcakes than voting, but he showed an interest in the proceedings. "What is vote?" he asked.

Er, that's quite a tough one to answer I'm afraid. I waffled some nonsense about drawing an X in a box to choose the person you liked most. (In retrospect, this may have made more sense to him than I realised at the time, as he associates Xs with kisses. So you figuratively kiss the candidate of your choice. What a lovely/disturbing image. I 'vote' Caroline Flint, but David Blunkett's wispy beard does not appeal.). I then hurried him along before he could come up withe any supplementaries - "What is candidate? Where is government? What is hung parliament?"

On the last question I'm not the only one in the dark it seems. It's surprising that given the likelihood of a hung parliament, the country seems so surprised and befuddled by it. As we are now being told, they are common on the continent, and many councils have no overall control, but the prospect of handing over power to more than one political group seems to worry many people. Which is illogical in a way, as political parties are far from homogeneous. The Labour and Conservative Parties are both extremely broad churches containing a whole swathe of differing and conflicting opinions. These are largely held in check by party discipline, but not always - look at John Major's problems with Eurosceptics and Tony Blair's with opponents of tuition fees and the Iraq war.

Given the prospect of handing over the future of our country to David Cameron and his cabal, I think it's no bad thing than there might be someone to hold him in check. On the other option open to Nick Clegg, although I'm more naturally sympathetic to a progressive solution, the idea of a rainbow coalition of parties holding the Tories off doesn't seem right. Firstly it would be hugely unwieldy. I also fear that the price exacted by the more fringe parties in block grants would antagonise further the Tory heartlands of the South East who already show signs of feeling robbed. Finally, despite the fact that a coalition of the second and third placed parties is constitutionally acceptable, there is something about it that seems to go against natural justice. I know that first past the post is discredited, but it's the rulebook we play by at the minute.

On the other hand, and to use a tortuous sporting analogy, nobody complains (too much) when their team goes out on away goals in a cup competition, even though the aggregate result is really a draw.

Er, does that make sense? I'm not sure I really know, and I wouldn't want to be in Nick Clegg's shoes (or Cameron's or Brown's for that matter). Whatever the outcome, you really can't please all of the people all of the time. I could never be in politics - my skin is too thin. I get upset if my wife doesn't notice I've hoovered up, never mind berating me for the state I've left the country (or bathroom) in.

After making my electoral choice, the toughest decision I had to make was which of Violet's delicious cupcakes flavours to opt for. It was a close run thing, but the will of this person at least was satisfied.

Let us eat cake

Sugar lovers will be delighted to learn that a new cake shop is due to open on Wilton Way. I say, a new one, as if the road is a concentration of patisserie. At the moment, you can pick up a Mr Kiplings from Costcutter, and that's about it. However, from this Saturday, Violet will be dispensing posh cup cakes, teas and coffees from the strange blocky building about half way along the street. This brings to two the number of cafes on the road, and if I remember rightly from Phil and Kirstie, the appearance of such outlets is a sure sign that the area is on the up. Mind you, it was starting from a low base. It's not so long ago that Wilton Way was the area's dumping ground for stolen cars - I wonder where they're left now. Currently Violet sells its cakes on Broadway Market, so it should be interesting to see if it can become a through the week destination for cake lovers. I shall certainly check them out, if only to see if I can pinch their icing recipe.

(Please note, the pictured cupcakes are for display purposes only and are not indicative of the merchandise that is likely to be sold at Violet. These were from a school fete and cost 30p each. Violet's are about £2.50 each, a price that would have Mrs Holiday's mum and dad needing a sit down. I think we'll be sticking to the Mr Kipling's with them.)

I'm a FOB

... father of boys that is. At least I think that's how I should now refer to myself as Mrs Holiday informs me that she is mother of boys or MOB in Mumsnet speak. (As an aside, who delegated Mumsnet to the role of spokessite for all parents? Lazy journos I'm guessing).

Our latest Hackney addition was born on Easter Sunday in Homerton Hospital's new birthing centre. This is a shiny, sparkly set up with lots of space and every conceivable (pardon the pun) mod con. Well, maybe that's stretching it a bit, but we were afforded a large room with a double bed, bouncy ball, ensuite bathroom and a strange labour chair/multigym. The midwife was really good, even though my heart sank slightly when she introduced herself as an agency worker. However Penny was encouraging, informative and just plain nice, even if she was a little scatterbrained.

Which may account for the loss of our labour notes. This was a big negative, firstly because of the obvious shabbiness of the processes that allowed it to happen - how the flip can you lose something like that? But also because it delayed us getting out and home, which is all anybody wants, especially a second time mum with another child plaintively asking for her to come home when he visits.

Anyway, it seems a long time ago now, even though it's less than three weeks. The time since then has been ups and downs. New Hackneybaby is sleeping better than his brother did, but has developed colic, which is never fun. Having an older brother adds a new layer of complexity to things as well. You don't want to neglect the older sibling, although he suddenly seems so much older and more able in comparison. Big brother is being pretty good so far, expressing his love for the baby constantly, although I suspect it is more to do with the fact that he's cottoned on to what we want to hear than any abiding sibling love.

Having said that, I think they will be great together. I'm conscious of not wishing the time away, but it will be great when us boys can do a bit more together. For now, inbetween the screams and projectile liquids (don't ask), it's nice, and the pace of everything has slowed right down. And as the spring beds in and we get a few nicer days, I think it's going to be a great summer.

Play time in Hackney

One of the unexpected consequences of the demise of Woolworths just over a year ago has been the effect on independent toy shops.Woolies was once the biggest retailer of toys in the UK and that gap has to be filled somehow.

Luckily for those of us who like to see our high streets filled with something other than identikit chain stores, local toy shops seem to be flourishing in Hackney. Three in particular come to mind:

Buggies and Bikes in Broadway Market

The Toybox in Victoria Park

Three Potato Four in Newington Green

The great thing about these shops is that they all have a character of their own. Without wanting to sound too poncey about it, the owners seem to care about toys and almost curate their stock rather than simply ordering from a giant toy catalogue. The selection of toys is individual to each, so you don't get that sense of deja vu when you walk in the door.

I remember how magical I found toy shops when I was a child. There was a great sense of the importance of every purchase - carefully weighing up what you could afford, whether it was going to impress your friends, and whether your parents would let you buy it. (Mine had a thing against 'plastic rubbish' which was quite odd as my dad was foreman in a plastic injection moulding factory that made a lot of Fisher Price toys. These were not classed as rubbish, but the competition inevitably was.)

The Toybox is probably our favourite as it is the shop we visit most often. My son loves a little table of Wow trucks and lorries that is a honeypot for all the children who visit. Wow toys themselves are quite expensive, but the shop has lots of great pocket money purchases, including a range of collectable wooden fruit and vegetables that are displayed in a cute greengrocer's rack. Overall the shop appeals to children's imaginations with toys that will stand the test of time.

Another interesting aspect of these new toys shops is that they are not just toy shops. Partly out of economic necessity I suppose, they have added other aspects to their business models. With Toybox and Three Potato Four, it's children's hairdressing. Buggies and Bikes runs a range of classes and activities for parents and kids that makes it more of a destination for parents.


Another shop that is worth a visit is Merry Go Round in Clarence Road. Not strictly a toy shop, it stocks second hand children's items from clothes and buggies to books and toys. It's amazing to see how much you can save by picking up something nearly new. Somebody's trash can be your treasure.

Play is an important part of childhood and it's not all about buying stuff. A visit to a great toy shop can be a stimulating experience in its own right to a two year old.

No coincidences in Sinclair world

Local author Iain Sinclair was signing the paperback copy of his book Hackney, That Red Rose Empire outside our local bookshop at the weekend. However I missed it due to an antenatal class at Homerton hospital. Well, my wife attended the class, while I walked the corridors of the spookily empty hospital explaining to our two year old the various things we saw.

(We're at the endless questions stage. "What's that daddy?"
"It's a chair."
"But what is it daddy?"
"Well, it's a chair actually."
"What does it do?"
Etc)

Actually, come to think of it, the experience was quite Sinclairian.

It was a shame to miss it though. Firstly, I wanted to see if he actually made it, or was blocked from Broadway Market by the council's henchmen. Apparently they took offence at his dim view of the Olympics and barred him from speaking in council venues when the book came out in hardback. They took a dim view of a lengthy piece he'd written in the London Review of Books voicing his concerns about the 'Lympics.

Secondly, having read the book I feel like I'm sort of stalking Iain, or he's stalking me. It's an odd sensation to have your stomping ground mapped so assiduously. My history in Hackney is just over ten years, whereas Iain's dates back to the Sixties or Seventies. We've both seen changes.

This was brought home to me the other week when I was browsing a book of photos of Hackney from the early Eighties. One of the black and white shots was of the playground next to the Pub on the Park. This is a favourite of ours and somewhere I've seen Iain Sinclair a couple of times with his wife and grandchild (I told you this post was stalkerish. In my defence, he mentions his grandchildren in the book, and their birth in Homerton Hospital. He is also highly visible in Hackney as he walks constantly around the borough).

Anyway, the playground in the picture was a rather depressing and bare place with a slide and some swings on a patch of scruffy grass. See Iain, some things do get better over time.

I suppose the point I'm working towards is that there are no coincidences in Sinclair world, so it was probably just as well that I didn't make it to the book signing. Who knows what might have happened. The earth might have folded in on itself or something.

The book itself is fascinating, although being so familiar with the area, I found that his slightly dyspeptic view of the borough didn't chime with my own. This hasn't been the case when I've read his other books - it's his unique perspective that I enjoy. But if his philosophy is about anything, it's about how we relate to our surroundings, and I guess I'm a bit of a happy, clappy Hackney champion. Hell, I even think the Olympics will be great. Yes the Lea Valley will have lost an urban wilderness, but it would have been developed sometime and somehow. At least with 2012 there is something of a grand plan in place, and I'm a sucker for those.

Maybe I'm too literal in how I think of psychogeography, but I was surprised that he didn't mention the effect of the borough's murder rate on Hackneyites. In the relatively short time that I've lived here I'm struck by the number of places that I now associate with death. Within a few hundred yards of here in any direction there are places where, usually young men have died. In front of the town hall, London Fields, Dalston Shopping Centre, Amhurst Road...

As I walk the borough I find it hard to dissociate myself from this violence, and yet I remain a great fan of Hackney and its people. It's a complex place.

How musical bumps saved me from the recession

I've been slightly distracted over the past 18 months, what with bringing up baby and being a semi-stay at home dad. In an earlier post, I'd predicted that it was maybe a good time to ease back on work commitments, as there wasn't much of it about anyway. Hmmm, that one's come back to bite me on the bum.

The thing I've found about trying to combine childcare and work is that you have to be careful that you don't end up shortchanging both. There have been times when I was crying out for somebody to take J off my hands for a little while (and I was lucky enough to have a friend who did just that on a few occasions - thanks Alecia. Unfortunately she's gone back to Australia).

You can end up rushing work, or not giving it the mythical 110 per cent. Sometimes that doesn't matter - good enough can be good enough. At other times, I wonder if I've put myself back in the pecking order, or completely dropped off people's radar. It's not a good time for that to happen.

Splitting your loyalties means that you sometimes end up resenting your child because you can't devote extra time to a project, but it has also been a great release valve. As work slowed down, I found that the days when I was full time dadding were very calming. I came to realise (and was told in no uncertain terms by my wife) that that was my priority. There's no point sitting around feeling sorry for yourself when you have a toddler to entertain. It's a lot easier for everyone if you just leave your work baggage at the door of musical bumps, or whatever class, playgroup or kiddie event you are attending and just get on with it.

It seems counter intuitive, but I'm sure that I would have been a lot more stressed if I didn't have a child as I watched work drain away during the recession. I've always felt that I was doing something worthwhile, even if the pay was lousy.

Now, however I'm back to being available five days a week, and my wife is on maternity leave with pay that will not last forever. I really have to pick up the slack. Luckily, I feel slightly tempered to the new reality of work. There's really no point getting uptight, especially with another one on the way. That will be stress enough.

Going potty

I had been dreading this period of bringing up baby (although J no longer seems like a baby, or even a toddler. More a premature stroppy teenager).
You hear such horror stories about potty training. People say they are chained to the house, their children initiate dirty protests*, or they simply scream in horror at the sight of a potty and refuse to entertain the idea of sitting on this alien throne.
We've either been extremely lucky or we're just 'king brilliant parents because (touch wood) it has been a relatively untroublesome affair. We've had a potty kicking about the house since J was just over one. The thinking was that if he got used to it then come the dreaded time, he wouldn't be afraid of it's awesome power. And so it proved to be. He has variously used it as a hat, a store for his toys, and a comfy seat for his teddy. I don't think he has eaten out of it, but I wouldn't bet the farm on it.
The only problem with the potty was that, even at a relatively young age, it seemed too small for his baby bum. I bristle at the idea that he's a lard bucket - he really isn't and seems perfectly formed to biased old me - but I don't understand how his dimensions are so out of whack with the design of this particular poe (John Lewis one with a car on it, thanks for asking).
When we got serious about training, my wife invested in a Mothercare one with removable bowl, for easy washing, which initially looked a much better option. But even this seems to have been designed for a different shaped child. Perhaps he has rugby player's thighs and it makes it difficult for him to sit down and point percy at the porcelain (or injection moulded plastic in this case - maybe really posh kids have Armitage Shanks poes). We have had liquids squirting in all directions. There's definitely a gap in the market for a potty that works - Dragons Den here I come.
The good news is that all this fiddliness hasn't put him off - pee in the pot - Yes; poo in the pot - Yes; stand in the pot after first two - er... There have been few accidents so far, certainly fewer than I was anticipating (the floaters in the bath the other night were comical rather than anything, and there has been no repeat yet). He has even woken up in the night asking for a wee wee, rather than wet the nappy that we still put him in for sleeping.
Proud? You betcha. I only hope that the arrival of Alfie (as imminent newbie has been christened by big brother) doesn't cause a backward step.

* This phrase always reminds me of my uncle's description of my dad's journey into modern art/modish interior decor. When we first moved to England from Scotland, he decided to mark the break from the auld country with a rediscovered artistic streak. Quite literally in this case as he decorated the master bedroom with a poo brown surrealistic swirl that went round all four walls and was visible to bemused passers by on our estate. Oh dad, how I miss you and how you'd love our little man.

Number twos

It's six weeks to go before our second child is born. The difference between this pregnancy and the last one has been quite marked. The first time round it seemed as if we lived every day of experience in detail marking off the various milestones - scans, midwife visits, antenatal and NCT classes - one at a time and revelling in the newness of it all. This time, it only seems like yesterday that we found out we were expecting again, and suddenly we are here. I keep feeling as if I haven't been paying attention or that there are huge gaps in our preparation. Shouldn't we be doing more stuff?
If truth be told, this time round we are fairly relaxed about everything, whereas last time the whole experience was couched in slightly negative terms. What if something went wrong? How would we cope? It was almost as if we didn't want to get too complacent about having a child in case we jinxed the process. I'm sure it's superstition that is common to a lot of first time parents. There's a slight nagging in the back of your mind - "What if something bad happens?"
Of course, as with the majority of pregnancies nothing bad did happen and we had a beautiful and healthy baby boy.
I don't know if our relaxed nature this time is because we have supreme faith in the medical community and our own procreational abilities, or because we don't have the energy for the emotional rollercoaster ride of the first time round. It's not that we don't care as much, but it's certainly hard to live at such at heightened pitch when you have a two year old toddler at your side.
Especially one you are trying to potty train before his sibling arrives.

Party bags

One thing I won't miss from nursery are the bags of goodies (or should I say baddies) that the children get when it's somebody's birthday. It's a very sweet gesture (in more ways that one) but it is a real headache trying to hide this dietary WMD from J as he pesters me for it on the way home.
All the usual offenders are there - sweets, crisps, soft drinks. It's not that I'm a snob (oh, okay. Guilty), but most of this stuff I wouldn't eat myself and I've got a taste for trash. So why should I let him eat it?
This evening's offering was something called Calypso Spring Water Drink, which sounded relatively healthy, so I popped the straw through the foil lid and took a sip before giving it to him. Big mistake! It tasted like liquid saccharin - disgusting. Unfortunately by this point I was committed to handing it over to an expectant toddler, which I did, feeling a bit like Dr Crippin. As it was, the drink was so horrible that even J couldn't manage more than a few sips.
At least it makes me feel less bad about his preference for OJ over good old fashioned water. Of course, he only gets watered down OJ...

The end of the road

This is my last week as Mr Mum.
My wife is seven and a half months pregnant with our second child (I can't remember if I've mentioned this!) and finishes work on Friday. J will also stop going to nursery at this time. Two reasons: financial constraints of surviving on one salary, and a chance for mum to assuage her guilt about him being cared for by someone else in the first place.
As for me, I'll have to get cracking and hope that I can now fill my five days with paid activity, which certainly hasn't been the case of late. I've had the slight excuse of looking after our son for two days and being tied to the nursery drop and collect schedule for the other three - now that's gone. With the missus in the house, I'll also have to look active rather than avoiding work.
I shall miss our time together though. When we started doing it, he wasn't walking, had a handful of words and was very clingy to mummy. Now he's running and jumping, can have a fairly sophisticated conversation, and is a lot more independent. It really has happened very quickly, and I've been privileged to have a front seat on events.

How much?

I suppose we all eventually become our parents, and one area where I am definitely my mother's son is in my attitude to money. Becoming a parent has led to me imagining her old refrain "Do you think I'm made of money?"on many occasions, not least when you are having to cough up an exorbitant sum for children's food.
A case in point was a trip on Saturday to the Natural History Museum. As is often the case, we actually had a packed lunch prepared for J so didn't have to buy him anything. However we were going to get lunch for ourselves. Nothing fancy, just a sandwich, or a bagel... HOW MUCH????!!!
This time, I don't think I was just showing my age, not at £7.95 for a bleedin' oversized Cheerio with a bit of chicken and salad. The upshot was that we just bought a hot beverage each and sat there smuggling bites of his ham sandwich under the watchful eye of the food police. Actually, my wife was quite brazen about eating hers. She had a sort of mad look in her eye that almost dared the waiter to confront her - unleash hell!
What was really galling was that the cafe in question was run by the same company that has the franchise for the Museum of Childhood in Bethnal Green, where prices are very reasonable, the food is excellent, and consequently many parents spend their hard-earned there.
So in future, it will be smuggled sandwiches for all of us, and we'll save the money for a sticky bun from Greggs on the way home. You're never far away from one.

Trolleys

For some time now I've noticed that there seems to be a large number of people who travel round the borough pulling trolley suitcases. As far as I know, Hackney is not a major transit point for travellers - we don't even have a Tube station. Who are they? Where do they come from? And more importantly, where do they go?
Maybe there's a particularly big itinerant population sofa surfing and forced to spend their days walking the cold and mean streets in search of warmth.
(If so, I'd try the library).

IT Hackney style

I'm not much of an IT guy, so whenever anything goes wrong with my kit, I'm pretty much in the same position as a maiden aunt taking her Polo to the garage. I've basically got 'Fleece me' on my forehead.
My other laptop went on the blink recently, so I decided that rather than take it to PC World, as I did last time for a very expensive mother board replacement - whatever that means! - I'd try the dodgy looking PC and Mac Doctor nearby. It was a bit of an eye opener. The guy claimed that he wasn't that busy, but for the next 20 minutes I was in there, there was a succession of picaresque characters with various queries and requests, from the hardcore IT geeks to the more naive than me.
My favourite was an East End geezer who was doing his best Ray Winston impression.
Slaps hand on counter. "I wanna buy a laptop. Cheapest one you've got."
IT guy: "Cash?"
EEG: "Don't make me open that bag." Points laughingly to a large, suspicious looking holdall and mimes holding a shotgun. "I'll 'ave to shoot ya!"
ITG: "This is the cheapest I've got at the moment."
EEG: "Thinkpad. Sweet! £299. It's not worth that. I'll give you a monkey..."
Etc...
Anyway, the owner seemed alright and more straight up than other IT shops I've dealt with - as if I'd really know the difference. He also confirmed that the HP machine I have is a pile of crap. That's the last time I buy on looks. Give me functionality and the streamline appeal of a breeze block in future.
And speaking of form over function, it will be interesting to see how the world reacts to Apple latest offering, the iPad (I can't believe I went back to cap that P). I'm surely not the first person to snigger over it's vaguely sanitary towel name. Maybe they should get Clare Rayner to endorse it. It does strike me that after years of everything electrical getting smaller, clunky is now the new black. Still, at least you could wallop somebody with it if they tried to purloin it.
I wonder who will be the first person I see at our local trendy coffee shop with one.

The Long Goodbye

I've lived in Hackney for more than ten years, but there's a good chance that I won't be here at this time next year. My wife is expecting our second child in a couple of months time. We're just recovering from the space thief that is number one son, so the prospect of this one (son or daughter) arriving wanting to know where it will park its kit means we will be house hunting soon.
It looks likely that we won't be able to afford the kind of place that we need or want within the bounds of 'London's most happening borough'. Which is kind of ironic considering that I moved here at first because it was the only place I could afford after being cruelly dumped by my ex - I'm not bitter, even though it was only about 12 years ago.
Right from the off however, I realised that I had lucked out - which was very fortunate as I'd only ever seen the flat I'd bought, and its surrounds in the dark. Rather than hiding a multitude of sins, the dark concealed some great features. I'm within walking distance of one lovely park, which in the absence of a garden, is my green space, and there are two other large parks and innumerable smaller ones nearby. There are some great runs for my periodic attempts to get fit, and there were some fantastic boozers for the times when I couldn't be bothered. A lot of these have changed - some for the better, some less so - as Hackney has too. It has the Empire, although for how much longer, we don't know.
Without wishing to sound too corny, the thing I hadn't reckoned on was how vibrant an area it is to live in. Hardly surprising given the culture clash round here - traditional East End/Vietnamese/Caribbean/new East European arrivals/Hassidic Jews/Bangladeshi/Africans/Turks/Irish and quite a few Germans it always seems to me. Which is odd given their historical relationship with this part of the Great Wen.
Of course, it's the newest arrivals - people like me unfortunately - who have been responsible for the kind of changes that will probably now drive me out. As Hackney has become a byword for hip, arty, vibrant (sorry, I don't have my thesaurus handy) urban living, the house prices have shot up. There are a lot of people who will have made a packet in property round here. I've done alright, I reckon, but I shall miss living here, and although we could be here for another year yet, I'm missing it already.

The snow is back

They're calling it the New Ice Age round these parts. Well they might be if they weren't sliding all over the place in inappropriate footwear. That's one of the things I love about London - how unprepared everybody is for bad weather. You're more likely to see somebody with a copy of Metro over their head than a brolly when it rains. And even though it's like a ice rink out there, the high heels, open toed sandals and canvas trainers are still being sported (wo)manfully.
It doesn't stop Hackney folk from enjoying the weather though. London Fields is filling up nicely with ice sculptures that pay tribute to the aristic bent of locals. My personal favourite was a large ice squirrel smoking a pipe. Genius.
My own rather vanilla snowman paled in comparison, but J enjoyed helping me make it. He's two years old now and quite the little artistic director while yours truly did all of the work. I did have a bit of assistance from a truanting 12 year old who was looking for a somebody to have a snowball fight with. I eventually had to oblige as he had such a hangdog expression that I felt guilty. At any rate I must have been great fun as afterwards he was pestering me for details about when I was coming out to play again. He even offered to give me his mobile phone number! Don't parents have the talk with their kids any more?

A little bit of paradise in Hackney

... well actually Tower Hamlets. The annual Paradise Gardens fete in Victoria Park has come round again. We're off to meet lots of parents and their offspring.
Hoping the London Elvises are there.

Bob Crow is a dude

There is a certain type of person who is ready to applaud the pluck of the French for standing up for what they believe in - blocking channel ports, dumping sheep carcasses on the doorsteps of government departments, smashing up McDonald's, and so on.
Why oh why can't we be a bit more like them, they whinge. Why are the British so compliant?
But when we get an honest to goodness show of power from a group of British workers looking to exercise their rights, it's suddenly a different matter.
Well you can't have it both ways. I know that the recent Tube strike is a massive inconvenience to thousands of Londoners, including my wife, who doubled the time her usual journey to work took. But I've got to admit a sneaking respect for the RMT and boss Bob Crow for being being able to do it.
There's a great profile of him here which only increases my admiration for him. I particularly like the way he is unapologetic about the fact that some of his members seem to be paid quite well already. (The strike wasn't simply about money anyway).
The implication, which he swats away like Obama did his fly, is that nobody can seriously believe that a working class oik needs £40K for driving a train. Surely they'll only spend it on Sky, Rothmans and Lambrini.
Divide and rule brothers. 'Twas ever thus.
There is a particularly irksome comment on this that always pokes its chinless head up whenever there is industrial action. I can only assume that Paul Weller wants to twat these seabirds. Biting satire it aint.
I realise that everything I've written is slightly undermined by the fact that I live in Tube-free Hackney, and work from home... but power to the workers anyway.

"We hate kids..."

I read a couple of articles recently that made me think, and also depressed me a bit.

The first is this one by Polly Vernon, who doesn't seem to be allowed to go a month without writing about how put upon she feels by society's insistence that everybody should have kids. The other is by Jon Ronson and relates the tale of how he had to leave a restaurant that refused to allow his 10-year old son in.

What is quite depressing about both is the feedback from readers who seem largely (70 per cent?) hostile to the notion of children and quite freely band about stereotypes of parents who are immune to the havoc their marauding ankle biters wreck on the lives of the childfree. They also perpetuate the myth that anybody with kids is so blissfully smug about their fecundity that they are incapable of being aware of anybody else's feelings, or simply not caring.

In my experience of parenthood - 19 months and counting - that's the last thing that most parents are. You become hyper aware of your place in the scheme of things, and also that not everybody is as besotted by your offspring as you occasionally are. Spending months wheeling a tank-sized buggy around quickly gets you enough looks to make you realise that you are a problem to some people.

I just don't recognise this idea that parents impose their world view on everybody else - did I think that before we had J? I honestly can't remember. Obviously we have him now, so my attitude is coloured by that, but I don't think I have ever thought that everybody should have children, let alone question somebody's motives for not wanting children. It's possibly the hardest thing I've ever done, because it is so unrelenting and you feel the stakes of messing up are so high. It really isn't for everybody. In some ways I feel that we've given up a lot in terms of personal freedoms to have a family - not particularly in financial terms, but in the time you lose that could have been frittered away so pleasantly. Now I cherish every spare half hour that I have to myself. That time has been given greater value because we have family commitments.

Thankfully, such online comments don't really reflect my experience of being a parent. By and large people in London, and Hackney especially, are remarkably considerate and helpful to parents. I've lost count of the number of times I've received some small, unsolicited kindness from a stranger who sees me struggling along with my load of childstuff. It's not unappreciated.

It does help that we have the world's cutest child though... aaaargh! Smug alert....

Chatterbox

The words are coming think and fast now from Jamie. He's turned into a fantastic little mimic and it's easy to forget that he's all ears. I believe he has already said one of the lesser swear words after hearing it from a responsible adult - not on my shift guv.
It all seems to have happened quite quickly. A month or so ago he was only saying individual words, and now he is threading them together in rudimentary sentences. He's only 18 months, and he wasn't saying that much at one, despite our parental pride in what seemed like wordiness at the time.
Now he can tell us, not only that he had had a poo, but how big it is (usually big poo), and that it is mummy, not him that is a beautiful boy, and that another portion of Shreddies is his favourite breakfast, thank you for asking.
He's also getting quite opinionated in a 'black is white' way. He will happily argue that this is the case and gets rather irate when contradicted. It's all getting very interesting.

Days like these

There are times when I wonder what I'm doing as a part time dad. When I'm pushing the buggy along the road and somebody - a shiny-suited Apprentice wannabe frinstance - catches my eye, and there's a momentary look that says 'Get a job'. At which point, I want to stop and say "You don't know anything about me. I could be a high flyer. I could wear a shiny suit." But I don't obviously - say it, or wear a shiny suit (usually fraying dockers and a stained T-shirt actually).
Actually, it's hardly surprising that I get that look as some days I do feel like a member of the long-term unemployed - not to mention looking like one, courtesy of my week long stubble. It's not that I don't do anything (see below), it's more that there is a feeling of being adrift from mainstream society when you are looking after a child. You keep different hours. You hang out in different places. You do different things. It's a whole subculture out there that I never knew existed. It's a world where lawyers and journalists mix with electrical engineers, shop workers and the real unemployed at strange little gatherings where you sit banging plastic instruments and singing out of tune songs about animals with strange anthropomorphic qualities. Who writes this stuff?
I often have this feeling that I should be doing something more worthwhile. That I should be working harder, climbing the ladder of success, and wearing that shiny suit with pride. But as my wife continually points out, I'm doing the most important job in some ways. In know she's right, and I know she would swap roles with me in a second, but I suppose that I'm as conditioned as the next man about what my role should be - trad dad breadwinner.
Again, I have to emphasise that I enjoy this new life I have. It's a secret life, and in some ways it does seem like a holiday of sorts when I'm looking after J. The problem is that the real world keeps intruding into our little Hackney Holiday world. There are always deadlines threatening, people chasing, and people to chase. It's the juggling that's the hardest part, and that's probably why I have this sense of dislocation. Because I have a foot in both camps, I'm never completely at ease in either.
I wouldn't change it though. This will end at some point and I'll be back to my five days a week routine and forgeting the songs about elephants scrubbing their clothes, and the glockenspiel tunes, and how much fun it can be.

What I do

• Woken up by Jamie
• Give him milk
• Change nappy - Jamie's, not mine
• Breakfast time
• Playtime
• Get him dressed
• Try to have a shower - no shave
• Walkies - get the bag ready
  
• Leave the house
• Go back to the house to collect forgotten stuff
• Find a place to give Jamie his dinner
• Nappy time
  
• Grab a cuppa
• Shop for food
  
• Swings
• Back home
• Make dinner for Jamie
• Story time
  
• Play
• Mummy home...
• Get bedtime stuff ready
• Run bath
• Kiss Jamie goodnight
• Make dinner while mummy puts J to bed
• Do dishes
• Me time!
  

What have I done?

It was an odd Friday.
I was summoned to the Midlands by one of the companies I do a bit of work for. I started working for them at the beginning of the year after a sudden downturn in paying gigs being offered. The company had actually been pursuing me during the summer, but I didn't fancy it, despite the immortal line from the desperate middle manager doing the pursuing that it was "money for old rope".
How can you refuse an offer like that? Well, I did for a bit. But a worryingly quiet December had me beating a path to their door with my tail between my legs begging for work, which was still available. Phew!
It hasn't all been plain sailing though. The work isn't that interesting and there have been issues with the project - namely how long-term it was likely to be (my feeling is that it's going to be pulled at some point).
So anyway, I approached the meeting with a certain degree of ambivalence. I knew that there were a few changes in the offing as one of the main people in the team was leaving. So I ended up in a meeting where the manager was effectively saying could I take on more responsibility.
Before I knew what I was saying I'd effectively talked myself out of a job, saying that I wasn't currently able to take on more work from them (true), that I didn't really agree with that they were trying to do and presenting a withering critique of their corporate culture, which I think is too navel gazing.
The lady I was meeting with actually seemed a bit stunned, although she thanked me for my candour. It now seems that they will look for somebody else to take on the work, and I'll be let go.
As I headed home on the train I was reading ever more gloomy economic predictions for the next few years which brought on a sense of panic. Suddenly I was mentally pulling the emergency stop cord and running back up the line to let them know it was all a terrible mistake. This feeling has stayed with me for most of the weekend, despite my wife pointing out that I've got more work than I can handle at the moment, that I didn't want to do it in the first place, and that I'm always moaning about it.
I guess such periods of self doubt are the curse of the freelancer. The old saying is that it is either famine or feast, and there seems to have been more of the former than the latter of late. Will I live to regret this decision? Time will tell.

Choo choo!

What is it with boys and trains? J has taken a massive liking to toy trains, especially wooden ones like this. His cousin has some and so has a new friend of his, Kai. Unluckily - or maybe luckily - for Kai, he is only 12 months old so is less possessive about his toys than J is with his (and other people's). So when J starts playing with the trains, it's cool with Kai.
Anyway, this Easter, his granny got him his very own train set, which has probably turned out to be the best gift ever! It's the first thing he wants to play with every day. He was overjoyed to receive it and since there is a steam railway line where she lives, we thought we'd take him to see the real thing.
It almost didn't happen as he was asleep by the time we had taken the soggy walk to the local park where the train starts. After a cursory look around, we decided that he needed his nap more than a sight of the locomotives, so started off back home. At this stage he did wake up and with the train about to leave in a couple of minutes I rushed him back on to the platform in time for him to see that Choo choos really exist. It really was quite a wonderful moment and I was very touched by it. It was another of those gushy moments that make you realise how great it is to be a parent, no matter what Rachel Cook says (about mums).

Here comes summer

The past couple of days have been seasonally clement for the time of year. (Excuse the Radio 2-isms but the wife keeps channel switching in the morning, so I'm currently being hit by a double whammy of Sarah Kennedy and Terry frickin' Wogan and they are gradually realigning my thought processes. All those Middle England witticisms and chummy texts and emails from the TOGs are doing my head in. Never mind the aural torture of playing the Birdy Song, or whatever, to terror suspects. Why not just give them a blast of this inane drivel and they'd be begging to tell their interogators anything.)
Anyway, the weather has been very sunny over the past couple of days, which really does lead to a Hackney Holiday feeling in the air. I was in the playground with J the other day and there were a couple of other mums availing themselves of the facilities by quaffing a bottle of cream-based liqueur and having a big spliff while their kids careered around. I have to say that the one in possession of the doobie did have the good grace to try and waft the fumes away from her as J started towards her. We made our excuses and left.
Hackney in summer is great though. We live near London Fields park and people treat it as their garden, so on sunny days, it is a fantastic place to hang out. There are amateur barbecue-ists, football players and frisbee-ers, folk reading the papers, punk picnics, rampaging dogs, the Hoxton trendies, kids dunking each other in the paddling pool, the obligatory men with guitars, impromtu cricket, young guys strutting around with their tops off and young girls looking studiedly unimpressed. It's just a great vibe, and we've got months of it to come, which is especially great for me as I have two days a week of dadding when I have carte blanche to have fun, as long as his nibs is into it as well.

Lullaby

It must be great being able, indeed expected, to sleep during the day. I am trying to type very quietly while J sleeps on the sofa. He did just wake up a minute ago, stood up and then lay back down on his other side. Amazing. I don't think he even realised he was awake.
Baby sleep is a strange thing. You spend half your life imploring them to get their heads down, and the other half trying to keep them awake so that they can sleep at the properly appointed times. Not that they ever do.
Other parents obsess about it almost as much as you do. It is a badge of some honour to have a baby or toddler that 'sleeps well'. Jeez! As if we have anything to do with it. They sleep when and where they like.
J has never been what you would call a great sleeper. When he was younger, he would sleep all day and be awake all night. That's how it seemed anyway. I can vaguely recall pacing the front room in the wee small hours singing Blackbird, Stairway to Heaven or some made up song for hundreds of verses. I actually thought that this would be a great way for me to imprint the lyrics to some of my favourite songs into my memory, which is terrible for such things. What I didn't realise was that at three in the morning, your brain is mainly concerned with ensuring that you don't drop the baby or stop breathing. So my recitations would be like a badly scratched record - sing first two lines of first verse, switch to last two lines of third verse, attempt half of chorus, and repeat from the beginning. Now these addled versions are indelibly imprinted on my mind never to be shifted.
Altogether now... Hello darkness, hello friend...

It sleeps

The bairn is having a lie down and is now one and a half hours into an afternoon kip. Which is great, apart from the fact that he is sleeping through the remaining daylight and I still haven't been out of the house today. Unless he gets up in about the next five to 10 minutes, it's unlikely I will get outside today. Wake up!!!

Can we have that again?

I feel robbed of the festive experience. Everything started really well with some lovely days at the in-laws and Christmas dinner produced by the sis-in-law. It was all looking good for a week of excess and laziness when Jamie came down with something on the day after Boxing Day. It seems to have been some sort of virus and manifest itself with lots of vomiting and increasing listlessness.
He is normally really robust and active, so it was quite disturbing to see him so low. All he wanted to do was sit on his mum's knee - funny how she's the first port of call in troubled times. He didn't eat much and wasn't drinking a lot either, so we were quite worried about dehydration. We took him to an out of hours service where the paediatrician squeezed his fingers, poked and prodded him, before pronouncing he would get over it himself. There wasn't really much else we could do, but it was reassuring to hear he was going ot be okay. At the time it seemed as if he would never get better. I dread to think what's it's like dealing with long term illness in a child.
As luck would have it, he started doing an Uncle Albert and came across as the picture of health as soon as he encountered a doctor, painting us as a couple of paranoid time wasters. Cheers Jamie.
The next day, he was on his way to being more like his old self, but has not gone to nursery today to give him a chance to get back his old strength. Having spent to past week rinsing sick out of clothes, bedding and carpets, I am glad to have him back.

Ho Ho Ho!

Christmas is almost upon us. We are on the road again this year, something that I learned to really appreciate last year when we were knackered first time parents. It is really comforting to be among family and loved ones at this time of the year, and crucially not to have to do any of the legwork. Well, that's not strictly true. I will wash the odd wine glass or 20 over the next week I'm sure. However the real hard working of hosting Christmas is the preparation. Deciding what you want to cook, buying all the ingredients, planning the day with military precision, ensuring you have entertainment planned, etc. We will just have to turn up, look thankful and tuck in. And I can't wait...

Cat!

I exposed Jamie to some art this week. We met up with a friend of mine at Tate Modern for lunch. He was very well behaved and the staff in the cafe get a big thumbs up for child friendliness. They brought over a high chair, swept the buggy away to a less crowded part of the restaurant, brought him some crayons, and even heated up the soup I had brought for him. Well done the Tate!
As usual, Jamie was insatiable, so as well as wolfing down a whole banana, a clementine (or satsuma - at any rate, his fruit of choice at the moment), a yogurt, and his soup, he started begging for food from my plate. I feel bad about giving him chips, but at least they were fat chips, which are healthier, right?
After my friend had gone back to work, I thought it was probably a good idea that he worked off some of his dinner so I took him to the turbine hall, where the large exhibits are held. The last time he was here, he was still a babe and slept all the way through Shibboleth, as the massive crack in the floor was known. I took some fantastic video of him sleeping through this which I keep meaning to put to suitably atmospheric music - one of my pending projects alongside more pressing ones such as fixing the stair gate at the top of the stairs, and putting up shelves in the living room, and... oh, don't start me.
This time round he was a lot more lively and loved the space that the Tate affords and the glass walls that separate the turbine hall from the main body of the museum. The main installation was particularly interesting. The hall was screened off with opaque, coloured plastic strips which he loved pushing through into a hall filled with lots of yellow and blue bunk beds - a bit like an Ikea warehouse. His favourite exhibit however was a large scale (about 20 times actual size) skeleton of a cat. After he'd noted this he ran around like a small, demented robot, shouting "Cat! Cat!" which was particularly amusing as there was a group of arty types being given a lecture on its meaning. Well, it was obvious wasn't it, it was a massive cat!
Personally I thought his analysis was particularly insightful.

Klutz mum

Whenever I'm with the other mums I always seem to end up feeling like the least able to handle my child, at least in the effortless style that they do it. I sort of manage to do everything that has to be done, but in the manner of the 20 stone guy who finishes the marathon in seven hours, sweating profusely and with bleeding nipples. Mission accomplished, but he's hardly going to worry Paula Radcliffe.
Today we met for lunch in the City near where two of the working mums are based. I was about half an hour late due to bus problems and heavy traffic rather than my own ineptitude. I had planned to walk it, but was running a little too late for that. Or so I thought. I reckon I would still have walked there quicker.
So by the time I got there, everybody else had their children under control, ordered lunch and was chatting away happily. I barged in late, tried to wedge the buggy under the bar and seemed incapable of speech for several minutes. Jamie woke up and started squawking and had to be held by me and nobody else, so I wasn't able to get his nutritious lunch out and he filled his face with chips from somebody else's plate. Even with baby food smeared on her shoulder, one mum looked more in control than me.
Maybe women are born to it.

New wheels

Jamie is a lot better now after what seemed to be an early dose of the norovirus. That's my diagnosis anyway as both mummy and me came down with it. Hopefully that's our lot for this winter.
To celebrate, we bought him a new buggy. He has needed one for a little while as he's outgrown the Bugaboo. It's a strange experience driving him to nursery this morning in his new Maclaren. The Bugaboo is like the Humvee of buggies. It's like a bleeding tank and feels as if you are driving something that commands respect, and pavement space. People almost have to leap out of the way.
The new buggy is an altogether flimsier item, but it is a bit more manoeuvrable - with the Bugaboo you need a three point turn to get it in and out of tight situations. Jamie seemed to like it anyway, even though he is facing the 'wrong way'.
The recent research into the effect of forward facing buggies on child speech is all very interesting, but it's actually quite difficult to get a buggy for older kids that can be switched round. Personally, I'd feel like a paranoid parent pushing a one year about in one, as if I couldn't inflict the madness of the world on them. They're inquisitive little things and want to see what is going on in the world rather than just gazing adoringly at mater/pater's haggard, sleep-deprived visage all day. Give them a break!
We went to a rather lovely birthday party yesterday for one of Jamie's little friends. As this one was on a Sunday, there were more adults around that at the other one I wrote about. Consequently, there was lots of lovely food and drink. The parents are Italian so the spread was great, as was mine by the end of it - lovely lasagne, succulent chicken and gorgeous sweetmeats. Jamie was enjoying munching his way through this feast but eventually succumbed to a bit of a meltdown as he hadn't slept more than about 20 minutes that day.
Now that the birthday season is almost over, bring on the Christmas parties.

Not well

Jamie is quite sick at the moment. It started after his afternoon nap at the nursery yesterday when he started throwing up and rapidly went through all of his clothes and a few others they had dug out for him. He was being given a sponge bath when I arrived and was in a bit of a state, but soon calmed down. Unfortunately it continued back here, so we just bathed him and put him to bed. The little munchkin was so tired he fell asleep in my arms as I was puttng on his sleeping clothes. He woke in the night and I tried to give him some water, but he threw that all up. Charlotte fed him and we brought him in with us.
He slept through until about seven, although I didn't as he manages to expand to fill the biggest possible space for such a small chap. I ended up clinging on the edge of the bed with a scrap of duvet. He's sleeping again now so we'll play it by ear. He didn't keep the little breakfast he ate down either. Bizarrely he seems okay as soon as he's emptied his stomach, and is not being especially clingy, which you might expect.
It's scuppered our plans for singing class today, which is a shame, but he's probably not up to it, and it would be unfair to inflict him on other children in his predicament.
Mum is down this weekend, so has seen him walk, which is lovely for her. I'll need to try and shoot some video of him walking as we don't have any yet. I need to get him while he's still relatively unsteady and before he becomes a total expert.

Up and running

Well, almost...
This weekend has seen Jamie crack the walking. He has been gearing up to it for the past week, but somehow everything has just clicked into place over the last few days. He is suddenly really confident on his feet and opts for walking as often as he does crawling. Four limbed travel still has the edge when speed is required, but it can only be a matter of time before he has worked up a bit more speed on two pins.
At the moment he has a sort of zombie gait where he waddles towards you with arms outstretched above his head. He is so cute when he does it as he inevitably has a massive grin on his face. I don't think he can quite believe he can do it yet. Nursery was really impressed by his new found skill, and they are very complimentary about him generally. He eats well, lets them know what his needs are (usually food), says his words and does his animal noises, and mixes with the other children. This morning, Souleymane, one of the children who has just moved from the baby room to the toddlers group, came running up to me as I brought him to nursery and went "Hello Jamie!" Jamie already has his own social circle it seems.

Balancing act

I picked Jamie up from nursery this afternoon. Fridays are always really nice as Charlotte works from home, so she is only about 10-15 minutes away. He has been a lot more at ease this week. No tantrums when I leave him in the morning, which is the point when he has been a bit clingy in the past. This morning he was beaming as I dropped him off, gave me a little kiss and waved goodbye. Off you go daddy!
He has been walking more this week and has been showing off a bit today as his newfound ability was commented on. All the kids were wearing pyjamas for Children in Need and had brought in their favourite teddies, or in Jamie's case, a cuddly cow. I walked him along the corridor when we left and the nursery manager and deputy manager both commented on what a good day he had had and how well he has settled in. "He's such a well balanced little boy," said the manager, which made me feel really good. I don't think she was talking about his walking.
This week has been a bit stressful for me as business has been quite slow. Then there was news of redundancies and closures at Haymarket, where a lot of my work comes from. This really set alarm bells ringing as I started to envisage meltdown of the household finances. As it happened, that day saw the delivery of a batch of prints I had ordered for a photo album of Jamie's last three months. Looking at them made me think how little I had to worry about and how much I have to be thankful for. We're never going to be financially strapped, so all I was worrying about was the extras, and if it comes to it, we can trim our sails for a bit.

Nice day

Jamie and I had a lovely day. We started at singing class at 11am where he is starting to look worryingly large compared with the other children. Stephanie, who takes the class, asked if he was walking yet. It sometimes looks like he might be as he is very steady on his feet and can even bounce on his legs and do a little dance. When I replied that he couldn't she showed me an amazing trick where she stood him against a wall and then moved away from him. This seems to put his posture in the walking position and he then totters formward towards your open arms. It's fantastic and so simple. Why has nobody ever told me this before? Is it some sort of secret?
After that, me and some of the mums went to the local cafe and chatted frantically. Well the others did. They seem to be a bit newer on the scene and anxious to make contacts. I wasn't being aloof, more trying to keep hungry bird from grabbing red hot teapots and pouring them over himself while I tried ot prepare his lunch. The younger babies were supping gingerly on pulped vegetable matter, while Jamie was attempting to scoff anything that wasn't nailed to the table. They all seemed very nice though and I now have a new potential group of friends, even if they're only once a week friends.
After this we went to the Museum of Childhood to meet up with a longer standing baby friend. Jamie slept for a whole two hours before practising his new walking technique at a local children's centre. Stephanie said he'll be walking by next week.

Dummies!

Before we had Jamie I held what is probably quite a common attitude to dummies in that I thought they were quite common. We resisted giving them to him for a couple of months, despite what the text books call his "strong sucking reflex". This basically means that he could just about dislocate one of your fingers if he got hold of it.
Dummies are, after all, only for parents who can't control or minister to the needs of their children and we wouldn't be like that. Oh no. However it's amazing what night after night of sleep deprivation torture will do to you. Eventually after trying lots of things, such as... er, I can't remember any of the alternative strategies. But it wasn't like we just gave in.
When we eventually gave in and presented his little screaming mouth with this plastic and latex construction, it was like Armistice Day. The incessant noise stopped, and was replaced by the sounds of birds singing outside and the whoosh of air as he sucked away on his teet. He really did become a lot calmer. It seemed to help his colic, made him sleep better, aided his digestion, and actually seemed to make him more intelligent. Okay, I made the last bit up, but the difference was so great that we have since wondered why we didn't do it earlier. At least we had tried dummy free living.
Not that this has stopped me slightly embarrassed about them. None of his little friends seem to have them, and neither do any of the nice middle class babies at his singing class. Of course, it is quite difficult to sing with a piece of rubber stuck between your lips. I don't think I have ever whipped it out of his mouth when I have spotted somebody I know approaching, but it is the sort of thing I probably would do.
I sometimes wonder if he is too wedded to it. He can get in huge paddies if it isn't there, and it is a bit too easy to stick it in him if he is playing up, which he can do in spectacular fashion. It actually looks quite cute on a one year old, but if it's still his mouthwear of choice in a couple of years time, I'll be worried. However, until he reaches an age at which we can reason with him, I don't think there's much we can do about it. Unless he just gives up on it himself.
Maybe the name is part of the problem. Last week I was taking him to the singing class and knew I would be out all day. However I forgot his dummy and was worried that without it he wouldn't sleep. So I dived into a nearby pharmacy and breathlessly asked if they had any dummies. I'd obviously intruded on some private joke as they started snorting into their tea and giggling uncontrollably. Lucky I didn't need incontinence pants.
Sod's Law meant that he was asleep within a couple of minutes of leaving the shop, and he slumbered soundly for a couple of hours. Maybe I need it more than he does.
'Dummy' does sound so, well dumb. Other people call them soothers or comforters, but that sounds a bit affected to me. Let's call a dummy a dummy.
And I have discovered, they needn't lack style. You can get them in lots of lovely designs - pirates, kittens, etc - and you can even have them personalised. However at nearly £3 each, there's probably only one world for people who buy them - suckers!

Clumsy me

One thing they never tell you about in parent skool are the talons. Babies' nails grow really quickly, and by the time they are Jamie's age, they're quite sharp and rather offensive weapons. When they are little, the nails are so soft that you are supposed to be able to just peel them off. This route never appealed to me as I envisaged trying to peel off a slither of nail and taking the whole nail bed out. Consequently I've opted for clippers.
The problem here is that their fingers are so small that it's quite difficult to see what you're doing. That and the fact that they are quite wriggly at times means it is easy to nick them.
Jamie's nursery had a message up on Friday about keeping nails clipped as they can be quite scratchy. This I know from personal experience of Jamie Scissorhands, who has been known to lash out in the manner of a cornered alley cat. He also has quite a sore nip on him and has lain waste to my arms in the past to the extent that I look like a junkie or a battered husband.
So I thought I'd better sort out his nails this morning before nursery. He's actually a lot better at this than he used to be and will sit quietly on my knee and observe proceedings quite calmly. This didn't stop me cutting into the top of his right index finger this morning. After an initial yelp, he seemed to find it funny, squeezing his hand to make the blood pulse out quicker. I don't think there has been any lasting damage - it's not as if I've turned him into Tony Iommi - but it was sickener when it happened, especially as it's not the first time I've maimed him like this. Maybe we can have him declawed like a cat. It would be better for us all in the long run.

Walkies

Jamie is now 12 and a half months old and still not walking. This wouldn't be worth commenting on if it wasn't for the fact that he promised so much, so early. Almost two months ago he seemed on the verge of breaking into a trot. He managed two or three steps at a time unsupported, and one memorable morning about a month ago he walked about two metres to me, taking about ten steps in the process. I say it was memorable, but such has been his reluctance to walk since then that I'm starting to wonder if I imagined it.
People say you should rearrange the furniture in such a way that babies are forced to go outside of their comfort zone to get to them. One of the problems with that, for a champion crawler like Jamie, is that there is always an easier four-limbed option. Maybe there is some way of callibrating the optimum distance that will make the idea of two-legged travel more desirable than a crawl.
I guess I should be careful what I wish for. We're already having to move more and more stuff out of harm's way. Yesterday he pulled over my electric guitar and the shelves in the bathroom - sorry I didn't tell you Charlotte. It's a good job you're such an avid reader of HH!


walking a more desirable

Party time

Today was another of the NCT babies' birthday parties. C was the latest to reach the ripe old age of one and I attended her bash representing the Derrick-Goddard contingent. Apart from C's dad, I was the only other man there. This will be the way of things from now on I think. I have entered a predominantly female environment, and one, which I am somewhat ashamed to say, I have not fully paid tribute to in the past.
Since taking over more of the childcare duties I have become humbled by the recognition of the work that Charlotte did before me. It's exhausting in a different way to work. I'm with Jamie all day, which is great, but it really is all encompassing. Unless he's asleep or tied into his high chair (not really tied, but harnessed...) you are really limited in what you can do. Charlotte nods sagely when I pronounce this revelation, like she didn't tell me a hundred times. It's another of those pieces of wisdom about 'having children' that sort of goes in one ear and out the other until you are struck by the reality of it. For example, everybody tells you that you won't get much sleep, and you think, "A bit less sleep. So what!" But it's not like having a few too many on a school night and having to soldier on the next day at work. When you have kids, that sleep is never coming back. There is no lie in at the end of the rainbow.
Anyway, back at the party, when I wasn't bonding with my newfound sisters, I was eating almost as much party food as Jamie. He has been insatiable today, and was thrilled to be offered pitta, fish balls, cake and jelly in quantity. Amazingly he is still having dinner this evening, despite a mammoth lunch today as well. I was running out of things to feed him.
C's parents' present to themselves is a night out, which I wish Charlotte and I could have done for Jamie's. I am slightly envious of their curry, even though they could be falling asleep in their starters after organising and running today's events. As always, the host has to appear as unflustered as possible and look like nothing was any trouble at all, when the reality is slightly different as we all know. I think I'd rather got to a party than hold one - even a children's one. Especially a children's one! C's gran said it gets even worse when they are old enough to need proper entertaining. At her son's fourth party she tells how her carefully planned games, activities and diversions were exhausted in about 20 minutes leaving an afternoon of unplanned mayhem ahead.
At least these days we have Cbeebies I suppose.

Jamie eats...

It's strange, and quite amazing to think that Jamie ate nothing for the first six months of his life. He subsisted entirely on milk. Since then he has revealed quite an appetite, which isn't surprising really after such a prolonged liquid diet. Starting with rather bland baby rice, he quickly began to wolf stuff down, despite the supposed tiny size of his stomach. While other babies were quite picky about what they ate, he seemed to devour everything, and in quantity. Early favourites were lovely lentils (from the sainted Annabel Karmel's baby recipe book), rice and peas, and banana mush. Now as he moves on to more challenging foods, it's not quite as easy, and some of the old favourites - notably the lentils - seem to have gone by the wayside.
I can't say I blame him on red lentils, which for me always conjure up a foul muck called lentil soup that was very popular when I was growing up - although not with me. Jamie's response to something which is not to his taste is to allow it mouthspace before squidging it out and down his chin. We still make the majority of his food, and the sight of some lovingly created dish being received this way has driven me to despair. I suppose though it's just a case of working with him. We have very little to complain about compared with some children who seem to eat next to nothing.
At nursery he is being exposed to lots of new flavours. Menus are culturally appropriate to the children who attend. As this is multicultural Hackney, that means lots of new flavours, including plantain on his first day - I think that got the squidge treatment. Yesterday it was fish fingers and beans, which he loved apparently. So much for our tutoring of his taste buds with organic, seasonal produce, and avoidance of processed foods. That will be his Scottish roots showing through I guess - deep fried, salty and sugary? Bring it on.
Actually, that's a little unfair on the nursery, which cooks all the food on site and does seem to work hard at getting the children to eat, which with his nibs at the moment is sometimes not easy.
And yet! Yesterday's report of his eating was that he was insatiable, so I was surprised when he got home he polished off an apple, a peach, a plate of pasta and a sandwich. He would probably have still been eating if we hadn't insisted on bath. As it was, he seemed to gaze down on his round little tum with some pride in the bath.

In whose arms?

I didn't think that I would have a problem putting our son into nursery - unlike my wife, who was fairly guilt ridden at having to do it. However I am now the one who drops him off every day, and there is a moment when I hand him over to his keyworker Pauline when he turns back to me with arms outstretched. You would need a heart of stone not to feel bad. The flip side is that I get to pick him up and earn myself a big cry of "Dadda" as he scuttles across the nursery floor to climb up on me. At least he does at the minute. There may come a time when the attractions of the nursery are more compelling than those of dadda, and he doesn't scuttle across, and perhaps even leans towards Pauline at home time.
Will it be today? I'll find out at about 4.30pm.

Downsized dad

Well, I never did make good on that last post. It's amazing how quickly a year goes when you're a parent. Our little boy turned one about a week ago, and my wife had to go back to work. He's now in nursery three days a week and I'm looking after him for the other two - Mr Mum so to speak. He's there at the moment. My days are Wednesday and Thursday.
This step back from what passes as my career ladder coincides with a period of some financial turbulence, in case you hadn't noticed. However the good thing about working for yourself is that it is unlikely that you will lose your job. There is no job to lose - you just get less work. At the moment, it doesn't seem to be a time for climbing the greasy pole, so I am looking forward to spending more quality time with J and riding out the economic storm in a haze of soft toys, nursery rhymes and Cbeebies.
This week we went to singing with lots of other babies. This is a regular gig for J, but I've only been once before. He actually seemed like one of the big kids as there were lots of babies there, which again made me think how much he has developed in such a short period of time. It's one of the reasons I'm doing this. I doubt I'll ever get the chance again.
Having said that - and apologies to my wife - it is really tiring being with a little one all day. Oh well, I've made my bed now.

Long time no blog

There have been quite a few changes since my last post (sounds of trumpet reveille):

- got married
- had a kid
- London won the Olympics bid

More to follow... in 2010

Wedding blog

I'm thinking that we should create a wedding blog to countdown to the big day. It would also be a useful repository for all of the usual wedding info that is required for guests. They could even leave us supportive comments, helpful advice, top tips etc.
However it could be a massive time wasting exerise, and I don't have a problem wasting time at the moment.
So that's decided, I'll do it.

Jellycopter

I've just got back from a trip to Yorkshire where I was flown round in a helicopter - not this one, but the picture was taken from the one I was in. The guy flying this 'copter used to fly Anneka Rice in Treasure Hunt, and claimed to have dated her.
The bloke we had was Alan Partridge incarnate. He spoke in that sort of mid-Atlantic twang that local radio DJs perfect and actually used the word 'methinks' to end a sentence. Proof!
Mind you, he got us safely from point A to B and the view was spectacular as the sky was very clear. It really is the only way to travel.
For our final stop of the day we landed on the local lord's crouquet lawn - honest - as the hotel we were staying at didn't have its own helipad. Lord Feversham, for it was he, even popped out to show us through the bowels of his house to where our lift was waiting. All in all, a very interesting day.

Why is this?

Being new to the blogging game, I found it quite exciting when a few weeks back I received a comment from somebody about my blog. I know, I know, but I don't get out much! Also, this is a shy blog which I do nothing to market. Nobody knows about it, so shhh!
The comment was from, let me check, Matt a park ranger in Virginia - hi Matt (heimat?). It's very good. You should read it. He had a particularly good post about tracking down litter louts and another about underage kids drinking in the park. They thought they had fooled him, but he KNEW they were on the booze.
Anyway, I was quite excited I had been tracked down, but then I got another comment today from somebody who used the exact same words. Is there a kind of blogger who simply tries to create interest in his blog through sending out random expressions of interest in other people's sites? I think I should be told. Whoever came up with the wording should reconsider it as well. What on earth does 'I read over your blog and found it inquisitive' mean? Can a piece of code display inquisitiveness? Maybe he means he found it thought provoking.

Here's what's rocking my world at the moment. As John Peel would have said, it fades in gently this one...

Meanwhile in Cornwall

... it's green tea and homemade rolls for breakfast

Not kilty

I got a call from my tailor the other day. He informed me that the latest addition to my wardrobe was ready for my collection.
Having spent years wrestling with notions of nationality I have decided to get married wearing a kilt. A few years back I would have though the idea preposterous - the whole kilt thing struck me as being a bit twee, but uber nationalistic at the same time. I am proud to be Scottish, but I'm never sure exactly why. There are also aspects of the national character (if you can generalise in such a way) that I'm not over fond of - chippiness, nostalgia, irrational hatred of the English etc.
The latter can be particularly irksome. Having lived under the English jackboot for most of my life, I like to think there's guid and bad in us aw....
I don't know if the kilt thing is any late flowering of national feeling in my breast or if I'm just showing off. Yeah, that's probably it. It's a big day, so why should the lassies be the only ones to put on as nice dress?
It will also be an invaluable addition to my wardrobe which I look forward to wearing around the borough. With the broad range of fashion tastes that I encounter daily, I'm sure it will attract many admiring glances from Hackney residents.
In fact, I think I shall dedicate one day a month as kilt day when I shall take to the streets in full highland regalia. If you see me, stop me and I shall quote you some lines from our national bard, Rabbie Burns.
The question is now, commando or not?

Much thought later

Well, I finally gave in and proposed. That's what I've been up to for the past year.
My girlfriend is now my fiance (or is it fiancee? I can never remember which one is the feminine). After a whirlwind six year courtship I popped the question on the banks of the Thames last August bank holiday, and in a bizarre twist of fate we are getting married this August bank holiday - exactly a year to the day.
Which sounds like it could be the start of a Dickensian ghost story or somesuch.
We've still got a lot to do, but he hardest part of getting a venue, date and registrar is done and dusted. Which is no easy task, believe me! It's like trying to align planets getting a day when all three are available.
It is quite exciting now and I am looking forward to it all. It's just the bills that are the worrying part. That and being completely buff for the big day. And with that in mind I'm aiming to do a half marathon before the big day. It might not sound much, but I'm a big believer in setting realistic targets.
At this point I could make some cheap gag such as, that's why I proposed to the girlfriend, but she might be reading this.
If it's more than another year before the next entry, please inform the relevant authorities.