Keir Royale

I’m a fan of lateral thinking puzzles, and now my children like them too.
You know the kind of thing - a man, a puddle of water and a measuring tape.

The children were reading them out to each other, when Ben was offered this little gem…

A man and his son are in a car crash. The father is killed and the child is taken to hospital gravely injured.
When he gets there, the surgeon says, ‘I can’t operate on this boy - for he is my son!!!’
How can this possibly be?

If you don’t know the answer, stop and think.

If you do…

I remember a time when I found this a tough one to answer.
But Ben (who’s ten) said -

“The dad’s dead, so the surgeon must be his mum. What’s so hard about that?”

What a star, unsullied by the preconceptions of a previous generation.

It seems my hard work and indoctrination has had some impact since the day he said on the way to school -
“But a woman can’t be prime minister.”

Some people arrive at work feeling fresh and ready to face their e-mails with humour and enthusiasm, after a restorative evening of relaxation.

I imagine those people are not parents.
Not of my children, anyhow.

I arrive at work feeling I’ve done a day’s hard graft, ready only to sit, numb and glum, in front of a screen - with just enough conscious thought to be glad it doesn’t crowd me with complaints, arguments and unreasonable demands.

This morning, by the time I left the house at 8.15am I had: -

- showered, dressed etc
- made 2 packed lunches
- finished laying breakfast table after half-hearted attempt by Hannah
- practiced 10 spellings each with 2 children
- gone through 8 times table with Hannah
- found out that Ben had not brought his homework home - again
- checked contents of 2 PE kits and 1 football kit
- plaited Hannah’s hair (fruitless nit prevention tactic)
- supervised 5 minutes of violin practice (Hannah)
- supervised 5 minutes of piano practice (Ben)
- searched for lost glove (still lost, probably forever)
- grabbed pile of bills in the hope I would remember to deal with them at work

After that, driving to work on my scooter in drizzle and gale force winds was a welcome 20 minute hiatus.

Just me, a whining 50cc engine and a howling wind.

Bliss.

Back to work for me.
Another day off for the children.
And that means back to sole supervision of the children for Blog Fodder - without the handy intervention of school to take the strain.

You may have heard of Slack Dad.
I think Blog Fodder has taken his parenting methods to heart. And I have evidence…

Today, having enjoyed 10 uninterrupted days with the children, and now feeling slightly guilty that I found them irritating on many occasions, I arrange to meet the 3 of them in town for a late lunch (me) and a final beady-eyed trawl through Woolworths (them).

The first thing I notice is that their hair has not been brushed. I try to let this slip, as it’s not the end of the world.

But then Blog Fodder slips away to spend five uninterrupted minutes circling Woolies’ denuded shelves in search of unwanted items at knock-down prices.
He leaves me to take the children for a milkshake. I glare at Hannah’s knotted spaghetti-string hair.
I can’t help myself.

“Did you brush your teeth this morning?” I ask.

“No,” they are unfailingly honest about teeth, “Daddy didn’t tell us to.”

Even they are becoming experts at blaming their father for their own failings.
I press on, unable to hold back.

“And what did you have for lunch?”

They look at each other, they look at the floor, they glance at me until they can bear it no longer and then they give in.

“We haven’t had any yet.”
“Daddy didn’t have time.”
“He only gave us ten minutes to get dressed, brush our teeth and get into the car.”
“So we couldn’t brush our teeth.”
“He said he’d take us to McDonalds.”
“He said not to tell you.”

I look at the menu. It’s just a cake shop - no broccoli, no carrots.
I look at them.

“And we watched 2 films on telly this morning,” adds Ben, trying to feign outrage.

I think about all the children whose school holidays are filled with improving activities, and I sigh.

“You must be hungry, do you want to choose some cake?”

Having recently metamorphosed into a civil servant, it’s sometimes hard to remember that this is what I now am.

Or, at least, that it’s what I spend my working hours doing. I do try to maintain some kind of out-of-hours life.

And now my daughter has shone a piercing beam of light onto my new life.

She was explaining to me the functions of her latest creation… multiple space vehicles made from carefully folded coloured paper, which all interlink and fire off rockets at Baddies.

“This is where they fire their rockets from,” she told me, “and this is how they fly as fast as light.”

And as she zoomed them around the kitchen, she explained why they needed to fight: -

“They’re working for the Civil Service War.”

An interesting take on my new life.

In which Blog Fodder leaves the comfort of his own home and gets very cross…

It’s gratifying to know that the stable doors at Exeter Airport are still firmly bolted.

It’s more than two years now since they were closed with a resounding clang after British authorities arrested 24 people in an alleged plot to blow up US-bound planes using explosives disguised as common liquids.

The Jihad against lotions and potions remains as vigilant as ever at Exeter, as I discover while waiting to board a flight to Jersey.

The super-smart X-ray machine discovers a small cool-box in my hand luggage. The tiny freezer block inside is quickly confiscated because it poses a potential terrorist threat.

The tub of margarine represents another suspect device and it, too, is whipped away.

I am permitted to keep the bangers… calm down, it’s only a packet of chipolata sausages.

Blimey, I’m thinking, whatever next?

It doesn’t take much of a rise in temperature before a bar of chocolate becomes a gooey mess and therefore a potentially lethal device.

Still, at least I have the consolation of knowing that the hi-tech snooper apparatus isn’t really up to the job.

The other cool-box in my bag remains undetected.
Inside is the terrorist twin of my former freezer block, a half-pound of Sainsbury’s deadly unsalted butter and a fiendish packet of Frubes.

Despite the arsenal in my hand-luggage you’ll be relieved to know that the plane landed safely, although by then the sausages were looking a bit iffy.

Blog Fodder

We’re back to the pocket money question.

It’s been more than a year since we first experimented with the concept, but we gave it up because Ben said he didn’t want pocket money any more, and Hannah was too young to care.

He claimed he no longer wanted it because “Daddy already spends too much on me”.

I suspect it was so we couldn’t dock it for bad behaviour.

But now, he wants it again.

He goes to a junior youth club on a friday evening and wants more of the readies to spend on Haribo horrors.

So I decide to come over all American, and demand chores in return for cash.

I know they should do the chores anyway, but we haven’t managed to insist on it yet and I think this is a good opportunity to move things in the right direction.

And I always find bribery much easier than the more time-consuming methods of persuasion.

So we discuss which chores are up for grabs and they agree which ones they’ll take on.

Hannah - laying the table for breakfast and washing up (meal unspecified)

Ben - clearing the table and sweeping under it (after tea)

Day 1
I come down to breakfast to find a grinning Hannah, standing next to a table replete with bowls, cereal, a pot of tea for Daddy and a cup of white frothy stuff which looks like milk.
For me.

I don’t much like milk. I drink coffee for breakfast, and I have shown her how to make it.

I enquire further and discover that the cup contains half cold milk and half hot water, carefully frothed up.
No coffee.

“I forgot about that,” she explains.

I show her again, and take Mike’s tea up to him before it goes cold. It is, apparently, delicious.

At teatime, Ben gulps down his food, removes his plate and then stands by the table, hovering over the rest of us enquiring - “Have you finished yet?” every time we swallow.

A minor eruption occurs when I make it clear he doesn’t get to claim the cash immediately after the first day’s chore is accomplished.

Day 2
Breakfast is ready again, this time with frothy milk and coffee.
I wonder how long this will continue, as it’s a step beyond our agreement.

Tea-time goes more smoothly, with Ben claiming he hasn’t fogotten to sweep under the table. He’s just waiting until we’ve all finished, otherwise he’d have to sweep up all over again.

My regular lectures about time management are obviously beginning to hit home; if not in relation to homework/getting dressed/undressed/ready to go out - at least in relation to something.

We’re onto Day 3 tomorrow, and by Friday they will feel they’ve earned enough sweets to rot not only their own teeth, but also those of every other child in the school.

Whether or not sweets will make up for many minutes wasted on tasks they’d rather sit and watch Mike and me do - we will doubtless discover.

I don’t suppose many people have spotted any similarities between Brixton (South London, not Devon) and Jersey (Channel Islands, not USA).

I’ve lived in both places (and quite close to the alternatives in Devon and USA too) and I can tell you there is at least one.

It’s not that Jersey’s beaches are replicated in Brixton market; it’s not the striking similarity between the Barrier Block (where I lived for a few months) and the Waterfront.

No - it’s the drivers.

If you were to take a short trip down Brixton Road, past the tube station and then along Stockwell Road, you may opt to indicate your intention to turn left.

Well if you did you’d be on your own.

Indicating in SW9 is a sure sign of a lack in the cojones department.
A sign that you’re a namby-pamby, lackey of the Peelers, who feels it necessary to signal your intentions.

It is not the Brixton Way.

No, the Brixton way is to lurch dramatically across the road in front of mere law-abiders, to pursue your innate right to swerve about all over the place in your BMW until everyone else gets out of the way.

The Jersey Way is not dissimilar.

There’s less lurching perhaps, and markedly fewer BMWs (the island’s drivers seem to prefer Porsches and Mercs) but there’s a comparable lack of indicating.

There is, on the other hand, a lot of pulling up short to veer onto the nearest pavement to pop into a shop, as walking more than five steps from car to retail outlet is anathema to your true Bean.
I know this, as it’s an impulse I have to fight myself.

There are, however, differences in driving attitudes - the main one being the average approach to a T-junction.

Pull up at a main road on any street in central London, and you sit there whistling until you decide to risk your bumpers.
You just have to grit your teeth and stick your car out into the oncoming traffic until someone is intimidated into letting you out.

It may seem foolhardy, but it’s the only way you’re going to get out of the minor road before midnight.

Drive like this in Jersey, especially with English number plates, and abuse is all you’ll get.

In Jersey, commuters motoring down main roads at a top speed of 40mph with 3 or 4 cars pootling along behind them, will happily stop to let out a motorist waiting at a T-junction.

Had the main-street commuter not stopped, the waiting motorist would have had to sit a mere 5 seconds longer before being able to exit the minor road without disrupting the journeys of 4 or 5 other people.

But this is another example of the Jersey Way.

It may not be logical, but it’s quite sweet - as long as you’re not one of the 3 or 4 motorists stuck in the queue, who are forced into politeness when you’d far rather bully your way to work.

And don’t get me started on parking.
I think the photo above speaks for itself.

I’ve blanked out the number plate to spare any red faces… although I’m not sure that Range Rover drivers have the capacity to feel embarrassed.

What a great weekend activity, I think, still labouring under the delusion that my children are happy to go along with my idea of a good, family day out.

So I suggest it, without thinking carefully how to lead them into it gradually, but by bit, until they’re hooked.

“What’s Beachwatch?” asks Ben, suspicious already.

“We’d be helping look after the beaches, by walking around…”

“Walking?” demands Hannah, always on the lookout for the “W” word, and not in a canine way.

“.. and picking up all the litter that gets left there. Then we’d list what we’d found so…”

I don’t get to finish my lame explanation.

“What, you mean we’d be walking about picking up rubbish and then writing about it?” says Ben, the scorn spilling from his lips.

He has a point. So I laugh.

“Yes, I thought it’d be educational and ecological all at the same time. A good, family day out.”

“I don’t think so.”

I know when I’m beaten.
So we went to the zoo, ate our picnic on the grass and bothered the orangutans and gorillas instead.

By the by, I’ve been awarded a lovely picture by the even lovelier Cartside.

I now pass it on to …

Potty Diaries

Not Wrong, Just Different

From Dawn Till Rusk

Enjoy.

Of course we limit their screen time, and of course they do everything they can to get around the rules.

“Dad, Mum says I can watch telly,” they whine, when I’ve said they can’t but am still at work so unavailable to lay down the law.

“Mum, Dad hasn’t let me on the computer for three days,” they squeal, a desperate look in their eyes that I am unable to ratify until Blog Fodder returns from hashing. By which time they’ve had twice their daily limit.

So I have a look to see what they’ve been doing.
I know what games they play - miniclip mostly, as I won’t pay for anything.

But Hannah’s learned to create folders, and has made worlds within worlds in a virtual construct which exhibits far too developed a sense of organisation for one of such tender years.

I spot a folder called “secruts!“.

Should I? Is it a betrayal of my child’s autonomy?

Sod that, she’s only 7. Her secruts! are fair game for her mother.
So I open the folder.

Inside I find 3 more folders and 2 Word documents. One of the folders is called “persnl stuff“.

I hesitate for, ooh, a second? And then I remember a coach who, when I realised I was late home from a swimming club event counselled -

“May as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.”

I looked at him blankly, and when he explained what it meant I stayed an extra few minutes to show I wasn’t a sap. I was too scared of the welcome I would receive at home if I stayed any longer.

But I’m a grown-up now. So I open the persnl folder. And inside are 3 Word documents and yet another folder.

The folder is called “Bbeenn!“

What better way to find out what she really thinks of her brother.
So I open it, expecting a tirade of fury or a list of crimes perpetrated by him against his little sister.

But again, there are more sub-classifications. I wonder if my second-born is heading for a career as a librarian.

I remember an interview I once did with a man who started off as a librarian and ended up as a purveyer of fine rubber bondage gear for the slightly kinky masses. So her career path may be anything but straight.

Inside Bbeenn! are 2 folders and 3 Word documents.
I begin to feel like Indiana Jones on a quest to pick the correct folder - the one that gives up its information without making me feel like a devious, diary-reading snoop of the lowest order.

I wonder if that is where I will end up - as a secrut! reader of my children’s teenaged diaries. I will have to advise them never to start writing one, for fear I won’t be able to resist.

The folder entitled “sroundins being good or not” intrigues me. What does she think of her surroundings? Does she mean her new, tiny bedroom with no space to lay out her playmobil? Or does she have more cerebral aspects of her life in mind?

I click. And I begin to fear I will never get to the bottom of this child’s ever-decreasing gyroscope of a mind.

Yet more folders and Word documents.

Eventually I find a document called Maths.
She doesn’t even like Maths - or so she says.

In it I discover -

Martha has 2 bananas she eats 3 how many does she have left - m1
my cat has 4 chooeys she eats 9 how many does she have left - m5
sooky my dog has had an operashon and I don’t know how much it costs
it was 20p more then the current people
there operashon costed 50p
how much did it cost
70p

So not only a closet librarian, but a secrut setter of spoof examination questions.

Which reminds me of a Maths teacher I had who set us a simultaneous equation.
He then spent the lesson wandering about trying to decide which of us to chuck the blackboard rubber at.

By the end of the lesson none of us had solved it. He smiled, rubbed a bit more chalk into his jacket, and chuckled.

“It’s impossible,” he said, “there is no answer!”

Hilarious. 40 minutes of our young lives - wasted.

Mind you, I’ve probably spent the odd 40 minutes on even more fruitless endeavours in subsequent years.

Science kits - don’t you just hate them.

Ben was given one for Christmas/Birthday at least 8 months ago, and I thought I’d managed to hide it somewhere he’d never find it.

But I’d forgotten that this is the child who can smell a confiscated Nintendo DS at 20 paces.

Se he found it, carefully buried beneath toys I thought he’d given up years ago.
It’s amazing how appealing a few toy hamsters can be when it’s raining and your weekend TV limit has been decisively breached.

So he found the big box filled with dangerous chemicals, evil-looking implements and unintelligible instructions.
And I was the only adult at home - Blog Fodder having slunk off in shorts for his weekly hash with the Crapauds.

I did my best.
Chemistry was never my favourite subject, and just distinguishing the Iron Sulphate from the Sodium Sulphate sends me back in time to the days of Miss Mason and her infernal Bunsen burners.

Ben is keen to get started with the explosions, but first I have to find some old yoghurt pots to use as petrie dishes, and a ruler to measure stuff.

It doesn’t take long before I get cross.

Ben spills iron sulphate all over his pyjamas, leaving 2 large yellow stains.
And he’s wearing the bottoms from one set and the top from another - so that’s two pyjama sets with no re-sale value.

Then he moves on to the next experiment before finishing the first, which, as a main-lining Completer-Finisher, sends me into a sharp decline.

And this second experiment requires the mixing of sodium hydrochloride solution before we can even start.

It’s like getting half way through a recipe and finding that before you can cook the cake you have to make your own chocolate. It’s just too much.

Before my brain explodes, Blog Fodder arrives home. Sweaty, yes - but up for a bit of chemical mixing.

So I pass on the baton and retreat to the Archers.

Five minutes later I decide to pop back into the kitchen to check all is going well and spillage is not on the horizon.

As soon as I show my face, Ben makes it clear I’ve had my chance and blown it.

“Mum, it’s my job to think. It’s your job to screech and complain.”

“And isn’t she good at it,” Blog Fodder adds, helpfully.

The Archers win the day. They don’t answer back.