Doodle Do

Breakfast table conversations can have the strangest consequences. A couple of weeks ago we were discussing the old DoodleArt posters of the 70s and 80s, and how I used to have one tacked up on the wall of my flat. I spent many a happy evening totally focussed on colouring in my alien landscape in those simple days.

Cue Nikki's razor-sharp Internet search skills, and the uncovering of the wonderful world of Wildergorn. I was enthused! I ordered three posters. One (Watergorn - of which this is a small detail) for myself and one each for the girls.

I couldn't find their recommended pens for colouring - Stabilo 68 fibre tips - at anything like a decent discount from any online retailer, so I bid on a full set from eBay and won, at a saving of almost fifteen quid.

Once all the breakfasting and household chores were out of the way today, I rolled the 27" x 40" poster out on the dining table and set to. Pretty soon I was just as immersed in the detailed world of harpies, water and stone as I had been all those years ago on Planet Zog. A perfect way to relax on a drab winter Saturday, when there's no colour at all in the world outside, but 40 vibrant colours to choose from in my little tin box.

Perspectives

Into each life a little rain must fall. An old, trite phrase that, like all old, trite phrases contains a kernel of truth. Everyone has their own shit to deal with; their own bucket to carry; etc. Parents always tell you that they'll never stop worrying about you, and that you won't understand how they feel until you have children of your own. And then, when you have children of your own... yes. You understand. With a depth of understanding that sits somewhere below bone-deep. In a subterranean cavern of the soul that you didn't really know existed.

And you watch your children dealing with their shit - that small proportion of it that they're prepared to share with you, or you learn about indirectly - and wish that you could help them with it. And know that you can't. Worse than that, sometimes, someheartbreakingtimes that stay with you in a way you know you'll never shake off, you're the cause of the rain that fell into their lives. Rain? It was more like a fireman's hose, with your hand on the valve.

Which is why these days we like to try and make our home a haven of shitlessness. Dump your shit at the door, no shit here thank you. That's not to say we don't have "serious conversations" - just that we like to try and resolve more problems than we cause, and generally accentuate the positive. But sometimes, being a parent, I worry (see above) that it all gets a bit boring here. Cos, you know, we don't really do much most of the time (apart from the odd trip here and there). The weekend days generally have a beat to them - lazy breakfast; do our own thing for a few hours; pot of tea with optional snacks; movie; dinner; evening telly usually followed by another movie - but is it ENOUGH?

This morning, in a rare shaft of sunlight that shone into that dark cavern I was talking about, I discovered that maybe it's more than enough. Maybe it's exactly right. I happened across this answer in one of Blythe's online quizzes. (I hope this doesn't count as 'parental surveillance' but hey - if it's on t'Internet it's public domain, right?)

Were you happy when you woke up today?
Yes, because it was the weekend, I could hear my sister coming out of the car and through the front gate, and I was at my dads. Being at my dads is like therapy; I get away, literally as far as I can, from everything thats currently happening. It's like a small two day holiday every two weeks.

As you might imagine, that cheered me right up! So that's why this post is called 'perspectives'. Because things always look different depending on who's doing the looking, and because you don't often know the effect what you do has on others, even those closest to you, and even when you think you're not doing much.

Waving goodbye

I've always tried, with my daughters, to follow the example my own Dad set. Nothing was too much trouble for him. He'd always be there with the offer of a helping hand, or a lift to take me wherever I needed to go. So there I was, at 2.30am, knocking on Natalie's door telling her it was time to get up and go to the airport to catch the first leg of her three-flight journey to this year's field trip in Belize.

Belize? Flippin' 'eck! The most exotic educational trip I declined as a student (I never went on any school trips) was to northern France. Mind you, she has been through the mill a bit these past few months what with Hep-C, rabies and typhoid injections and anti-malaria pills she's felt pretty sick a lot of the time, so I hope the trip is worth it. I'm sure it will be. Trip of a lifetime, probably, but before the excitement comes many hours of flying. 6am flight to Amsterdam, then the 10.45 transatlantic leg to Houston (10 hours flying) and a final 90-minute flight to Belize. They're on Central Standard Time there, 7 hours behind the UK, so when she lands at 4.45pm local time her body will think it's 11.45pm, and she'll have been awake for 22 hours. I have no idea how much more journeying there is at the tropical end between the airport and the resort.

Check-in for the Amsterdam flight didn't open until 4am but the trip organiser had insisted everyone be at the airport by 3am. I know. What can you do? At least, when we walked into the departures hall at 3.05, a small group of her mates had already gathered near the desk. So we hugged, I waved goodbye, and left her in St. Christopher's (and KLM's) capable hands.

Caution! Stupid things are stupid!

As you may have gathered, we had a bit of a social weekend here at Digger Towers*.

With only one functioning spare room, having my darling daughters here at the same time as we're putting mates up wasn't an option until recently, and we'd normally have had to juggle their visits around other social activities. This was a sorry state of affairs. Not only did it mean messing them about, and occasionally not seeing as much of them as we like to, but also they missed out on the socialising!

The solution came in the shape of a new addition to the family: a ReadyBed®.

One of the purchases I made with points earned from the rewards system at work. It includes an inflatable double mattress with an attached double sleeping bag, and I had more than enough points to invest in an electric pump to inflate it with. I don't have anywhere near enough puff for that kind of shenanigans these days.

Blythe reports that it's very comfy, but could we please turn the computers off overnight? Unfortunately there's nothing we can do about the neon-bright blue flashes that emanate from the PIR detector every time she turns over.

But the point of this post, and the reason for the title, is to pass on the laughs I had reading the instruction leaflets. First, the bed:

CAUTION! The mattress is not a life saving device.

Glad we got that cleared up. I was planning on leaving it in the boot permanently in case of emergencies. But the hilarity was only just beginning. Apparently, the electric pump is potentially even more dangerous:

WARNING! This appliance is not intended for use by persons (including children) with reduced physical, sensory, or mental capabilities.

Reduced compared with what? I'm not as physical as David Beckham. I don't have the mental capacity of Stephen Hawking. I'm nowhere near as sensitive as Nikki. That's it. She'll have to inflate the mattress from now on. Of the two of us, she's the one with the least reduced capabilities.

*Actually we have a much more alliterative name for them, but news of that will have to wait until the new website's ready.

Sad fuck

We took to drinking in The Southern again last week while Shirley and Neil were here. Neil likes it, and it's handy for the bookies, even though it's no longer walking distance from home since we moved.

This meant a short sojourn for me each day - late afternoon or early evening - to meet up with whichever of the rest of the family had fetched up there, take anyone who hadn't already made their own way there, sink a couple of pints and drive everyone home for dinner.

Parking up outside the pub on Monday I noticed a small pile of broken glass at the edge of the footpath, along with a tumbler still miraculously in one piece. I didn't think much of it - par for the course round there - but stepped carefully over it and entered the establishment to negotiate the vending of some beery comestibles.

I don't know what sixth sense told me to check the car over when we came out of the pub, but I'm grateful for it. Someone - probably one of the schoolkids bored by waiting for the bus - had decided it would be a hilarious prank to place the unbroken tumbler under the car, directly in front of my front wheel. Had I driven off without moving it, I would certainly have crushed it beneath the wheel and suffered, at best, a slow puncture, or even a total blowout.

So to the sad little fuck who did it: what goes around comes around buddy. Keep your eyes open for someone as funny as you.

All grown up

I'm sitting here in the study, staring at the empty space on the floor where for the last few weeks my elder daughter's worldly belongings - or at least that part of them she had with her in Uni halls of residence for a year - have sat patiently waiting to be taken to her new home.

The new home for which yesterday, at 12:30, she picked up the keys and moved in.

A lovely place it is too. As I commented to the other families assembled while Nat's housemates collected their keys: at least three orders of magnitude better than anything I ever lived in as a student. It has brand-new carpet throughout, not the threadbare rags we walked quickly over, on account of them being so sticky-dirty they threatened to hold you down forever if you stood for too long in one spot. It has bright, modern, NEW decor, not the damp and peeling Anaglypta that provided a depressing back-drop to our evening revision sessions. All the furniture is new, including (double) beds and mattresses, so she won't have to sleep on a lumpy, sagging, stained, single bed like I did. The kitchen is equipped with every modern appliance - separate upright fridge and freezer, washing machine, tumble drier and dishwasher, combi boiler, kettle, microwave and cooker. We had a cooker, a kettle and a small fridge. Laundry was dragged around the corner to the laundrette, or taken home in the holidays for Mum to do. In a house of 6 blokes, I'll let you guess which was the more popular option.

No, I wouldn't have wished my digs on my worst enemy, let alone my own daughter, so I'm very pleased she's found such a grand place. Didn't stop me having a small pang as she waved us goodbye and closed her own front door to spend her first night alone in the place though.

A day of quiet satisfaction

One of those days when things just feel right. It has its own slow, measured beat and whatever you do, things turn out well.

I started the day helping Natalie move out of halls. It only seems like last week since I was carrying stuff in for her and here I was carrying it out. Only - as is always the way - there was much more to bring out than there had been to take in. I can't believe she's already completed her first year at Uni. Time slips away from you when you're not watching. Another era begins in a few weeks when she gets the keys to her new digs. Somewhere - hopefully - that will be "home" for a couple of years. Alongside the two other homes she already has. Three homes is more than enough for anyone, I reckon.

By early afternoon I'd finished the design document I'd been working on. Ahead of schedule, so I could revel in one of those lazy Friday afternoons when you can savour the approach of the weekend and pretend you don't have a care in the world.

And then, as I listened to the measure tones of Carolyn Quinn on the PM show, came the best news of all. That Ireland had voted NO to the EU Lisbon Treaty (aka a Constitution By The Back Door). Well done to the Micks and Paddys. One of the few countries to actually give its populace a chance to express an opinion and they got it bang on. Brown and Blair should forever hang their heads in shame for not allowing us the referendum they promised in their manifesto pledge (going back on manifesto commitments should be a criminal offence) but in the end Ireland has done our work for us. Hopefully that'll be an end to it, although I suspect there'll be a lot of wriggling and weasel words from Brussels to get through yet. Apparently some of the institutions and procedures that the Treaty calls for have already been implemented ahead of ratification. Typical European disdain for due process - steaming ahead with it anyway because a handful of Eurocrats think they know what's best for us. These should all be dismantled now, but do you really think they will be? The French are not exactly well known for sticking to the letter of the law.

Gifted

I was watching Channel 4's "Child Genius" tonight. A rather sad look at the lives of children with extremely high IQs - as in, the maximum score possible: 170. I'm not going to go into the details of the programme, but one aspect of it sticks in my mind. One of the super-bright kids' brother was being tested for the first time and the family waited with bated breath to see how he would do.

His result was 137. "Oh, good for him," his exceedingly intelligent elder brother scoffed, "he's quite bright." Difficult to know how he could possibly have invested that simple sentence with more disdain, tinged with relief that his brother hadn't bettered him (which, being "exceedingly intelligent" he should already have worked out was impossible given he already had a perfect score).

But I digress. My point is, the announcer declared 137 put the brother within the definition of "gifted." Who knew? When I was 12 my IQ was measured at 144. Hey - I'm gifted! Was I sent to a special school? Was I tutored at home? Did my parents fuss around me and make sure I had access to all sorts of mind-stretching and creative endeavour? The answer, as you may have guessed, is no. I just got on with it, like everyone else I knew.

Which, for me, begs two questions. One: how would life had panned out if I'd had more pushy (or maybe, more aware) parents, prepared to treat me differently on account of me being... different? (And from where I sit now, the answer to that - at least one potential answer - is very scary. I'm glad I grew up with something-approaching-normal socialisation, friends, mistakes, challenges and triumphs).

Two: how many more "gifted" children slip through the net, and end up not fulfilling their potential, simply because their parents never conceive of them being gifted, and their teachers are too hard-pressed to notice? That, perhaps, is the most scary thought of all.

Friday Five and a Fond Farewell

We went to a leaving do last night. It was a small but select crowd, gathered to say farewell to a colleague with whom I've worked closely for 7-8 years. For most of that time "worked closely" meant that I sat either next to, or near to him while we worked on separate projects, but more recently I worked with him on the (eventually successful) bid that I'm now trying to deliver.

He was also my career manager for much of that time.

And he was the guy with whom I chewed the fat over morning coffee most every day I was in the office.

Looking back I realise that, in all the 30 years (ahem) I've worked for this company (no, honestly. It really is 30 years. The anniversary was January 9th) of all the hundreds of people I've seen leave, I can't honestly say I've been particularly close to any of them. Until now. Steve is a guy it's easy to like. Not everyone's cup of darjeeling it's true, but his heart's in the right place, and he likes people. He brings them together. He has (had) a very strong network in the company, and if you needed a particular skill Steve would know where to find it. But more than that, more than knowing them superficially, or only for what he could get out of them (like so many you meet in large companies), Steve was interested in them as people. In their families. In what was going on in their lives. A true humanist. And a keen intellect. How many people do you know with five - or was it six? - degrees?

What made his leaving all the more poignant was that it wasn't really his choice. He felt manoeuvred into going because of the actions of a very few misguided individuals who happened to be in positions of influence. Most notably his manager. Despite winning multi-million pound bids and gold awards, he was sidelined and unfairly treated, and felt his only recourse was to leave. Even though he's quite looking forward to his new career you could tell he didn't really want to go. Didn't want to cut loose from the network of close connections he's made over the last 13 years.

Anyway it was a good leaving do. We managed quite a sizeable pot (he was well liked, as I said) and therefore some memorable leaving presents. Good luck with the new enterprise Steve, and make sure you keep in touch!

This week's Friday Five is really hard to answer "properly."

1. What are you missing?
So this question requires me to look at things in a "glass half empty" kind of way, whereas mostly I'm a "glass half full" kinda guy. If I'm forced to think that way, there are three big things I'm missing. I really miss living with my daughters. I think about them every day. OK, I know one of them is now at the point where she isn't living at home anyway, but I'm acutely aware of the time I've missed out on. I miss having a job I enjoy. For more than twenty out of the thirty years I've been there, I loved it. For the last 8-9 years it's sucked. Big time. And finally I miss having a holiday in the sun. We did it every year for five years and I loved it every time. Now it's back to big mortgage and reduced income and there's no knowing when we'll be able to do it again.

But like I said, don't get me wrong. I don't dwell on it. Life is good.

2. How do you feel?
I put my hands out and wiggle my fingers. Is there another way? How do you do it? No, but seriously - see above. Life is good. I feel good. Content. Ready.

3. What have you let go?
The past.

4. Who have you hurt?
Well, I'm Sagittarius innit? I speak without thinking. People are bound to get hurt when you're that way. It's not intentional. Actually the older I've got the more I've bitten my tongue. You should see it. It's like a piece of pink lace. On a sadder note, there are people I've hurt deeply, but hopefully, with the perspective of several years, they can see it was the right thing to do. There really is no gain without pain.

5. What do you deserve?
To be believed.

What goes around does indeed come around

I guess there are some things that you can't blog about. Sometimes this is because it's simply inadvisable to reveal too much, and other times it's because, although something may have gone on around you, it's not really your story to tell.

So by way of allegory I'll recount a tale from my university days. Maybe this explains why the "how old are you" quiz on Facebook declared me to be 75 today. One of my answers was that I start my conversations with "When I was a kid..." Well hey, when the other choices are "You can't even talk anymore"; "wow, did you see those boobs/abs"; "MOOOOOOM..."; "yo, yo..."; and "listen to me..." wtf else am I going to pick? Anyway, I digress.

Around the beginning of my second year at Uni I started going out with a girl and pretty soon we got pretty serious, if you know what I mean. If we weren't staying at mine we were staying at hers and there weren't many nights we were staying at mine AND hers individually. During the holidays I drove down to Buckinghamshire to spend some time with her at her folks' place and was surprised (not to mention delighted) that her parents just quietly assumed we'd be sleeping together. Remember this is 1976/77 we're talking about. The summer of love was ten years old but parents weren't really part of it, at least not in my world.

So time ticked by, we carried on seeing each other, and eventually in the Easter break she wanted to repay the favour and come up to Nottingham to meet my folks. My folks who had always claimed to be very broad minded, and open minded, but who...well...maybe we'll save that story for another day. Let's just say they didn't always practice what they preached. Which gave me a bit of a dilemma. Did I let things ride and submit to sleeping on the sofa, which I knew would be the default option? Or did I make a stand for human rights (not a very well-used phrase in 1977), which would clearly be the more uncomfortable option parentally speaking?

In the end I decided to make a stand. Pun not intended. I took my parents on one side and said, basically "look, Sue and I sleep together while we're at Uni, and we sleep together while we're at her parents' house. This is your house and what goes on here is up to you, but in the light of what's already going on, are you really going to make me sleep on the sofa?" I didn't plead or cajole or try to make them feel inferior, I just put the facts in front of them and then we went out to the pub.

When we got back, there were two Cadbury's Creme Eggs sitting side by side on the pillow in my bedroom. My Dad's uniquely cryptic and non-embarrassing way of telling me they'd decided to accept the inevitable.

Right there and then something crystallised for me. Although it was never in any doubt in a subconscious way, I made a conscious decision never to put any offspring of mine in a similar position, be they male or female. Because to my mind, if a young person is ready to make that kind of decision, then as a parent you have to be ready to let them. During the intervening years, on the odd occasion when this kind of topic has cropped up in conversation with friends and colleagues, I've come in for some stick on this point. The general consensus of the rest of humanity seems to be "you'll feel differently when it's your own daughter," or "no-one will ever be good enough." But I never subscribed to those views while the conversation was hypothetical, and I'm pleased to say I continue to hold true to my decision, and my principles, now the topic has become material.

Sunday Supplement

So it was just the three of us "sleeping over" at ours last night: Nikki, me, and Blythe. Natalie had gone back to halls in case there was anything going on late evening or early morning that she shouldn't miss out on.

I have to be honest and say that felt kinda strange, and I think Blythe felt the same way too, waking up to Sunday breakfast without her sister. This is the start of what we all knew would be a weird time, when our relationships with each other all shift around to allow for the fact that one of my daughters is embarking on an exciting new chapter of her life while the other one is carrying on with the same life she had before, but without the comforting presence of her older sister for the first time in almost 14 years.

After breakfast we all split off as usual to do our own thing - Blythe on the XBox, Nikki and I went out to cut the lawn (a new 20-metre extension allowing us to cut down the weeds around the end of the garage for the first time this season) after which I repaired to the study to put the final final touches to it, in preparation for the carpet being fitted tomorrow.

I noticed today my desk calendar, sitting on one of the bookshelves that has a temporary home in our bedroom, was still set to May 25 - the day before our housewarming party and the last day the study was used as a study. From tomorrow we can finally begin the repopulation process and get back to some semblance of normality in the rest of the house. I retrieved the last few tools from the room, fixed the final two lengths of creaky floorboard and applied some sealer to the tops of the skirting board that still had small gaps and that was it. Good to go!

Picked Natalie up at 2.30 so she could have dinner with us, and we spent the afternoon watching a movie together, and then it was time for them both to pack up. Nat's hall is holding a (free!) "pizza and wine" evening to get everyone together, which sounds like fun. For Blythe and I it was a rather unusual drive back to Yorkshire. I never expected Natalie's move to Uni to redefine MY relationship with my younger daughter, but in a strange way it has. Since Blythe was born I've very rarely spent time with either of them on their own, and when I have it's been mainly with Natalie. As far as I can remember the only long period Blythe and I have been alone together was on our trip to Bath when Nat had an NYGE course and we went along and did our own thing for 4 days. So for all these years, it's been me/us and "the girls" whereas now, at least for some of the time, we'll have Blythe on her own.

I don't really know what I'm trying to say here, and I'm conscious that it's a bit of a ramble. These are times of change for all of us. In a lot of ways, it'll be hardest on Blythe. Natalie has the excitement of a new place, new friends and new activities. Life for Nikki and I, for 13 days out of every 14, continues pretty much as before. Blythe has to carry on with the "same old, same old," but on her own. It'll be tough. But she's tough, she has some good friends, and she knows we're always here - only a phone call, and MSN message, or a short car ride away - when she needs us.

A New Life

Two new lives actually. One literal and one figurative.

First, the literal one: congratulations to our good friends Jamie and Lise, whose son Isaac Dylan was born just before midnight on September 11! Well done all three of you - we'll be popping over shortly to poke him with spoons.

Second, the figurative one. Nat finally texted me sometime this morning to arrange to come over for lunch. The call of the crumpets was irresistible, especially since the hall she's in is only catered during the week and she has to fend for herself over the weekend. She'd been chillin' Friday night with her new friends in hall who all sound really nice. I was so very pleased that her first night in hall hadn't been as desperate as mine.

After my Mum & Dad dropped me off the Sunday before Fresher's Week, I'd soon discovered I was the only one on my floor and spent a very cold and lonely night bored out of my skull. There were no laptops in those days, naturally, no Internet, the hall didn't have a TV room and it was fully catered, so there wasn't even a kitchen where I could make myself a piece of toast.

I contrast, Natalie's floor sounds as though it was almost fully populated with three of the girls on her corridor in residence, and they spent the evening getting to know each other and watching the telly. When I took her back in the evening I popped in to have a look at her room. Although every bit as spartan as student rooms always are right at the beginning of term before whoever lives there has had a chance to personalise them, it is a nice size, has its own sink and the usual bed, desk, wardrobe and comfy chair (upon which, if student standards are followed, there will soon build up a pile of dirty laundry ;o)). The hall is in a quiet leafy lane, has a swipe card on the door and individual locks on the bedrooms and is quite secure enough to allay a Dad's fears. There's a warden in residence too, who insists on being called Norman, apparently.

During the day, I broke out my old student posters intending to offer them up for sacrifice. They're all at least 30 years old, so I was fully expecting Nat to decline my offer, although I thought at least they would cover the bare walls for a bit until she found something more to her taste. Her reaction was a real surprise. A pleasant one. "Wow!! Those are SO COOL!!"

I'd forgotten that thirty years was long enough for them to become cool in a retro kind of way. So my Roger Dean flying elephant and various insectoid invaders have found a new home and at least one of Natalie's new neighbours is quite jealous of her new wall coverings. Funny old world, in't it?

Friday Five

Thinking about #1 daughter a lot today as it's her first day at Uni. Strange day to start, you might think, Friday, but if I remember what it was like she'll be doing a lot of queuing. Queuing to register, queuing to join the students' union, queuing to join any of the multifarious societies that take her fancy, queuing for lunch...

And then...what? What do they expect new students, alone in a strange city for the first time to fill their time with at the weekend? Maybe they've concertina'd what used to be called "Fresher's Week" (and, as you might guess, took a whole week) into a weekend? The modern equivalent - everything has to be faster, shorter, and not get in the way of studying. I don't know, but I hope to find out later today as she will, if everything goes according to plan, be spending at least some of the weekend here. That is, of course, unless it really is "Fresher's Weekend" in which case there'll be loads of stuff to get involved with and we might only see her when it's time for bed!

And so to the famous five...

1. Have you ever run away?
No, but I used to take the bus into the city when I was a kid. I guess I'd be 12, 13, something like that. My Mum didn't find out until years later, and then had a fit when she realised she should have been worrying about me all that time. It was visiting the Victoria Centre that gave me away. One of the first large shopping malls in Britain, I used to love to hang out there as a kid and I knew exactly where all the lifts were, and which floors they served. So when my Dad parked up and they were casting around for the lifts, I just piped up "it's this way!" "How do you know that?" asked my Mum, and the game was up.

2. What is the longest you've dated someone?
Like Di, I can't figure out when dating ends and long-term commitment begins, so I'm assuming I can't count Nikki seein' as we live together. In which case the answer is about 2 years.

3. What don't you like to think about?
Leaving my kids.

4. What was your last illness?
When I was filling this in earlier in the week I couldn't remember, it was so long ago. Then on Tuesday I hurt my ankle, so the answer now is: a hurt ankle. This qualifies as an illness because it might turn out to have been a mild attack of gout.

5. Do you like to get revenge?
No. Cliche alert: I know it sounds trite but two wrongs don't make a right, you need to rise above it, don't let them drag you down to their level, etc, etc. I find being a Spiritualist helps in this respect. Because you know they will get their comeuppance in the end, even if you don't do anything about it.

The Manchester wheel

Feeling a little guilty for not having done many day trips with the girls this week, I enquired whether they'd like to go on the Manchester wheel. After a resounding "yes" we worked out that today was the best day to go - a combination of fitting in with other projects and fitting in with the weather!

Various things conspired to delay the start of the day but eventually we hopped on the bus and arrived in the city centre around noon, having passed and pointed out many of the landmarks on the way. Now that Natalie is definitely coming to Manchester I felt honour bound to give her some points of reference - especially the bus stops she'll need to use to catch the bus to our house!

I've only ever been on the wheel once before - when CP was here last year - and the queues then were quite long. Today, even though it's the middle of the summer holiday, we only had to wait for the ride in progress to finish before we could embark. The shortest possible wait time!

Aloft in the wheel I pointed out other landmarks, this time from a different perspective. We also spied our selected lunching establishment - the Old Wellington - and some rather strangely attired individuals who appeared to be handing out leaflets to passers-by. We decided to find out what they were up to once we left the wheel.

But first, lunch was calling since at least one of us hadn't had any breakfast. We dined on tuna melts and ham, tomato and mustard sandwiches washed down with suitable beverages.

After lunch tradition dictated a quick visit to the cathedral, since it's only just tucked around the corner from the Wellington. I've never been in the cathedral when there wasn't something going on. Last time we visited with Nikki's brother we were treated to a choir practice; the time before that they were holding an exhibition of stunning digital photography. This time a "young pianist" competition was in progress, with a small orchestra ensconced in front of the choir stalls and the pillars draped with special contest livery for the occasion. All very colourful.

I was glad all the orchestra gubbins and internal scaffolding didn't prevent us from seeing the Chapter House. This remarkable part of the cathedral is, as the Wikipedia entry suggests is often the case, a very ornate room.

Panelled in oak, the detail in the carving is extraordinary. Each of those panels has a complex network of arches and pillars at its top and below the lowest arch, three per panel, can be found four roseate details. Every single one of these details in the room is different.
Flowers, berries, symmetrical designs, small faces. Each is unique and only a very few have been damaged or are missing.

All this was very distracting - by the time we'd remembered about the strangely-clad leafletters we were on our way back to the bus.

Retracing our steps we approached the nearest lady to discover on closer scrutiny that her costume was emblazoned with the word "cash." What better way to get the public's attention in a bustling city centre? The ladies, vaguely reminiscent of town criers and the gentlemen on springy modern hi-tech stilts who were doing back flips were all there to promote the new co-op.

This was a far cry from the down-at-heel corner co-op of my youth, which always smelt of stale milk and whose management took a hard line with local scallywags who used to make off with the odd packet of dolly mixtures. No, this was the 21st century Manchester city co-op. All bright and shiny, steel and glass, handing out prize draw entries with a top prize of £20,000 just to raise public awareness of their existence.

We entered. Twenty grand would be just enough to ensure Natalie came out of Uni with zero student debt, and more than enough to buy us a new roof. Keep your fingers crossed!

Get back, funky cat

If my day out last November accompanying Natalie to her interview day at Manchester University could be called surreal, then today's trip was like being drawn back into that nightmare land of exams and, more to the point, results.

As we drove from Manchester to Huddersfield the radio news was full of reports that today was the day half a million students would be receiving their 'A' level results. We already knew. We were on our way to college to pick them up.

Although we arrived in Huddersfield town earlier than results were supposedly available there was still a fairly strong current of students wending its way collegewards. We elected to stick to our plan and breakfasted in the little coffee shop which Nat and her friends frequented. Later, hearts firmly in our mouths, we made the short walk to the college gates. "See you in a bit then," said Natalie, her nonchalance belying her undoubted trepidation as she crossed the road and disappeared past the throng of students who were already gathered by the gates, their congratulations and commiserations communicated only by body language at this distance.

The wait seemed endless. After the first hundred years Blythe and I were starting to get a little hungry again, breakfast having been so many decades earlier. But we only had to wait another three hundred years before Natalie appeared back at the gate accompanied by her boyfriend. She crossed the road and handed me her papers, beaming. The results were good. Very good. But the grades were slightly at odds with her offer from Manchester University. One equal with the requirement, one higher, but one lower. We headed off for the village to give Mum the good news and also to get on the Internet and find out whether Nat had, after all, secured that much wanted place.

Manchester has a very enlightened entrance policy. Their courses are so oversubscribed that they only offer places to students whom they really want to attend. They hand-pick them at interview not just for academic ability but for what else they can bring to the party. Natalie, being skilled in many extra-curricular activities and interests, is exactly the kind of student they look for. Their offer came with a promise that, even if the grade quota was not quite achieved, she would still secure her place.

Even so, those minutes between leaving college and arriving at the house, and the extra minutes standing in the hall while Natalie rushed upstairs to the computer to check the university admittance website added another couple of hundred years to the morning.

"I got in!!" she shouted from the study.

We all breathed again and time resumed its normal pace.

With the next three years now mapped out before her and most of the worries of the last two years beginning to be replaced by worries of what is to come (for such is life, leaving one worry behind so as to confront another), we drove home and celebrated first with another afternoon in the company of the X-Men (I'm starting to make quite a handy Ice Man with my slow ice beam and my shards) and later with a trip to the Nawaab for an excellent curry dinner and a glass of mango lassi.

I've spent most of the latter half of the day fairly bursting with pride at the achievements of my first born, and also reassuring Blythe that there really is no pressure to equal or better the "bar" Nat has set. We shared a joke about that on the way back to the car this morning, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness to the humour. I never knew what it was like to have an older sibling, but I guess sometimes it can feel like you have to run just to stand still. For me though, there is never any of that sort of comparison between them. Both my daughters are wonderful, each in their own way. Each better at some things than the other, each with their own unique qualities, their own outlook on life and their own path to tread. I see my job as just being there to provide a shoulder to lean on, a listening ear when they need to share, and to move some of the rocks off their path when necessary. What else is a Dad for? Oh, yeah, a cuddle now and then :o)

Pottermania comes to Manchester

Whatever possessed us I don't know, but we decided as it was our very last chance to get in on the whole "Pottermania" thing, we'd attend Borders launch party for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows tonight.

To get us in the mood we watched the first movie on DVD before we left, and arrived at Borders around 10pm. The party had been in full swing since 7, with loads of people in fancy dress, and they'd had some activities for the kiddies (like a balloon magician). We spent about an hour browsing through the store and ended up buying a pile more books and DVDs, but after a while it started to feel like just another shopping day in the bookstore. Only in this case it was a shopping day where we couldn't leave.

We parked ourselves on the floor in one of the alcoves and as a result didn't realise the queues had started to form. So we started queuing at 20 past 11 and naturally they didn't start selling until 00:01 this morning. With only six tills operating and no scheme to divide the queue into those that ONLY wanted HP and those who had other purchases, things moved very slowly at the start. I'd already put our other stuff through the till, but that didn't help when we were about three-quarters of the way back in the queue and it was only being served at a rate of less than four customers a minute.

We finally made it to the tills at a quarter past one. I'm glad we won't have to do that again! And even now, as I type, Nat is sitting under a reading lamp in the lounge, fully intending to stay up all night and finish the book in a single sitting...

A concert even closer to my heart

Last Saturday I saw a concert on a grand scale. Last night I was on my way to something a little smaller and more intimate - although as I drove over Saddleworth moor the newscaster on Radio 4 did say "we're just over an hour away from one of the biggest music festivals in the world" and I thought - blimey! The BBC are coming to Holme Valley Music Centre's evening of guitar music!

But of course they were talking about the first night of the Proms, whereas my destination was slightly less high-blown but much more important. After ten years of spending at least part of Saturday morning (and more recently, by virtue of helping out with junior and intermediate classes as well as still being part of the senior group, virtually ALL of Saturday morning) at guitar class, my elder daughter was bowing out of Music Centre concerts with the keynote solo performance of the night.

I arrived early as usual and secured a seat with a good view. The concert got off to a slightly late start with the senior guitars performing four pieces followed by a series of solos from the more junior members of the group. Watching these youngsters - ranging in age from 8 to about 12, some of them doing their first solo - reminded me of concerts past as Nat slowly gained in both confidence and ability. Some of tonight's young 'uns showed great promise, either being note perfect or playing with good expression considering their age and experience. Others missed the odd note and played on with wry grins or shakes of heads, mentally beating themselves up for not being at their best. But all enjoyed resounding rounds of applause. This was, after all, a friendly audience of family and locals, many of whom probably went through similar ordeals as children. There is a strong vein of musical appreciation and participation in the Holme Valley, and the important thing was the taking part and the wish to do one's bit to entertain.

After the solos and four more group pieces, this time from the junior guitars, we had an interval. Time for a narsecappatee and a piece of cake. There were also raffle tickets on sale. At £1 a strip I normally would have bought only one strip, but my little voice was quite insistent that I should buy two, so for once I listened to it and forked out my £2. The raffle was drawn at the end of the interval, before the second half of the show, and the very first ticket out of the draw was the first number on my SECOND strip. Thank you very much, little voice, for that rather nice bottle of Rioja!

Then it was time to settle back down to hear the intermediate guitars perform their set. By the time they'd finished my palms were becoming quite sweaty with referred stress on Nat's behalf. I took a few deep breaths. Three or four more solos and finally it was Nat's turn. She enduredjoyed a rather lengthy intro from her guitar tutor and then began to play.

She'd left her selection of music until the last minute, so the programme read simply: "Solo" but in the event she elected to play her tutor's (by now actually more colleague than teacher) favourite: Julia Florida - Barcarola by Agustin Barrios - also, it has to be said, a firm family favourite. As this was the last solo of the evening and many in the audience were either thinking they'd "heard it all before" or preparing to leave, the noise level in the room was quite high at the beginning. But as the strains of her beautiful guitar playing drifted across the hall a ripple of silence travelled back through the crowd until everyone was listening in rapt attention and you could have heard a pin drop.

When the last note died away the vacuum left by the music was filled with the most thunderous round of applause of the entire evening. I thought I was going to burst with love and pride, but I couldn't even join in with the clapping - both hands were firmly clamped around Nikki's camera with which I'd recorded Nat's whole performance! Wonderful, wonderful stuff and a fine end to her long years with the Music Centre.

After taking a brief bow she was presented with her "long service award" for sticking with her classes right through junior, intermediate and senior guitars and even during her 'A' levels, and also with a special present in recognition of all her hard work on Saturday mornings since passing her Grade 8. I wonder if her tutor knows how close she came to giving it all up? Behind tonight's virtuoso performance were the memories of years during which she plugged away playing the second or third part, the boring part that no-one notices but which is essential to the overall sound of the performance, when she was more than capable of playing the lead. More able, usually, than the person playing it, who was chosen out of seniority, or because it was their turn. When playing in a group, everyone has to be given a chance to shine, but it always seemed as though Natalie's potential was passed over more often than most.

Even though she came close to giving up out of sheer frustration and exasperation at the weeks upon weeks of playing a single note for a performance where the lead player didn't practice properly or didn't turn up, she stuck with it, showing maturity, dedication and commitment. I think too that she realised how important it is to do something because it has personal meaning. That the benefit you glean from an activity can be just for yourself, for your own satisfaction. It doesn't necessarily have to be public.

So she came through those years where her light was hidden and reached a point where her excellence was recognised and she had her chance to shine. Tonight was the pinnacle where she reaped the rewards of all her hard work and long hours of practice, and she did much more than shine. She blazed.

The UK - not a good place for children

On Wednesday UNESCO published a report that puts British youth at the bottom of the pile in terms of happiness. I must be psychic or something, because I was travelling down on the train Monday afternoon to spend the week working away from home, and writing a blog entry on exactly this topic. Being away from home always turns me a little bit introspective as I sit alone in my hotel room.

Every generation, we often read or hear, looks at the generation that comes after it and thinks some variation of: "I'm glad I'm not growing up today" or "Things were so much nicer/ cleaner/ gentler/ more polite/ easier/ simpler when I was young."

I guess we forget, as we get older, how resilient young people are. But it seems to me that as the world becomes faster and more complex, they need to be resilient to even cope with everyday life. Children and young people need, even more than they did when I was young, to have somewhere where they feel no (or a minimum of) pressure to conform. A place where they can be themselves or, simply, where they can just BE. That place should be home, but for so many "home" is just one more place where they are pressured in one way or another. Maybe their parents have split up, they have stepmothers or fathers or stepsiblings to cope with, vying for attention from their own parent. They may have chosen, or been forced into, various extra-curricular activities, or intensive academic options. They are bombarded from all sides by media and advertising pressures - the need to have "the right stuff" - the latest gadget, the "right" friends, listen to the best music on the newest MP3 player, wear the trendiest clothes.

Today's world makes me realise how lucky I was to grow up in a stable loving home, with a Mum and a Dad, some good friends, and never to have to worry about where I would be sleeping. Does time lend those days a rosy glow, when in fact it was never as good as I remember? Sure, we didn't have a lot of spare money, but that's a common story. Listen to any celebrity chat show, and most of the guests will say "we never had much, but we were 'appy." It's a cliché, I know, but it's also true: money doesn't buy happiness. And basically Wednesday's UNESCO report said exactly that.

So what? Well, thing is that this is so close to home for me that I can smell it. My lot have two homes with parents in them (sometimes), sleepovers, boyfriends' houses, school trips, etc, etc. They certainly have more material possessions, and spend more time away from home than I ever did. But are they happier than I was, or even as happy? I don't know. And I worry they're not.

In common with most parents, I never wanted anything for them more than I wanted them to be happy. To have a stable home life and at least one place, one real home, where they could experience that stress-free sense of being able to get away from the cares of the world. When you can shut the front door and just do what you like. Be totally yourself. Even scream and yell if you need to, and know you'll be supported and loved instead of screamed back at.

Seven years ago I finally admitted I'd failed to give them that in the "marital home" and I don't think I'll ever be entirely free of the guilt that goes with knowing a lot of their stresses and worries derive directly from the time I walked out on their mother. I can never know how bad things would have got had I stayed, and I take courage from those who told me at the time and from personal experience that it was better to leave than put them through all the rowing and fighting that would have ensued.

I guess I'm trying to compensate in some small way by giving them some stability and fun when they stay with us, but it's a double-edged sword. Our time together is compressed virtually 14-fold, so it is in essence a false security. It's not permanent (that is, it's not 24x7), no matter how much any of us would like it to be so. That's not to say we don't have great fun - we do - and I look forward to our next weekend together from the moment I drop them off after the last. But real life isn't 100% fun. Often there are things going on for them that mean fun should really be put on hold while we deal with the issue. At least, that's how it would be in a "normal" family. It's natural for young people to have worries and fears. It's part of growing up. Exams, friends, boyfriends, career choices, great philosophical questions, or just feeling down in the dumps and needing a cuddle...any and all of these are put on a back burner because we have to cram 14 days of fun into, effectively, one day.

So I think what I'm slowly getting my head round is that it's unlikely, any time soon, that my kids are going to come to me with their problems. This is a revelation to me, because I always wanted to be able to do that for them. To be the kind of parent they could come to with anything and talk it through. Try to resolve it together, or mitigate it, or just present a united front to the world if it can't be avoided or fixed.

But then I think: did I ever do that with my parents when I was 18, or 13? No, I don't think I did. Half the time they didn't know what I was getting up to. I used to catch the bus into town when I was 12 or 13 and hang around the malls. My Mum didn't find out about that until I was in my twenties. Maybe all my kids need is to know they can bring their problems to me whenever they want to, even though they'll probably never want to. Maybe that's all any of us can ever do. Maybe I should stop worrying about it.

What goes around comes around

It's funny, but even though our new house still needs work on just about every room, I've been working 70-hour weeks since Christmas on a bid for a large contract (which went in on Wednesday) and we're saddled with the biggest mortgage we've ever had, recently I've been thinking that I have never been more content.

The feeling started to gel for me last Saturday night when we took Natalie and Blythe out to celebrate Nat's 18th. I get such a buzz from being around my girls. I guess you have to be a Dad to understand it - and a Dad of daughters too. It's wonderful to see the people they are becoming; to hear them crack jokes (and realise that the famous Beresford sense of humour that I inherited from my Dad is alive and well and has made it safely to the next generation); to talk about their plans and dreams. This was especially poignant now that Nat is "officially" an adult. Naturally she doesn't feel like one. Hell, I'm 50 and I don't!

That feeling grew stronger on Tuesday night. It was the first book club meeting of the year and I was there on my own. Nikki had been invited for a girlie night out with the neighbours. I was enjoying the company of the ladies in the club (as it turned out, I was the only male member there that night). They really are a cracking bunch - excellent company - and I thoroughly enjoyed the evening. Nikki had a great time with our neighbours too.

Then on Wednesday we received confirmation of our booking at the Great Orme Lighthouse. We spent a fabulous couple of days there in October with my mates and we've arranged a repeat visit later this year. There was a time when I didn't see these guys or their WAGs from one year to the next and now we're enjoying a wonderful rekindling of the friendship we've shared for 30+ years. Like someone has stoked the ashes of a dormant fire and it's burst back into flame as if to prove that it was always there and never went out. And that's the point of this post really - friendship. We're surrounded by it at the moment: old friends, new friends (both in Chorlton Chapters and Chorlton Players), new neighbours, and great relationships with working colleagues too, some of which also go back almost 30 years.

One of the fundamental Principles of Spiritualism is that one is "compensated" for all the good one does and one has in turn to compensate for any bad. There is so much love around us at the moment, I can't help feeling I must be doing something right! That time, now thankfully long past, when I had to curtail my sociable nature...it seems like that was someone else's life I was living and now I've got mine back. Cheers!

Chinese celebrations

So we took Nat & Blythe for dinner at the No.1 Oriental Buffet last night. Same idea as the Nawaab - all you can eat for a tenner - but this time with Chinese food instead of Indian. Fantastic! For us, the best part of any Chinese meal is the crispy aromatic duck, and here they have a corner of the restaurant devoted to assembling your pancakes - a huge plate of shredded duck, a tureen of Hoisin sauce and large dishes full of shredded spring onions and cucumber. The Szechuan chilli beef was to die for too, not to mention the crispy chicken and the excellent ribs.

One of the great things about buffet-style restaurants like this is the chance to try new stuff without incurring any extra cost, which was a relief when I discovered the fish with ginger and spring onions had almost no flavour at all, and one of the noodle dishes tasted like the smell of newly-pasted wallpaper. This made everyone laugh until they actually tried some. Then they laughed even louder when they agreed it was a perfect description of the flavour.

Back home we turned the lights down low and the home cinema volume up high and settled back to watch Forrest Gump followed by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, accompanied with lots of ginger beer and ... no nibbles. We were all still stuffed!