Big Wedge

Back in the early days of this blog, there were a lot of posts about poo. Not mine I hasten to add, and I don’t intend to start logging any details about my, erm, logs, but now I come to mention it, there was that time a couple of months ago when Arthur managed to figure out how to work door handles for the very first time and it was at the exact moment when I was in the bathroom catching up on some reading matter. I was mid shit and he wanted a cuddle. I managed to fob him off with a high five and a fist bump and off he went. Unfortunately he hadn’t worked out how to pull a door to (if I hadn’t have been there at the event I would have sworn that lad was born in a barn), never mind use the door handle to close it. The next thing I know, Henry is in the bathroom along with me wondering what all the fuss is about.

The boys have figured out how to work the bolt on the bathroom door if they are in the room while the door is shut, so I took the pin out of it in case they ever did find their way in and realise they weren’t livestock after all. This is fine if there is just me and Mrs Aitchworld in the house – there is no dignity left between us. We have both seen each other at our worst. Love is running to the bathroom and back at the speed of Hussein Bolt in order to fetch a potty for someone who is in bed and right on the cusp of a lumpy yawn. Seeing each other on the toilet is tame by comparison.

On this note, how do the boys know when a major hangover is occurring? It isn’t very often we drink, so when we do it tends to hit like a freight train the following day. And the day after that, if I’m honest. The morning after this particular event, for the first time in a very long time, the boys decided their toys of choice to bring into our bedroom at 6am (or maybe just before) was their Casio keyboard and a kazoo. Now, even though it was the Yuletide season, a pre-programmed Casio concerto of Jingle Bells and Santa Claus Is Coming To Town, at full volume, inches from your ear isn’t a welcome sound. We quickly invested in a Gro-clock, even paying for express delivery, so that if we ever decide to drink again, we can at least program the sun to come up a little later to give us a chance of some extra sleep.

Anyway, every year not long after such events, just after Christmas we have a foreign student stay with us for three months, on a work exchange scheme. This year is no exception and to get round the no lock on the door situation, the understood rules of the house are that if the bathroom door is shut, it is occupied. The problem therein is that if the boys keep leaving the door wide open after they have visited me mid motion, the sight of me with my pants round my ankles, running like a parent in a school sack race in order to shut the bathroom door, is likely going to scare our student into never wanting to return to the UK, if they just happened to see the open door and thought the room was vacant.

All of which meandering and thrutching leads me to the point I was attempting to get to, which is that we are potty training. Again, not me; I’ve kinda got the hang of it. But the boys have started their road towards being house trained, in particular Henry. The other day he actually took his first ever shit on a potty. I don’t know why, but it is the proudest I have ever been of something, and it wasn’t even my achievement. When I stood back and thought about it for a moment, I did wonder how low my life had sunk that I was so impressed with a shit in an injection-moulded, primary-coloured bowl. But Henry was very pleased with his effort too, and his pride was kind of infectious.

Of course not every shit is a hit and there have been accidents along the way. You have one perfect day, where there was no extra washing involved, and you think you’ve cracked it. You are a master in the art of toilet training. You get complacent. And the next day the washing machine and tumble dryer run from morning to night, coping with all the missed opportunities. The national grid is there just for us sometimes. I fear our next electricity bill – it will probably crack the tiles underneath the doormat when it lands. There is no way our internet service provider will be able to cope with the amount of data in it, if our utility company were to email it it to me.

As any regular readers of this blog (if there are such people) will attest, my mind is an odd place. I have recently enjoyed watching the TV series Limitless, which was a spin off from the film of the same name. The premise, if you are unfamiliar, is that there is a pill which unlocks the full capacity of your brain, leading to excellent learning capabilities and memory function. Although the effect of this pill is very exaggerated in the film and TV programme, memory and mind enhancing drugs do exist, albeit as a side effect for curing narcolepsy, and I have been sorely tempted to try them. However, upon unloading the umpteenth load of washing from the tumble dryer and pondering the electricity bill issue, my brain went into overdrive, even without the aid of any medication.

Firstly, although it wouldn’t solve the electricity problem, I wondered could the vent from the tumble dryer, the one that extracts warm air from the dryer out through a hole in the kitchen wall, be better ustilised to heat the kitchen somehow. At the moment, it is hidden behind the tumble dryer and the kitchen units. Surely it could be better utilised? My mind wandered yet further when I emptied the filter/fluff collector device. There must be a use for all this tumble dryer fluff. There has to be. I don’t know what it is, or how you would even commercially collect it, but I will find a way somehow.

Even without the artificial heightening of the memory, I recalled a number of years ago I was at an exhibition where someone was demonstrating slug pellets made out of compressed sheep wool. The natural salts in the wool deterred any slugs from visiting your flower beds. I have worked with food ingredients and chemicals for many years, and I know there are sodium phosphates and salts in washing powders. I mused whether there would be enough residue from these in the tumble dryer fluff, that if it were compressed into pellets would it do the same job? I think an appearance on Dragon’s Den beckons…


Time Stand Still

“Suddenly, you were gone, from all the lives you left your mark upon…”

It’s a funny old thing, time. I mean, one minute it is early January and I’d just started this particular blog post, and I do mean so early in the month that I hadn’t even broken a resolution yet, and the next thing you know it’ s the middle of November and I still hadn’t finished it. In the intervening months, many things have happened, some good, some not so good and some terrible.

I’ll start with the good – in January I got a new job. My previous job, when I was in the office, was a one and a half hour each way commute at the minimum. If there was any event on the M6, this could double and there were some days where I left home before the boys got up and arrived home long after they had gone to sleep. When I wasn’t in the office and was out seeing customers, often the travel times were longer and it meant nights away from home and my boys. My new job, working for an Irish company, meant some travel to Ireland, a country that I love and the home of Guinness, which just happens to be my favourite tipple, but it also meant that most of the time I would be around to see the boys far more. The concentration on the new job kind of took my time away of writing the rubbish that I do.

Next, the terrible – the boys lost a Grandpa: Mrs Aitchworld’s father. Deep down we know it won’t be the case, but we somehow expect our parents to be there forever; the realisation this isn’t true hits like a ten tonne heavy thing when it does happen. At the age of just 73, this shouldn’t really have happened to Henry and Arthur’s Grandpa. Cancer is a bastard.

The boys don’t fully understand of course. They saw Grandpa nearly every day near to the end of his life. In the final stages of the bastard taking it’s toll on him, confined to his bed and incredibly fatigued, the boys would say “Grandpa sleeping”. After he had died, they went looking for him in his room. We didn’t know what to tell them, so we told Henry and Arthur that he had gone up to the sky to be a star. Every now and again, seemingly at random, Henry will say “Grandpa’s gone to be a star”.

I’ve outlined previously how I used to be pretty much emotionally barren. This did change somewhat after the boys were born, but I thought I was reverting back to type, with very few things upsetting me, other than odd things, the strangest being a piece of music in Nora and Nelly that to this day I cannot listen to without welling up. The impact of my father in law’s death, I thought, seemed to be minimal upon me and I accepted it completely as a matter of fact. The reality was more that it was a delayed shock. Even acting as one of the pall bearers at his funeral I felt the same way. Then I saw the order of service, with David, my father in law’s picture on it, and the tears started to flow.

They haven’t really stopped either and I find myself weeping at all manner of things. Strangely Henry is usually the catalyst – he is the sweetest, most caring little two and a half year old I have ever encountered, so much so it sometimes overwhelms me.

Take today for an example. The boys were taking a break watching my Wall-E DVD in their playroom. Mrs Aitchworld produced a fine picnic lunch for me and the boys and we were eating it in front of the telly, having a thoroughly agreeable Sunday.

On the screen, the scene played where Wall E and Eva appeared to kiss. I felt a sentimental lump in my throat. At this exact moment, Henry tipped his Smarties out into the middle of my squid rings. Immediately he fished out two brown ones and rather than ramming his sweets into his mouth, he handed them to me. “Here you go Daddy: they’re brown like your car”.

Tears rolled. Henry noticed. “Daddy sad!” He gave me a hug. I sobbed. And I’ve felt like I’m on an emotional knife edge for the rest of the day. I could go either way at any given moment. If Henry had have said “Grandpa’s a star as he gazed at the luminous plastic tat that is stuck to their ceiling when they went to bed tonight, I would have required re-hydration salts. As it is, I sat in the nursing chair still in their room to keep them company as they drifted off to sleep. They like that. I also had a little weep in the dark.

Sad news, but on a much lesser scale, I sold my beloved classic car, a 1993 Ford Sierra Sapphire Cosworth. Apparently. Jimmy Nail fans and Spender anoraks will understand completely when I say “it’s a beast”. I bought it, two weeks before their birth, with the romantic notion that I would take the boys to lots of car shows and bond with them over an old Volvo or something. The reality was that I did just a few hundred miles in a couple of years in it and every time I had to get it MOT’d the brakes were seized through lack of use. It was time for it to go.

To replace it, I bought a camper van. Sort of. What I actually bought was an abandoned project. It is a 2006 VW Transporter. I bought it insulated, with a nice lino floor fitted, a pop top roof and a couple of windows. But behind the row of front seats, it was empty. Windows have been put in the back doors, rear seats have been put in and the framework for the kitchenette and dining/second sleeping area is starting to go in. Many hundreds of pounds have been spent on all of the equipment needed to do this. Time, again, is the limiting factor.

My new job working from home with the fancy car (well, another brown Volvo)? Well that lasted less than six months and I became a casualty of economics. I didn’t care about the job – I actually hated it and knew I’d made a big mistake a few weeks in; it was poles apart from what was promised to me, but the loss of the Volvo was a bit of a kick in the teeth. I got a new job within a few days, based just a few miles from home, although it doesn’t come with a company car. I vacillated between buying a large Volvo and a large Land Rover, before going out and purchasing a Mini. Henry is over the moon. He loves Minis.

All of which random rambling brings me to my point. Or at least my starting point. The boys had their second birthday in March. This is an age other parents refer to as “the terrible twos”. Well, I may be tempting fate here, but I’m calling bullshit on that. I’m thoroughly enjoying this age. Throughout their life, I’ve not been wishing it away as such, but I’ve certainly been searching for the next milestone.

Soon after the boys were born, we were hoping for their first smile, their first clutch of a finger, then longer periods between feeds and so on. This soon turned into waiting for them to roll, then crawl, then walk, along the way saying their first few words. Each step along the way the boys have been leapfrogging each other with their developments, Henry doing something first before Arthur, then Arthur being the first of them to do something else.

While all of this was going on, and before they could really speak properly, I worried (as much as I ever worry; it isn’t something I waste a lot of energy or time on as it achieves nothing) about how I was going to teach them various concepts. Stuff like day and night – how would you explain it to someone with no concept of such a notion? But you know what? They just get it.

I don’t know how they have picked up what they have, but they have gone from knowing nothing, to being a lot brighter and intelligent than some adults I have encountered. The pair of them are like super-sponges, absorbing information like some sort of a giant vortex. It’s both fascinating and beautiful to watch.

For the first time since the boys were born, I am not wishing for the next developmental leap. I’m not wanting the next stage, whatever that is, to happen anytime soon. Just for a while, I’d like to freeze this moment a little bit longer. Time stand still.







Handbags And Gladrags

Time is spiralling out of control and as I write this the boys’ second birthday is two weeks away. If past form is anything to go by, the end of this blog post will be written sometime after their party.

They say, whomever they are, that starting new jobs and moving house are two of the most stressful things that you will encounter, but I suspect organising a kids birthday party ranks up there alongside these events, if not eclipsing them by some considerable margin. I have no idea why it has to be so traumatic, seeing as Arthur and Henry probably couldn’t give a shiny shit whether they had a party or not – I’m not altogether sure they understand the concept of a party at this age.

Firstly, there’s the cake. It should have a theme, apparently. This is especially difficult with our two because they don’t seem to like the same things as each other. Arthur is very musical, whereas Henry is all about vehicles. A car journey with Henry consists of him listing virtually every vehicle he sees then informing us that it has passed, “Car! Car gone. Lorry! Lorry gone. Ham! Ham gone. (Ham is Henry’s way of saying van). Truck! Truck gone. Nee Naw! Nee Naw gone. (A Nee Naw is any emergency vehicle with its siren operating)” and so on and so forth. Those long journeys fly by.

The only area where they both agree is the Disney film Frozen. Or, more pertinently, the theme song to Frozen, Let It Go. If either of them are having some sort of tantrum, or behavioural episode of a similarly uncontrollable manner, sticking Let It Go on YouTube will usually diffuse the situation. It used to be Peppa Pig, but she is so last year, apparently. I’m not one for gender stereotypes, but I hoped we had escaped the whole Frozen thing by having boys – it tends to be more a little girl thing.

The whole party for kids thing seems to be getting out of hand. At most of the parties we have been to for other kids of late, each parent seems to want to outdo the parents who threw the party a couple of weeks earlier. Everything has to be bigger, better and, crucially, far more expensive. I have heard rumour of well in excess of £100 being spent on a single cake for a one year old, which in my book is completely un-necessary.

Parties we have been to recently included and indoor bouncy castle, a face painter and a man that made balloon animals. All at the same party. This was for a first birthday party. Mrs Aitchworld enquired of the face painter how much it would be for her to attend our party and it was in the hundreds of pounds.

This was the start of us finding ourselves falling into the same trap and the cake area seemed to be one of particular consternation. The current line of thinking is we will have a cake each for them. One will be transport themed, probably having a tractor or a digger somewhere about it.

The verdict is still out for a cake for Arthur. He loves singing so we considered a microphone-shaped cake, possibly pink because he still loves Peppa Pig. We have even bought him a Peppa Pig microphone for his birthday (if I get this published before his birthday, please don’t tell him and ruin the surprise) but it is a fine line between ambition and talent. This left us thinking that if the former was greater than the latter, a phallic shaped cake might be the result, which made us briefly consider buying cakes from a specialist cake maker and have them made specifically for them instead of off the shelf in Tesco.

The research that subsequently went into this revealed the sort of prices some of the other parents are paying for a cake that is going to be displayed on a table in a church hall somewhere for an hour, before being squashed into napkins, then shoved into a party bag, then throw in a bin when it is discovered when the recipient gets home that one ply of the napkin has stuck to the icing. We decided to make our own. Pinterest is our new best friend. Well, it is of Mrs Aitchworld’s as she is the one who can make a cake. I’m useless!

The other area of concern is the party bags. There seems to be a general one-upmanship between party givers, each trying to out-do the previous party thrower by giving away a more complex and expansive party bag. The last one we received for the boys, alongside the obligatory piece of hellishly expensive themed cake, had sweets, chocolates, crayons, bubbles, a squeaky duck, a pencil, a notepad and an eraser in it. The next one I fully expect to have a smart watch and a laptop computer in it. Given a few more parties, I reckon nothing short of a widescreen television and an iPad (other tablets are available) being shoved into a party bag will suffice.

We realised that this was the case long ago and agreed that we would not fall into this trap. I wasn’t going to do them at all and was going to stick to my guns on it. Let them eat cake, I said. And one ply of napkin, of course.

But then something happened. They say things happen for a reason. Well this something was that the local Poundland closed down. Better than this, our local Poundland was, in fact, a Poundland Clearance store. This is slightly confusing, because rather than everything being a pound, there are varying prices – the clearance part of the title refers to redundant stock the company has bought from other shops closing down, rather than tat they have acquired and have to try to flog for a pound and still make a profit. Some of the stuff is actually quite good.

A closing down sale naturally means reduced prices. Not just reduced, but slashed. You’ve never seen so much excitement. The car park of the whole retail park was heaving. Fights were breaking out over parking spaces. The store was rammed – people were barging past others in the aisles to get to the good stuff. People were being pushed out of the way by shopping trolleys and wheeled baskets so that other shoppers could grab a bargain. In the middle of all of this staff were trying to get the last of the remaining stuff from the stockroom out onto the shelves. It was nothing short of absolute chaos. It was brilliant to watch.

And the reason I was there watching it was because we too were there buying things to fill party bags. I relented and changed my mind. In the last couple of days of trading, everything in our Poundland Clearance had 50% off. And a lot of that had already had 50% knocked off. We went mad and filled a trolley. And I mean literally filled it, right to the top. And then the next day we went back and filled another, because we felt like we hadn’t spent enough money.

We haven’t got party bags. We’ve got party carrier bags. And because we didn’t pay for the carrier bags, technically we should be charging 5p for them, which is probably a little more than we spent on the stuff inside each of them, even though they are full of goodies. Okay, so the Haribo (we noticed after we had put them in the bags) is Christmas themed, but I’m sure no one will notice.

The thing is, I’m not sure how we are going to top it next year. If anyone else has a Poundland Clearance closing down anywhere near them, let me know and I will come and clear some shelves in preparation!

Video Killed The Radio Star

It’s official. I’m old. Over the Christmas period I got a new mobile telephone and despite my best efforts, I failed in setting it up. I did pretty well, importing all my contacts and applications, but no matter what I tried I couldn’t get the damn thing connected to the internet. I was partially vindicated in that when I took it to the Carphone Warehouse, from where I bought the SIM card, in order for a teenager to sort it all out for me, that they were also unable to connect me to the internet. In the end I had to resort to ringing Vodafone (other mobile telephony providers are available) to help me.

And then there was the Firestick incident this week. Friends of ours gave it to us as a gift to thank us for all the stuff we had given them for their new-born twins. I’ve commented before on the generosity of our friends who have children (all boys) who are slightly older than Arthur and Henry and I lost my man cave up in the converted loft room months ago with all the incoming hand-me-downs. We have boxes of clothes and shoes taking us through the next three years. Getting rid of several van loads of clothes and toys was a blessing, not something we needed thanking for. But appreciated we were, and the Firestick was a thing of beauty; a gadget for me to play with. Man like gadget!

Once it was all plugged in and ready to go, I realised I had no clue how to find HDMI source on the television by using the remote control. Or any other method. I bought the telly only a few months ago – it’s one of these smart TVs that works off the internet, magic and witchcraft (but not off the aerial if there is a strong wind or a bit of rain, apparently).

None of the buttons on the remote for this new television have anything so obvious as the word “source” next to them, but instead rely on hieroglyphics that no one over the age of about 20 can understand. Even Mrs Aitchworld, a veritable youth at seven years my junior, was none the wiser. I eventually considered doing that most unmanly of things and reading the manual. I resisted to the best of my ability, but ultimately, in the wee small hours, I capitulated and dug out the manual for the TV in search of the solution.

Since I am using computers less and less, I consider my eyesight to have improved back to the levels it was at during my early twenties and in light of this I stopped wearing my glasses a couple of years ago. However, I may have been a bit premature in this assertion because I couldn’t actually read the manual. I don’t usually have trouble reading small print and assumed that the cheap paper the manual was printed on had caused the ink to bleed and therefore appear blurred.

Still, it played on my mind and while I was in Primark on a recent shopping trip to Manchester, waiting for Mrs Aitchworld to try on some clobber, I found myself stood next to a display rack of reading glasses. I was distraught to find, when I tried some on, they made print very much clearer.

Of course the natural thing to do when I got home was to google these symptoms and after many hours of research and self-diagnosis the verdict is that I’m going blind. This is going to be a bit of a problem for me because I’m not altogether keen on dogs; I will still throw away shoes that I have trod in a dog turd whilst wearing, although I coped admirably the other week (and ever since)when Arthur managed to tread in one and Mrs Aitchworld cleaned them up – I have been able to handle them without having to bin them. Given the rate at which the boys are growing at the moment, I didn’t expect them to still fit him for more than a few more days. So if a guide dog is out of the question, I will have to train the cats to take me for walks and I’m pretty sure that won’t end well.

All is not lost because I am confident that pretty soon Arthur and Henry will be able to sort this kind of stuff out for me. They are already starting to get the hang of an iPhone (other smartphones are available) and know which button to press in order to cut me off when they have had enough of my Facetime presence. At first it was attributed to clumsiness and them pressing the red button in error, but as time passes it is becoming apparent that it is their way of saying “I’m getting bored of you now, dickhead”.

We have even downloaded a couple of child oriented applications to keep them distracted while they are in the trolley going round Aldi to keep them out of the stock room and super specials aisles. They are getting the hang of them too and each action towards the phone is becoming more considered, more planned. It’s amazing to think that an iPhone to Arthur and Henry will probably be like a Nokia 3310 was to me when I first got one. It was a thing of wonder then, but very soon became outdated, just like smartphones will, once we all have Bluetooth and Wi-Fi in our heads as standard. I’m wondering if google glasses will help my reading issues…

I was an early adopter of the mobile telephone and had one long before everyone had one. And I always upgraded too, so an actual Nokia 3310 came to me pretty much upon release and I was suddenly able to send text messages; it was a revelation.

However, I hardly knew anyone else with a mobile telephone, let alone people who could actually receive an SMS, so it was a moot point really. There was one person, an ex-girlfriend who had SMS capability, but she had gone out for a bottle of wine several months earlier and never returned (it was okay; I had some beers in), so I doubt she would have been particularly pleased to have received a message saying “Zinfandel please” just because I’d upgraded my phone. Or “Znfndl plz”, as I believe would have been the correct way of abbreviating things in those days.

I have always spelt everything in full and punctuated correctly, so my text messages always arrived with the recipient in batches of several at a time. I still maintain this practice, but fortunately you are allowed more characters in a message now.This is probably one of the reasons I don’t get on particularly well with Twitter for me to get my point across would take many tweets and interest would wane after the first few. Not that anyone really follows me anyway.

Of course, then picture messages came along, and shortly afterwards technology gathered such pace that things like WhatChat and SnapApp came along, as did various other messaging applications to confuse the hell out of anyone who just wants to ask if a mate is coming out for a pint. And it is this similarity that brings me back to how quickly the twins are developing.

I come back to this theme time and again, but as a parent I am finding myself looking forward to the next development and in doing so it is like I am not appreciating the moment. I so desperately want Arthur and Henry to remain babies (or at the very most toddlers) for as long as is possible, but at the same time, I’ve got a Google Chromecast that I unplugged from the television a few months ago and I could do with setting it all up again but unfortunately I’ve lost the manual. Not that it would be any good even if I did have it, because I wouldn’t be able to read it anyway. So as much as I want the boys to remain as young as possible for as long as possible, I could really do with their help on this! At the current rate of change, I reckon I could have it sorted by summer.


Running On Empty

I started writing this weeks ago, with every intention of finishing it promptly and publishing it forthwith. For many reasons, that didn’t happen, mainly to do with lack of time and sleep. But this week I have suddenly found myself unbusy after handing in my notice at work. After being relieved of my mobile phone and laptop, and saying goodbye to my colleagues, I was invited to leave the premises and my notice period was to be seen out on gardening leave, so I have some time on my hands. Or so I thought. It’s amazing how quickly a list of things to do appears when someone thinks you have lots of time.

Ironically, the garden needs to be finished after the landscaper we had employed to lay a load of railway sleepers stopped showing up after the second day of working with them and failed to finish the job. His work rate was pretty impressive in those two days and he got all but two of the sleepers in place. On day three though, nothing. He’s not even been in touch to tell us how we might pay him for the work he has done. Unfortunately, January and February aren’t really the months to be gardening, so I’m not sure I will get round to doing any actual gardening on my gardening leave. Annoyingly, I initially thought I had a three months’ notice period and might get round to doing something outside in March, but I was quickly disabused of that notion and discovered it is only a month.

So, the boys then… Well, all of a sudden the developmental leaps are coming through thick and fast and the journey of parenthood has suddenly picked up apace. It was brought home to me just how far we have come when, a couple of months ago, I was working away from home and decided to back up the very many photographs I possess on various devices. In doing this, I took a long and meandering trip down memory lane. I had my iPad (other tablets are available) to flick through old photographs and posts on the Aitchworld Facebook page, reminiscing, smiling a lot, and at times laughing out loud. At one point, to coin a modern parlance, I even did a little roffle.

It reminded me of a recent Facebook trend of people posting a picture a day, for seven days, of their children in order to demonstrate what makes them proud to be a parent. While I was on the ruminating trail I momentarily left Facebook and had a flick through the photo album on my phone. I reckon I could probably post a picture every hour and after seven days I would probably only have scratched the surface of the phone’s content. It is fair to say I take a lot of pictures of the boys and they took a while to all back up.

Henry started walking when we were away in France last October. Arthur followed suit by the end of the month, then Henry started running in early November. Completely out of the blue, at the local fireworks display in the park, in the biggest crowds our town ever sees, in the dark, Henry decided this would be the best moment to become Usain Bolt. We managed to catch him, but he has been determined to run at any given moment ever since. It’s like parenting Forrest Gump.

The other day he decided to run off in Aldi when we were doing the weekly shop; straight down the frozen food section and into the store room. I’m not out of shape, but cycling is more my thing than running and I had a hard time keeping up with him. Arthur decided this distraction meant it was a good time for him to adjust his gait to a faster pace and while I was trying to retrieve Henry from the Aldi store room, he was going in the other direction to the specials section in the middle of the store. Mrs Aitchworld started to run after him but then realised that her handbag with purse and mobile were still in the trolley so she was torn between boys and valuables. Coincidentally the specials that week were cycling accessories, so when I did finally catch up with Arthur at least I had something to look at that interested me.

Before we had the twins (but knew we were having them) and I think I have documented this, I was counselled that I should only listen to parents of other twins for baby advice. Take on board by all means the words of parents who have had one baby at a time, but they will not have a single clue what it is like to deal with twins. This was good, and indeed correct, advice. More than this though, parents of single babies, and only children, won’t see the magical interactions that you will only get with multiple birth siblings.

We first noticed it at nine months old, when the boys would have secret conversations between themselves. It was one such conversation, that neither I nor Mrs Aitchworld could understand, which led to so much cooperative splashing between them that it left the bathroom flooded.

Arthur’s speech is a little more advanced than Henry’s and both are trying to use words, but we still don’t understand most of what is being said and conversations are very much between the two of them. However, with each passing day, we understand more and words are becoming clearer.

Arthur clearly says Daddy, whereas Henry says Dadd’n. I love this little quirk of Henry’s. In fact when he learns to say Daddy properly, I will really miss it. He does point at my car and say “Daddy’s car” though, so he can say it when he wants. He can also say Volvo, which irks Mrs Aitchworld somewhat, because he learned to say this before he said Mummy.

If I had published this when I had intended, a month or so ago, I could have listed all the words the boys could say. They keep leapfrogging each other – one minute Henry will have the larger vocabulary, then a couple of days later Arthur will suddenly expand his. As parents, it’s impossible not to compare the progress of your own progeny with that of others, despite knowing it is futile and that every child develops at a different rate. To then compare your children with others, then with each other is enough to send you in a spin. But they do all catch up and despite slight differences, the boys are on a fairly level playing field with each other.

At dinner the other evening Arthur pointed to something on his plate and said “carrot”. And it was indeed a piece of carrot. So Henry pointed a potato and said “tayto”. Then they both had a conversation with each other that consisted solely of the word “tayto”. This is the first time we had heard either of these words and we hadn’t been prepping them to say it or even focusing on those particular vegetables – they just picked them up. We realised at this point that we had better curb the swearing!

I was impressed when Henry gesticulated towards one of the cats yesterday and said “Dave”. Well, he said “Daiyve”, but it was close enough. And it was actually Dave that he pointed at, but we have noticed that both he and Arthur now refer to Charlie as Dave as well.

They can each say the other’s name, but again Arthur is a little more precise – he says Hen-nee. At the moment, Arthur is the more content at playing with one toy for quite long periods of time, whereas Henry is always busy and will move from one toy to the next with alarming alacrity. And he is always so excited about each new thing that he moves onto, that he wants to involve his brother and is always calling out to him. He calls his brother Rar-rar.

Sometimes they eschew the toy option altogether, if they are both with each other and have a common object to play with instead. Tonight the funniest thing in the world was the living room door, as they took turns to try and shut each other’s fingers in it. Luckily we have foam doorstops that clip on the top of the door to stop it shutting to in order to avoid such an eventuality.

It dawned on me that parents of single toddlers won’t ever get to experience this; the laughter, the shouts of Hen-nee and cries of Rar-rar, the hugs and cuddles in between shoving heads in the doorway were such a beautiful sight and sound to me that it damn near brought a tear to my eye…

Who am I kidding? Even Mrs Aitchworld noticed I had welled up. The truth of the matter was that I had to leave the room so that the tears could freely roll down my face unrestrained. It took quite a while to compose myself.

To do this I thought, as the kids were entertaining each other and needed little or no input from me, I would use the opportunity to sit on the toilet in peace and dry my eyes. I may as well multitask the toilet roll. Going to the toilet without interruption seems to be a life goal of many parents, judging by the comments on parenting blogs and memes alike. I thought I would be so ahead of all these backed up parents. And it was all going so well until Dave popped out from behind the towel shelf, hopped onto the cupboard next to the toilet and onto my shoulder, while Charlie tried to get through the locked door by pulling up the carpet the other side of it. If it isn’t one set of twins, it’s the other.

I Am The Drummer (In A Rock ‘n’ Roll Band)

This weekend we have mostly been recycling. At least that’s what I call it; Mrs Aitchworld calls it dumpster diving, despite not even being American. To explain, the mechanics in the garage over the road have ordered in a big skip and are having a clear out. The owners of the garage decided they would utilise it to clear out their homes as well and they turned up on Saturday afternoon and disgorged the entire contents of a Mitsubishi Shogun into the skip. It’s a long wheel base one, so there was plenty coming out of it!

I only paid scant regard as it was happening, but after they had gone, I noticed there was a large amount of primary coloured plastic now adorning the skip. This could only mean one thing – kids’ toys! It was hard to tell from across the yard to the garage, but there looked to be several items in near perfect condition, lying now in what the owners thought would be their final resting place. My intrigue was piqued though so I had to inspect further.

There were indeed many toys, all of them in good order and working condition and the mountain of plastic tat we already have in the playroom has swollen somewhat. As regular readers (if any exist outside of my head) will know, there is a musical theme that runs through this blog and music is something I hold dear, so I was especially pleased that I could rescue a small keyboard (in working order still with batteries in it) and a complete toddler-sized drum kit from said skip. The stand for the cymbal was missing, but I soon fashioned one with a bit of dowel and a couple of screws and a few washers.

Now most parents couldn’t think of anything worse than a drum kit that a toddler can play, but I like it. For a start, when I can hear Henry or Arthur bashing away at the drums or playing the keyboard, I know where they are. It gives me and Mrs Aitchworld a chance to get on with something else without constant supervision of the boys. The time to worry is when it all goes quiet.

Considering music is so important to me, it is something of a surprise that I waited until I was about 42 before I actually learned to play a musical instrument seriously, which was when I started to go to Ukulele club. First rule etc., etc. Beyond this, I have been known to have the odd toot on a harmonica over the years, but I wouldn’t say I was proficient in any way with one. Same goes for the keyboard – I can knock out a rough tune but I’m no Rick Wakeman. I tried to learn the guitar when I first went to high school, but the teacher was crap and didn’t inspire me at all and so I soon gave up.

I would love for the boys to be able to play instruments. It’s down to them, of course, but I will be trying to influence them. However, if I am totally honest with myself, it may be that I am trying to live my life vicariously through them now; for them to take up the baton where I dropped it. I’m not talking about the giving up of the guitar lessons. No, I’m talking about me and some guys from school; we had a band but we didn’t try hard.

By any stretch of the imagination, it was a short-lived affair, starting when we were about 17 and ending, when we were, erm, well about 17 really. A friend, Karl “Woody” Wood, had parents who owned a holiday cottage in Wales somewhere and visited it most weekends. He offered their home as a place for us to converge and practice our music. We weren’t so much a garage band as a living room, spilling out into the conservatory, band. We were middle class kids living in a small market town in Cheshire, after all. We had to give him some credit for this, so we did it by way of the band’s name and called ourselves Woody’s Comet.

The line-up consisted of Steve, who played guitar. Only he didn’t. He just owned a guitar and a fancy amp with various inputs that we could all use. He justified his position in the band by stating that he was musical and came from a musical family – his four sisters and his mum could all play instruments with flair and to be fair, Steve could play the trumpet. But not the guitar. Not a single note. We did suggest that he play his trumpet in the band, but this was stupid, for a rock group, apparently.

We also had Mark, who did have a guitar and could actually play it, so until Steve got to grips with it, we at least had a guitarist. We could sort out guitar pecking orders at a later date – we had enough issues in the rhythm section for now to contend with.

Damon could, he said, play drums but he didn’t own a kit. He said he was saving to get one. So that’s okay then. Complementing this rhythm section was not one, but two bass players, Jez and Karl (Woody). Having a surplus of talent, if that’s what we could call it (and if we’re being entirely honest about things, we couldn’t) should be a good thing, but Jez and Karl couldn’t agree on who was going to be lead bassist and who was going to be the rhythm bassist. It was a never ending battle. At least they had bass guitars and were reasonably proficient at playing them.

Finally, complementing the line-up was yours truly, on vocals and keyboard, the latter of which doubled up as a drum machine until Damon had saved up enough money from helping his dad on his ice cream round to buy a drum kit, and I also provided a tape-to-tape ghetto blaster with several line-in ports that would allow me overdub and mix.

The only problem with the keyboard aspect of my position in the band was that the instrument in question belonged to my mother and it wasn’t allowed to leave the house under any circumstances. I wasn’t a lot better than Damon in that respect. Any synthesiser sounds and drum beats would have to be overdubbed later from the comfort of the Aitchworld familial home.

We had a plan. Sort of. I wrote a few lyrics (I still remember the title of the first song I penned, “Children of the Night” – Mark claimed recently he still might have my scribbles of this song somewhere) and even designed an album cover of sorts, but I did it in the size and shape of a cassette case because that was the format our music would first be produced onto. The rest of the band would then come up with a tune to suit the lyrics. This was how all bands did it, right?

Well they may have but it didn’t work for us. None of us could agree on a tune. Naturally I had the basis of a tune in my head when I composed the lyrics, Steve had another once he saw them, Jez and Woody were arguing about who was the lead bassist, Mark sat quietly in the corner and every time Damon came up with anything it was summarily dismissed as sounding too much like the tune emanating from his dad’s ice cream van.

Eventually, Damon quit and Woody got married; I should have known we wouldn’t get far. It was the summer of ’89…

I jest. Woody didn’t really get married. Damon didn’t have a role to quit from because he never got the drum kit. His dad was also a woodwork teacher as well as running an ice-cream van and he did whittle some drumsticks up on the school lathe, but the drum kit to go with them was never forthcoming.

I don’t recall now whether we ever recorded much. I vaguely remember a tape-cassette existing of some of our work, but I have no idea how much or whatever happened to it. In fact I don’t remember us actually playing much at all either. It was about this time that we discovered alcohol and smoking, aided and abetted by the off licence that would serve us, knowing full well that we were underage, and the girl of only a couple of years older than us who worked there and used to advise on what best to drink to get the maximum hit. It was something different every week.

In particular I remember the snakebite we made using Special Brew and Diamond White. In fact just thinking about it has conjured up the taste of it in my mouth. This is probably why we tried something different every week because we didn’t want to taste it a third time. How we managed to clear up the vomit from the bathroom (and kitchen, and conservatory, and front lawn, and patio) before Woody’s mum and dad returned from their weekend in Wales is both a mystery and a miracle.

Needless to say, this activity got in the way of actually playing and being creative. I do have a vague memory of us playing something only to find at the end of it we hadn’t started the tape to record our masterpiece. I guess it was at this point that we decided that we weren’t quite cut out for it.

We had fun along the way though, and this is what I would like for Arthur and Henry, minus the smoking and drinking-until-they-vomit part of it obviously. But the creativity and the teamwork has got to be good for them. It’s part of what made me the well-rounded character that I am today. There’s no pressure though and to be honest, on the keyboard we dug out of the skip there is a record function and they have already committed more to tape than Woody’s Comet ever did so they are already ahead of me! I could have the next Hanson on my hands here…

Every Which Way But Loose

It is fair to say that Mrs Aitchworld, in her own home, is surrounded by males. There’s me, Arthur and Henry, and even the cats, Dave and Charlie, are boys. It’s inevitable then that, at some point, she would feel out numbered.

We did have hens, but these lived, in the main, outside. There was that one time when Henrietta was in her final days of old age and we brought her inside because it was winter and Mrs Aitchworld thought she looked a bit cold. There is also a picture somewhere of Dave having a stare off with Belle in the kitchen, him wondering what the hell a chicken was doing in his home (him and me both) but I don’t recall why she was inside the house.

These two occasions excepted, and discounting the female foreign students we have had stay with us over the years, since the boys came along (of the non-furry variety), it is a male dominated household and as the boys get bigger, this isn’t going to diminish in any way. We have discussed it previously and had agreed that we would consider having another child when Arthur and Henry are about 3 years of age. I suppose it shouldn’t have, but it still came as a shock to me when, towards the end of our recent holiday, Mrs Aitchworld announced she wanted to have a baby girl.

I don’t think we can plan it quite like that, and there is still a 50/50 chance that I might get to bolster my army yet further, so having a third child may yet work to my advantage. Until that day arrives though, we have bigger issues to deal with – Henry has learnt to walk.

He had taken his first few tentative steps while on holiday. Since then he had performed this trick a number of times, but never strung more than about three or four steps together. Last Sunday we braved a soft-play centre, in the absence of nothing more constructive coming to mind to entertain the boys. Both Henry and Arthur spent the afternoon crawling all over the under-threes section.

I spent the afternoon with soft-play-centre-rage. It’s like road-rage only much, much worse. The problem wasn’t with the centre so much, but with the parents who don’t watch, or care, what their darling little shits are getting up to. (Even now, a week later, I’m hitting the keys of the keyboard on my laptop even harder just recalling this). The under-threes section was clearly labelled and marked as such. It was a small area, but for an under-three must have seemed massive, and it was surprisingly adventurous in both height and level of equipment. The rest of the place, for the older kids, was huge and brilliantly equipped. If it wasn’t frowned upon, I would have gone for a play on all the stuff myself.

For some reason though, known only to themselves, there was a group of slightly older kids who insisted on playing in the under-threes section. They must have been at least seven years old. This is fine, but they were running about and paying no heed or attention to the small children, the ones the section was intended for, who were crawling around on the floor beneath them.

We tried a couple of polite “you know this is for under three year olds, don’t you?” type approaches to get them to move on, but they pretty much ignored this. We tried getting the staff on board whom, to be fair, did come over and point out the same as we had. This worked, briefly, but all too soon they were back. Like cockroaches. The rage got too much. I sat fuming in the corner of the ball pit, up to my chest in balls, surreptitiously arming myself with even balls under the surface in order to throw at their stupid little faces, should they poke them round this area.

Mrs Aitchworld on the other hand decided to go down the humiliation route. The next time one of the bigger kids crashed over Arthur, she pointed out, “This is the baby section. It is for babies. Are you a baby? Well, are you? If you want to behave like a baby, by all means stay in this section, but it will mean you are a baby. B A B Y; baby. Understand?” Surprisingly it worked. Not a raised voice or a plastic ball thrown in anger was needed, which was almost a shame because I’d psyched myself up for a fight!

Henry had all afternoon in an environment where had he wanted to walk, he could have practiced it and not worried about falling over in view of the soft landing he would have had. But no, he just crawled. When we got home we were all sat in the dining room with Peppa Pig on the telly (it’s always Peppa Pig – it’s the first thing that comes up in our Youtube suggestion list) and Henry decided that he would just get up and walk a complete lap of the island in the kitchen as if he had been doing it all of his life and it was the most natural thing in the world.

Now, a week later, there is no stopping him. I would even go so far as to say he is almost running. Last night, when I arrived home, he pushed Arthur out of the way on his trike and came running over to greet me. The moment he saw me his arms went up in the air and he toddled over to me in a manner not entirely dissimilar to Clyde, the orangutan in the Clint Eastwood films, so that he could have a cuddle.

No one has ever been that excited at my arrival at home. Well, maybe the cats, but that’s only because they know they are going to get fed. That has all changed though and they are having to all but fight for survival now because on a lap of the island yesterday Henry emerged round the other side chewing something. On closer inspection it turned out it was Felix’ As Good As It Gets. It transpired Henry was a fan and it really is as good as it gets, because he didn’t relinquish it willingly or easily. And he now has a shiny glossy coat! Charlie and Dave aren’t happy about their food disappearing in such a fashion.

Arthur has observed all of this and immediately wanted to do everything that Henry can do. Arthur looks up to Henry a lot. Unfortunately he doesn’t have quite the same sturdy disposition that Henry does and when he tried to copy Henry and take a couple of steps, he took on the appearance of a new-born gazelle. He managed a few steps unaided before falling into my arms, but it will be a couple of weeks before it all becomes second nature to him like it has with Henry. When we first tried to get him walking he wouldn’t bend his knees. At least he is doing that now, so we do have progress.

Of course, now they are walking, we have to think carefully about buying shoes for them. We’ve already bought shoes from them from Mothercare, but apparently these aren’t expensive enough. General consensus is that we have to go to a Clarkes shop to have the boys’ feet measured and then hand over many of our hard earned pounds for a pair of shoes so tiny that I could fit them in my pocket. And we have to do this twice.

Henry has slightly bigger feet than Arthur, so I was hoping once he was done with them, at least Arthur would be able to use them, but judging by the state of the Mothercare ones this isn’t going to be possible because they are fast wearing out.

“Buy them in the sales”, one friend advised. “In the last sale at Clarkes, I managed to get two pairs for £32”, she offered as a crumb of comfort. Well across a couple of sales between Brantano and Tesco I managed to get two pairs of walking trainers (in different colours) and a pair of work shoes for myself for less than this, and there is considerably more material in these than a pair of toddling shoes.

I still don’t know why everyone says it has to be Clarkes shoes. I was always dragged to the local Clarkes purveyor as a child and hated their shoes. Even though they came with a pin-badge to attach to your pencil case it didn’t make them any cooler. If anything, having that badge was just pointing out to the kids from the council estate whose parents couldn’t afford to shop at Clarkes that they had inferior shoes. It made one a target for discovering what the blue goldfish that lived in the U-bend looked like. They may have had inferior shoes, but they were infinitely cooler. Not that you had a chance to tell them this before the chain was pulled and the flush descended on your head.

My mum didn’t know it but I used to change into my trainers every day at school… Actually she probably did know this; mums know everything. And Dads. Henry and Arthur better not try and pull any of that shit with me – I will know.

The point is, my feet have turned out okay despite wearing trainers nearly every day of my childhood. I’m sure it is a myth perpetuated that if your children don’t wear Clarkes shoes, they will continue to walk like a new-born gazelle or an orangutan and that unless the appropriate footwear is purchased, at great expense, then the damage will be permanent. I don’t believe it. It can’t be proven, nor can it be disproven, without putting children at risk. If we don’t buy the shoes, then we are playing fast and loose with our kid’s feets’ futures. If we do buy them, we’ll never know if we could get away with buying just shoes. If only there were other countries where they don’t have Clarkes shoes that we could look to for guidance…