Never Forget You…

My favourite singer isn’t known for being a singer at all; he is the drummer with Queen, Roger Taylor. He does, however, have a superb voice. In my opinion, and I am somewhat in a minority on this but I just don’t care because I’m right, it is better than Freddie’s was. Nearly all of my favourite Queen songs are ones that Roger wrote and took lead vocals on. It is said that he can hit a high E in full voice. Despite attending Ukulele club, I have no idea neither what a high E might be, nor what full voice is; it isn’t something we do on a regular basis but I’m impressed nonetheless.

I have no idea why I actually ponder all of this, or why I am even writing about it, but it is the sort of unimportant shite that keeps me awake at nights sometimes. I think it came about because Henry had a throat infection and sounded a little hoarse, not unlike Roger, when he was singing the clean-up song to himself the other evening when he was tidying his toys away.

I think another reason was that on CBeebies the other evening there was cartoon with an accompanying song by an outfit called Tee and Mo that grabbed my attention for being, unusually, actually rather good. When I googled Tee and Mo it turns out the singer behind the song I so liked was Lauren Laverne, who outside of her TV presenting career is better known in the music world for being from the band Kenickie.

It got me thinking how other rock stars might sing to their children. I wonder if Roger and other rock singers with a really strong voice, such as Noddy Holder, David Coverdale, Brian Johnstone, Rod Stewart or Steven Tyler to name a few, sing lullabies or the clean-up song. Do they sing it in full voice? Do they hit a high E halfway through Incy Wincy Spider?

Generally I hate children’s TV. There is the odd programme I can stand and my current favourite of the crop is the cartoon Nora and Nelly. It is a cause of some debate in the Aitchworld household; Mrs Aitchworld insists they live in a caravan, despite the fact the listings clearly say it is set in a holiday park. I side with the listings and maintain they are merely on vacation, although I have to confess to being a little bemused that they seem to still be there in winter – most holiday parks close for the winter. This is suggesting I am paying rather more attention to the programme than I should do.

I had started to write great swathes of protestations about how I’m not all that interested in it and that it hasn’t got under my skin, but then I realised that, last week, as I was in the throes of planning a business trip to Ireland, I had started to ponder whereabouts in the country the caravan park is and whether I could visit it. Even now, as I write this from my hotel room in Tullamore, I haven’t completely reconciled the fact that I can’t actually visit a cartoon campsite while I am in the country it is supposedly in. Even though the thought has crossed my mind that if you changed the voiceover to a different accent, the holiday park could easily be in Skegness, a part of me still thinks I might be able to find it, with a bit of luck and local guidance.

All this aside, and lining up my excuses, the reason I pay any notice to this programme at all is because the music, both the theme tune and incidental during the programme, is rather catchy and really quite good. It has replaced Peppa Pig as my favourite TV programme. Ahem, favourite children’s TV programme, that is. Even Arthur is singing along to the theme now. He’s getting all the notes, but not necessarily in the right order.

Which, along a long and winding road, brings me inevitably to the Tellytubbies. Or, more pertinently, new Tellytubbies. The boys, apparently, love it. I’ve caught small segments of it as I pass through the room when the boys have it on the television, but I’m yet to watch a full episode. What I have discovered is that the Teletubbies have had baby Tellytubbies. How the hell did that happen? In order to find out, I made the grave mistake of googling “Tubby Sex”…

In The Night Garden, as I have documented previously, is another of those TV programmes I cannot abide yet somehow, the other Saturday afternoon, I found myself in an inflatable theatre in a carpark at the Trafford Centre to watch Night Garden Live. If you think the television programme is bad, I recommend you stay away from this. But, and it is a big but, if you do give it a body swerve, you will miss the most spectacular looks of amazement on your child(ren)’s face(s). Arthur and Henry loved it. They were transfixed.

The look of wonder and awe on their faces almost forced an unmanly moment and I very nearly welled up, and that wasn’t because of the cost of it all, which was not insubstantial. For the four of us it cost £70. The show lasted 52 minutes (yes, I timed it), which works out at a shade under £1.35/minute. I saw telephone lines advertised for lower rates than this when I was searching for tubby sex on the internet.

For the entire 52 minutes of the show though, Arthur and Henry sat stock-still, staring at the stage, fascinated with everything that was going on. They pointed every time the image of a Pinky Ponk was projected onto the wall of the tent. They laughed every time Iggle Piggle fell over backwards. This shouldn’t be encouraged because back at home Arthur has tried doing the same thing and ended up with a headache. 

Normally Henry is itching to move – he simply cannot stay in one place for any length of time, but for the entire duration of the show he remained exactly where he was seated. That almost never happens. It was worth every penny.

We also took the boys last weekend to Rewind North. For those unfamiliar with it, it is an ‘80s festival, held just outside Macclesfield, featuring a couple of big names who stand out amongst a sea of acts you can barely remember from the ‘80s, most of whom you assumed were long since dead. 

Still on a children’s TV theme, one of the acts was the lead singer of the Noisettes, who also voices the character of Teal in the children’s cartoon Abney and Teal. I have no idea how she came to be on the bill because she was only born in 1981 and therefore the charts in the 1980s were completely untroubled by her music, as far as I know. There was no explanation in the blurb about the festival.

The boys loved it. We spread out a picnic blanket, slathered them in sunblock, put their sunhats on and we all relaxed. The boys danced and sang, had drums and maracas to shake and it was bliss. Of course it sparked some dispute. Everything always does. I claimed that the boys love of music was because I am always playing it in the car whenever they travel with me. I have a memory stick plugged into the car full of my favourite music. Mrs Aitchworld said it was just as much her because she has Radio 1 on in her car. Of course this is patently untrue because Radio 1 don’t play music; it’s all just noise.

I drove the boys home at about 5pm, with music, naturally, into the care of babysitters (thanks Grandma, Grandad and Leanne) and then got a taxi back to the festival so I could have a few drinks and enjoy more ageing music. If I’m honest with myself, music in the 1980s was pretty poor and time can only improve so much of it, but enjoy it I did.

I don’t even remember who the closing act of the night were. I don’t mean I don’t remember them from the ‘80s, I mean the effects of the alcohol had kicked in. Not really having much at all to drink for the last 16 months or so means that a very small amount goes a very long way. Coupled to the fact that although there was a strong security presence and thorough bag searches for illicit booze, having the boys in a pushchair meant we were able to secrete various bottles of hooch around parts of the pushchair and get it in, rather than pay the exorbitant prices of a festival beer-tent! We were modern-day bootleggers. The boys are starting to earn their keep, at last! However, as we felt compelled to consume our entire haul, it all ended up rather messy.


These Boots Are Made For Walking

All of a sudden, seemingly overnight, Arthur and Henry are starting to get things. I don’t mean they will rise to their feet and get me a pint of Guinness or anything so grand, but they are starting to understand things. Arthur for a while has been able to high five but it has been a bit hit and miss, and more miss than hit, if truth be told. There have been a few occasions when I have been on the receiving end of a high five to the face from Arthur. Either he didn’t understand the concept, or Mrs Aitchworld has been training him. However, in the last week every high five is bang on target.

They are starting to use words too. When either of the cats come into the room, Henry in particular, but Arthur will do it too, points to Charlie or Dave and says “Da”. At first I wondered if they were getting their parentage confused and they were trying to say “Dad”, but we soon worked out that it is their way of saying cat. It is also their way of saying Mum and fish too, but if you listen closely enough there are minor differentiations within the way they say the words. With fish, there is also the action of opening and closing their mouths, in the way that fish do, to accompany the word.

They also understand some of the stories I read to them at bedtime. There is one that is all about zoo animals, the plot being that the writer wants a new pet and asks a zoo to send the one. They start by sending an elephant and works through varying unsuitable animals to be housed as pets. It ends with the zoo sending the reader a dog (it was a Shih Tzu). Along the way of the story this evening, Henry was growling like a bear and roaring like a lion and ooh-ooh-aahing like a chimpanzee, while Arthur hissed like a snake and spat like a camel. None of the household knows what noise a giraffe makes, so I rather let the side down when we came to the giraffe department of the zoo. I might have to google a you tube recording of that one.

While I am on the subject of zoo animals, I was intrigued the other day when I noticed the stuffed Panda that Arthur likes to play with has a short stumpy tail. It occurred to me that whenever you see a Panda in a zoo or on television, it is usually sat on it’s arse eating bamboo shoots. I have no idea whether Pandas actually have a tail or not. I decided that I would google that one and as soon as I had typed “Do Pandas Ha…” the rest of the sentence was filled in for me and it is the top question asked about Pandas on Google.

Until now, Henry had pretty much singular vocabulary. It was babababababa ba ba bababa bababababaabaabaaa. Truth be told, he sounded like the Pearl & Dean music, only without the melody. Every day though, there is a new noise, a new understanding. When he is tidying away his toys (yes he clears up after himself; they both do) he sings the clean-up song from Baby Boogie that is played when all the instruments and props get cleared away. It sounds very similar to his nee-naw fire engine noise, but is subtly different. If I sing “Flash” it is soon followed by an “Aaah aaaaaaaaah”. If I ask him if he wants to go to rehab, he shakes his head as I sing “No, no, no”.

In some ways he has overtaken Arthur. He seemed to be getting things before Henry did, but he has reached a plateau. Henry has mastered standing up now; he is the stronger, sturdier of the two, but Arthur is still working on it and I think this is taking all his concentration. He can manage to stand up in the bath, the last place we really want him to be standing, but elsewhere he can’t quite manage it. And instead of developing his language skills, he seems to be honing his Pob impression by blowing raspberries.

Henry is weeks, if not days away from mastering walking. I might get that pint of Guinness brought to me sooner than I think. Mind you, if he carries drinks in the same way he tries to eat his food, most of it will end up on the floor. When Arthur manages to walk too, it is going to be interesting, chasing after whichever one of them is in most danger. I think reins are definitely in order.

Until now I had been baffled by the need for baby shoes. We have boxes full of them given to us from friends, ranging from simple slip-ons to Converse boots. All of them untroubled by wear or walking.

This development, when it happens, will be a milestone, I know. It will mean finally we can walk down the path to nursery, instead of me running down it carrying one of the boys, throwing him into the arms of one of the nursery staff while I run back to the car to fetch the other one. Invariably one of two things will have happened in the 30 seconds it takes to do this. The first is that the car alarm will be going off and Henry will be in there making nee-naw noises and joining in. The second is that a crowd of people have gathered around the car, looking at the abandoned baby left in a car on a hot day with the window only cracked open slightly, trying to get through to social services.

This happened to me the other day in the supermarket car park – I’d only walked across the car park and back to get a trolley and someone was waiting by the car getting all hot and bothered I’d left the boys in there. I wanted to tell them they had only been in there for an hour, pointed out the window was open a crack and said there was water in the front if the boys needed it, but I think they saw my “sod off and stop interfering” face and made a hasty retreat before I could lay into them. It is a problem that is exclusive to parents with twins (or triplets, quadruplets etc.) – when neither of them can walk, it isn’t like you can carry both at once.

I did worry though, the other day, I might not be around to see these major milestones. You see, while I was in the shower, washing myself, I found a lump. Down there. On my gentleman vegetables.

This could only mean one thing – I’d caught cancer and the end of my life was very obviously nigh. At least I have Critical Illness cover, so at least I could get a couple of decent cars with the pay-out to enjoy up until my inevitable demise.

When I mentioned this to Mrs Aitchworld, she didn’t show any concern but merely asked which one. It’s not like I name my bollocks; one isn’t Bert and the other Ernie. I can’t identify whether Arthur came out of one and Henry the other. I thought this rather an odd question. Maybe she was concentrating on the life insurance pay-out further down the line, and may also have been a little perturbed that I was planning to blow the Critical Illness pay-out on new toys for me instead of the boys.

Now us men are a bit crap in going to the doctor about these sorts of things, especially if your doctor is of the attractive female variety. Mine is of this variety, sort of… I don’t think I have once seen her smile and on reflection, permanently having a face wearing an expression like someone has just shat in your Cocopops isn’t all that attractive. In fairness I rarely see her at all; I’ve been to our surgery more times since the boys have been born than in the preceding twenty years and even then I try to avoid it like the plague.

However, I went across to the surgery so my doctor could cop a feel. She asked if I wanted a chaperone for the examination. I don’t know why; this is the doctor that examined me for haemorrhoids once with an inspection so thorough and all-encompassing that I could tell she hadn’t removed her watch. A quick rub of a knacker between thumb and forefinger seemed quite tame by comparison.

The doctor with the upside down mouth agreed that there was definitely a lump there. She didn’t show any concern either, explaining I was at the latter end of the age range for catching cancer of the bollocks (I’ve paraphrased slightly) and that it was unlikely. Just to be sure though, I was despatched for an ultrasound scan of the tackle.

There was a gap of about a week between initial consultation and ultrasound scan. It was a long week, spent largely with my hand stuffed down my pants for all the wrong reasons, if indeed there are even right reasons for having a continual hand on things down there.

When I arrived for the scan, a procedure I am au fait with because we had so many when we were expecting Arthur and Henry, I was a little early, so I had a nose around the machine that was about to reveal my fate. I noticed that there were settings on it for the area of the body that was to be scanned. I recall there were “Maternity” and “Limbs” settings and a few more that now escape me. I used to have a photographic memory and would have been able to recite all five settings after a mere glance, but these days it comes back with Quality Control stickers on it. I read through the settings and got to the third one, highlighted on screen as it was obviously the one that was to be used for me and I took offence. It simply read “Small Parts”.

I was screened off behind a curtain and invited to strip from the waist down. Did that include my socks? I took them off anyway just in case; I’m sure it wasn’t strictly necessary but it was all a bit vague, instruction wise. I was to lie down with a large piece of paper towel covering my man bits and the ultrasound machine operating nurse would rummage around underneath it with the scanner to see what’s what. She asked me to pull my penis up towards my chest. My chest? Make your mind up love, a moment ago it was categorised as small parts. It’s never going to reach my chest, even if it hasn’t been as cold out recently.

Apparently the doctor was correct in her assertion that I am too old for bollock cancer. According to the nurse viewing my knackers in wide-screen, high definition ultrasound, the lump I found was, apparently, calcified matter; something akin to tonsil stones but in the wrong place. Maybe I need to cancel that order for the new cars – I don’t think calcified matter counts as a critical illness.

Come On Eileen

Our elderly neighbour, Eileen, has been somewhat conspicuous from these pages by her absence of late. There is no particular reason for this, other than we just haven’t seen much of her over the last few months. She’s been around; it’s not like the milk bottles are piling up on her doorstep and the post on her doormat or anything, but we just haven’t seen her to speak to too much. Now summer is here, or at least spring, her patio doors are opened wide and we hear Eastenders emanating from her house, as we leave the supermarket across town.

The other morning, I was preparing for my weekly cycle ride, giving my bike a wash down after just getting the plumbing for the hose all sorted (long story) after a prolonged absence of outside water. Eileen came past, taking her dogs for their weekly constitutional (as Jack Russells go, they are a little on the fat side, it has to be said*) as I was doing this. “Yoohoo, I say, are you going for a bike ride?” Well, erm, yes Eileen; that was the general idea. “Well don’t ride like the devil” she advised, cheerily. And with that she carried on with her walk. Quite how the devil rides, she didn’t say, so I have no idea whether I succeeded in this mission or not. I don’t know if Strava have a “Devil” setting alongside “Mileage” and “Elevation” on their app. It will forever be a mystery.

I ordered myself a GPS bike computer this week after my cheap Tesco speedometer stopped working at the weekend. Funnily enough, for something that is attached to a mode of transport that is exposed to the elements, it didn’t stand up to a brief dowsing from a hosepipe following a liberal spraying of mud. It kind of defeats the purpose of having something that attaches to a piece of equipment geared for the outdoors that isn’t waterproof. I’m hoping I will discover “Devil Mode” when the new one arrives. I checked the spec for its resistance to water but couldn’t find any reference to Satan.

While we’ve got Eileen in the spotlight, she amused us no end the other weekend when a street party was thrown to honour the Queen’s 90th birthday. At the end of our road there is a St John’s Ambulance hall and they decided they would close our street, the one we live on every day but they use once a week to park badly while they have their first aid practices, and have a party. All the residents were invited to come along for a burger. Given that there are no more than about 10 houses in the locality, and that none of us know anyone from St John’s, and that we were all put out because we couldn’t get in and out of the street in our cars, we weren’t all that keen. It is especially galling that the 10 houses surround a small car park that the street party could have easily been held on without having to disrupt the neighbourhood. But then I guess it would be a car park party rather than a street party.

Eileen’s house backs onto our little neighbourhood, so wasn’t invited to the party. She heard it though. As soon as we emerged to go and get our burger, Eileen was hovering over the fence. “Yoohoo, I say; what is all that noise?” That noise was a sound system St Johns had set up to play some music through to give a party atmosphere. Ironically, they were playing “Come On Eileen” at the time. “I can’t hear my telly” came the complaint. The surprise was that St Johns could hear their sound system over the Emmerdale Street Omnibus blaring away  from Eileen’s house.

There is no seamless segue way into what I need to write about next, so I will just have to abruptly and clumsily change the subject. I don’t really know where to start… It has been decreed, by Mrs Aitchworld, that I have sole responsibility for “the talk” with the boys when the time comes. As they are not even talking properly yet I think that this assertion that I will have to do it is somewhat premature.

I hope I’m better at “the talk” than my Dad was – at the first sign of a girlfriend, and not before, his words of wisdom were, “Well just don’t get her pregnant”. It wasn’t a conversation I particularly wanted to have at a family meal. I don’t think my Grandma thought the timing was particularly apt either, given the way she nearly choked on her potatoes.

All of this came talk about “the talk” came about because one of the boys, and I don’t recall whether it was Arthur or Henry, started grabbing at his knob when one of us was changing a nappy. It could have been either because they both do it. It was me saying to whoever it was, “leave your knob alone” that prompted the conversation. “You can’t call it that!” Mrs Aitchworld exclaimed. This is the woman that had to leave a National Trust tour because she laughed when one of the guides said the word “knob”.

What am I supposed to call it? When I was a boy, a little bit older than the boys are now, obviously, I possessed a dictionary in which all of the rude or even slightly risqué words were circled or highlighted. I think it I still have it somewhere, so I was tempted to retrieve it and look for suggestions. Eventually, and without the aid of a dictionary, but not before amusing myself with every permutation and name for the male genitalia (no matter which way you address it, knob gags are funny), I decided on dinkle.

We had parents evening at nursery tonight. No, seriously, despite them being 15 months old and attending nursery for less than six months, we were given an appointment with each of the boy’s keyworkers this evening so they could report on their progress. We took them with us so they could see the disappointment in our eyes when we were told that Arthur sits at the back of class tipping back on his chair while chewing gum and Henry talks too much in class and has been caught round the back of the pram shed selling sweets at prices that undercut the nursery tuck-shop and is eroding their profits. I think the underlying theme of all of my school reports was “could do better”. I was hoping the apples have fallen a little further from the tree.

When I think back, if my parents were disappointed, they didn’t show it. Even when I was expelled from school at the age of 17 (although the head of sixth form would swear that he merely advised me to leave and it wasn’t an expulsion), my dad bunged me a tenner to go out and celebrate. As it happens, I didn’t turn out too bad. I think my parents obviously saw that I was bright enough, but just a bit lazy. I had a good work ethic, when I remembered to be arsed. When money is involved it becomes a motivating factor and it gives me enough arsed to cultivate a good work ethic and I’ve managed to carve out something that resembles a career from it all. Of course there is no money in blogging, so how I have managed to keep writing to the point where I have created this, my 36th blog post, is something of a mystery.

The boys’ reports from parents evening were fine – they are developing as they should, exceeding a couple of expectations in one or two areas, and where they need to be pretty much everywhere else. It’s difficult not to compare your offspring to other children of similar age. Some are walking and almost talking; certainly forming words more coherently than Arthur and Henry are doing. Our two are crawling, pulling themselves up on things, but definitely not walking. Essentially they are still babies. And you know what? That’s how I like it. Life is flying by at an incredible rate of knots, so the longer they retain that little bit of innocence, the better as far as I’m concerned. It also means I don’t have to give “the talk” quite so soon and have a bit of time to prepare…


*Footnote: I actually see Eileen walking her dogs every day, so I was being a little harsh describing her hound-walking activities as a weekly constitutional. I have no idea why they are on a little on the rotund side; I can only guess she walks them very slowly and stops every few minutes to dispense advice to people on how to ride/walk/run.

Son, Can You Play Me A Memory

When I became a parent I was somewhat unprepared for, well, everything really. But in particular it is the feelings and emotions that have developed, or rather been exposed and brought to the fore, that I was least prepared for. Perhaps most surprising have been the feelings of paranoia. I expect most parents, especially new ones, go through this for a while.

Fifteen months in, I’m still going through it. If anything, I wonder if I am getting worse. Every cough must surely be consumption. Every mark or blemish is definitely meningitis, or at the very least chickenpox. Every time I go into the nursery at night when they are sleeping, when they are in an especially deep sleep, I have to check their breathing. Fortunately my hearing is acute so I haven’t yet had to resort to holding a mirror in front of their mouths when in slumber, but it’s been close. Both Arthur and Henry on occasion have vomited in their cots while asleep and the panic is they will inhale this and die a rock star death.

They are both living a rock star life. Sort of. Both Arthur and Henry love music, Arthur especially. Whenever he hears any sort of music, he will start rocking away in time to it. Even when an advert containing music comes on the telly he will move to it. I have mentioned Ukulele Club many times, far more than I should have, and I have spoken about the guitars I own and cannot play. I also have a harmonica that I’m not particularly adept at playing and in addition to all of these instruments, up in the loft room I have a keyboard that I picked up cheaply and on occasion attempt to play. Arthur and Henry love it – they will sit on my lap and bash out something that vaguely resembles a tune.

Granted, they won’t be troubling Rick Wakeman any time soon. Nor will I, because every time I try to knock out a tune, it inevitably morphs into the Night Garden theme – it is the only thing I seem to be able to play and no matter how hard I try to put an alternative series of notes together, I fail. All roads lead to the garden.

I don’t know why – we barely watch the Night Garden any more, which is kind of worrying because Mrs Aitchworld and I have spent a small fortune on tickets to see the live show. They set us back more, in fact, than it would have cost me for a couple of tickets to see the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain when they play locally to us soon, even at full price before gaining Ukulele Club discount. This is somewhat academic as Mrs Aitchworld has flatly refused to come along to the gig with me anyway, should I buy tickets. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.

When I was growing up, I didn’t really have access to musical instruments from an early age. I don’t think my parents liked noise. One of my grandparents, my mum’s mum, had a piano. She didn’t live locally until I was about six or maybe seven years of age, by which time I was well past developing any natural “from birth” musical prowess such as the boys now have. We were having the familial home extended to incorporate, quite literally, a granny flat, when a bungalow over the road came up for sale and she bought that instead, moving from her beloved Norfolk all the way to Cheshire. This meant that she could keep her prized upright piano, which would have almost certainly had to go if she had downsized into a part of our house.

I say prized; I never actually heard her play the thing. I don’t know if she could play it, come to think about it. I must ask my mum. It is one of my great regrets that I don’t know more about my grandma, despite her being the only grandparent I knew. Her husband, my grandad, died a year or so before I was born and my dad’s mum died, I believe, when he was still very young. His dad, my other grandad, was alive when I was born. Very shortly afterwards, on his way to meet me for the first time, he had a mild heart attack at the wheel of his VW Beetle, which resulted in a crash on the motorway embankment that killed him. Instead of him arriving at my parent’s home, the police did, in order to inform them of the accident and so I never got to meet him.

I know my mum could play the piano, but as children we were never allowed to bash away at it like I let Henry and Arthur do on my keyboard. I guess the difference is that the piano represented a large investment when it was bought and was therefore thought to be very valuable, whereas the keyboard I got was second hand and cost me about the same as three pints of Guinness.

When my Grandma died, still a few years before I left home, I was hoping the piano would cross the road into our house, but apparently it didn’t match the furniture my parents so coveted (and they still do. I don’t know why – it’s all G Plan and pretty hideous) so was sold off at auction. It would have been nice if they had have kept hold of it until I bought my first place, but then my first place was a first floor flat with a steep set of stairs that twist though a right angle at their summit, so it wouldn’t have got up there anyway. I have visions of that PG Tips advert from the ‘70s in mind, with my dad and me playing the part of the monkeys.

As it happens, the piano probably wouldn’t have matched our IKEA furniture anyway. It’s academic anyway, the instrument went long ago and between then and now a variety of styles of furniture have been and gone before settling on the convenience and simplicity of the Swedish flat-pack. Another reason is the addition to the house of ugly baby gates (I don’t think there is any other sort), ruining the style and the flow and general Feng Shui of the house.

Henry started crawling, of a fashion, a couple of weeks ago. Arthur followed suit about a week later. Henry hid his light under a bushel somewhat – the first we knew about it was one day when we briefly left the boys in the playroom, quite happily playing with toys and watching some form of nonsense on the telly. We knew he was spinning round and on occasion rolling over to make his way around a room to get to other toys, but on our way back to the playroom we found he had crawled the full length of the playroom and was halfway across the living room beyond, crawling much in the fashion of a beached seal, pulling himself along with his arms and dragging his legs behind him.

Arthur, we noted, was even coyer about his crawling talents. He practiced getting up on all fours and building up his strength, before committing to moving around. He tended to do this too when he thought no-one was watching him. He does this. We had no idea he could get himself from a prone position to sitting up, until we found him sitting in the corner of his cot one morning, looking at us as though he had been waiting for hours to come in and open the curtains. I think the fact he hadn’t worked out how to lie down again also had something to do with the frown on his face. A week after Henry started moving around from room to room, Arthur followed suit, giving up on all notion of crawling properly and just wanting to move around like his brother, dragging himself around in a similar manner, although his legs do make at least an attempt to move, whereas Henry’s legs are somewhat motionless. With this level of mobility, it was time for the baby gates to be mounted in the doorways to the nursery and the playroom.

Of course, this ability to traverse rooms has meant that both Henry and Arthur can get to drawers to open and close them. They can open cupboard doors and slam them shut. They can also get their fingers in the way of these drawers and doors. Soon, we will have to baby proof the whole house.

Obviously I don’t remember the arrangements when I was a baby, but I was a toddler when my sister was born and I recall her coming home. I have many and various memories of this time, most of them quite accurate it appears when I have quizzed my parents about them and compared notes. What I don’t have any recollection of is having any safety devices around the house. I don’t remember my sister having a dummy, so assume I didn’t either.

I asked my parents about this, this weekend, while they were round admiring the boys’ prowess at crawling about in a paddling pool and blowing raspberries in the water. The boys, that is, not my parents. What they get up to in the privacy of their own paddling pool is their business. My mum couldn’t remember any baby gates either. She said I was content sitting in a playpen playing with toys. This is patently untrue as I didn’t have any toys – this was the 1970s and we were poor. At one point we only had one car – that’s how poor we were. Austerity, thy name is 1970s suburban Congleton!

I think by toys what she actually meant was lumps of coal, bits of soil and worms. I was a forerunner for messy play. I have seen a picture of me holding a worm, and another taken allegedly a few moments later, empty handed. No one knows where the worm went, but legend has it that I ate it. What there is a notable absence of in the photograph is toys, so that’s all the evidence I need right there. My sister was apparently a bit harder to entertain, but she was shoved in a playpen anyway. By that point I was four so old enough to be allowed to go out and roam free. Different times.

I asked my dad about security arrangements of my early formative years and he couldn’t remember specifics, but that he was bound to have “rigged something up”. He was always very handy at knocking something together in an inventive manner. This is troubling me though, because this is the man that “rigged something up” with a car battery, a length of bare wire and a sheet-metal plate in order to deter cats from pissing up our front door. I dread to think what he could have invented to keep me or my sister away from the stairs. I know I can’t walk over any sort of metal walkway without completely losing any urge to urinate that I may have had. Maybe that’s where my dad got the idea for the cats from and I am a living guinea pig. It would explain lots…

Another Brick In The Wall

We had more illness in Aitchworld Towers this week. In fact we had a five-baby-grow-day with Arthur, each change being required due to a different bodily fluid soiling the garment he was wearing – we had sick, snot, poo, wee and water soiling, the last one being when we thought he was over the worst of it and was happily sitting in his high chair eating some food. In a vain effort to get some fluids back into him we let him have free reign with his sippy cup. Obviously we didn’t supervise quite as closely as we should have done because he managed to tip pretty much the entire contents of it out of the cup and onto the baby-grow that we had changed him into mere moments before.

Henry, in the meantime, was thought to have escaped this bout of sickness, which was quite a relief. Then he woke us up in the middle of the night and by the smell wafting our way in a manner not dissimilar to the way the fragrance of Bisto was depicted in the adverts of my childhood, it was soon apparent that he had shat himself, and not in a good way. In fact his poo was so explosive that we had to strip him down in the bath to avoid contamination and hose him down. The resultant soilage was of a nature that was liquid and solid all at the same time. One of us drew the short straw of pushing the lumps down the plughole of the bath…

Thankfully, both the boys are well and neither me nor Mrs Aitchworld managed to pick up the stomach bug in a major way from the boys, although there was enough retching one night from me that I did call in to work to book the day off sick, as it was touch and go for a while. Fortunately it was all retch and no vomit – I’m not good at being ill, which is a surprise given that in my formative drinking days I was such a lightweight that I could potentially vomit after just a couple of pints, usually as I was walking along the street between pubs and not necessarily have to even break stride, casually up-chucking over my shoulder. Arthur seems to have inherited this talent from me.

This sickness bug seemed to be quite prolonged, so much so that we were worried about the boys and their weights. We haven’t had them on the scales for a while, so recently while we were in a Tesco in Shropshire, we put Henry on the scales in the Fruit ‘n’ Veg aisle. We needn’t have worried as he exceeded their maximum payload, forcing them into an error mode from which they wouldn’t recover while we were in the store. Unfortunately this buggered up any chance of weighing Arthur and we didn’t think they would put him on the scales at the tills.

We are used to changes of clothes. This has extended to Mrs Aitchworld and I, because as soon as we started some semblance of a weaning schedule, we have had to change our own clothes after a feed, the boys getting more food over us than they do in their mouths.

I have mentioned soft-play areas in the past. This week, in a state of boredom on Sunday afternoon, we went to the local Wacky Warehouse. I was very nearly barred. The problem is with a Wacky Warehouse is that the general public are allowed to use them. This means that the general public’s children will be there, and despite all the notices about how they should be supervised at all times, the gulf between request and reality is somewhat vast.

At some point, Mrs Aitchworld and I were sat in the ball-pit with a child each. There is something about twins that appeals to children of all ages. As we sat there, minding our own business and entertaining Arthur and Henry by burying them in primary coloured plastic spheres, other, unsupervised children would poke their heads through the plastic strips to look at the boys. One child, obviously thinking he was helping out by tidying up but clearly old enough to know he was just being a tool, kept throwing balls through the strips into the ball-pit area, but in a way that meant they were nearly hitting Arthur and Henry. Seeing as they were so small and couldn’t defend their own honour, protection fell to daddy.

The next time the ball-throwing little shit poked his head through the plastic strips, I launched a ball at full force at his stupid, gap-toothed, gurning, freckled face. This, apparently, isn’t the done thing. Fortunately, his reaction was quick enough to dodge the ball and duck back behind the plastic strips. I say fortunately because when I saw him talking to his dad, it turns out that he was the offspring of a heavily tattooed, muscle-bound meat-head, who had absolutely no qualms about completely ignoring any anti-smoking legislation that may be in place as he sat there toking on an e-cig, the big daft cock. I mean, really? Smoking in a children’s play area? Are you really that dumb? Well, yes I suppose so; you are afterall sucking the fumes given off superheated chemicals into your lungs.

I didn’t take any chances over repercussions and reported him to the staff in order to get him kicked out as quickly as possible. Always thinking, me. This was partly to protect my children from the harm caused by second hand e-cig smoke and partly to avoid getting a good kicking for throwing plastic balls at maximum velocity at somebody’s child’s face. I know if anyone did this to Arthur or Henry, no matter how much of a complete shit they had been, I would be on the warpath. Double standards, anyone?

The other activity we have endured, sorry, enjoyed is organised messy play. It is a great way to while away a couple of hours of a Saturday afternoon. I had heard of this, but hadn’t really appreciated what it involved. Mrs Aitchworld booked the boys onto this and I went along to an old ramshackle village hall in the middle of nowhere. Laid out in the main hall were a selection of hexagonal plastic trays, each about a metre and a half in diameter and maybe five centimetres deep, which would contain the mess that the babies and toddlers would play in.
The first one was filled with neon pink rice and various implements to shovel it around. The second was filled with spaghetti, of varying vibrant fluorescent hues and large plastic bowls to pour it into and out of. Another simply had a box of wafer cones and a large tub of ice cream with a couple of scoops with which the children could attempt to be ice-cream sellers. A fourth tray contained angel delight and a few fairy wands to push through the goo. There was also one that contained the breakfast cereal, Golden Nuggets. I think the theme to that one was pirate treasure. Another contained jelly and whipped cream. One that we avoided had bright purple, erm, well, we don’t know what it was, but we were assured it was safe.

The last one we put the boys in though was essentially a sand pit. It had a load of damp sand in it and some mini buckets, spades and rakes for building sand castles. We should have avoided this one too, partly for the reason that the boys were somewhat sticky from all the stuff they had already played in and the sand became welded to them, making it a nightmare to wash off. At the end of the messy play session there are a couple of washing up bowls to clean your children in. That’s two between all of the children, of which I reckon were in excess of twenty in number. You will notice that all of these aforementioned hexagons were laden with items that were all food based. Some of them were dyed a very vibrant shade of luminous but working in the chemical side of the food industry, I am secure in the knowledge that the companies that make these dyes and colourings manufacture them to be entirely edible. Testimony to this was the fact that Henry and Arthur had pretty much eaten their way around the whole messy play, which included the dried neon rice. The reason we should have avoided the sand pit was that the boys, Henry in particular thought that this final tray was also food.

You would have thought after the initial handful of sand went in to their mouths, there may have been some sort of adverse reaction to it, such as spitting it out. Indeed Arthur, although not spitting out the sand did at least avoid a repeat performance. At this stage of the messy play session Mrs Aitchworld had gone off to secure the washing up bowls so at least the boys went in first, rather than after twenty odd other children had been washed in them, so I was flying solo looking after the boys, which is where twins become quite a challenge. While I was entertaining Arthur and showing him what to do, Henry was shovelling great gob-fulls of sand down him. I was trying to move his hand away from his mouth, but at the last count I would estimate that he ate five handfuls of sand at the bare minimum.

Now I don’t think the messy play and Henry getting ill are in any way linked, despite the illness being in quick succession to the messy play. However, it is somewhat surprising, given the amount of sand that he crammed into his mouth and then swallowed, that he wasn’t shitting bricks.


Holiday! It Will Be So Good

I’m facing that most middle class of first world problems at the moment – choosing my next company car. I have been rather smug about the fact that, other than childcare, the boys haven’t been the money pit that people seem to suggest that offspring can be. Clothes have been handed down from friends with similarly or slightly older kids and we have boxes lined up of garments stretching into their third year, with promises of more to come. Toys have been lavished upon them from all quarters and they are small, so they don’t eat a lot and the food bills have been negligible.

However, as we discovered last year when we attempted a holiday, we do need a big car. Last time I was choosing a company car we were in the process of trying for a child. One. Singular. Twins weren’t even part of the equation back then, so I picked a car that I thought would be suitable for having one child and from all the available options, a BMW X1 seemed to strike the right balance between size and having enough equipment to keep me happy. And if we had have only had one child, this would have probably been the case.

It is fair to say I haven’t really gelled with this car since taking delivery of it. It isn’t BMWs finest moment, but it isn’t helped by the fact that it isn’t big enough for our needs, which has really been the nail in the coffin of the relationship I have with it. I don’t exactly hate it, but I can’t wait to see the back of it, if I’m honest. We can’t get the double buggy in the boot without removing the parcel shelf and once that is in, there isn’t really room for much else. With the two car seats in place in the rear there is no room for anything at all in that area of the car.

The one advantage it does have is that it is tall, so getting the boys into their seats is a relatively painless process for them, compared to Mrs Aitchworld’s car, an old 5 Series estate, which despite having a cavernous boot, also has a relatively low roofline and I have bumped Henry’s head getting him into the seat of her car on occasion when using that car instead of mine.

So really, for the sake of head injury, we need to get a taller car for Mrs Aitchworld, which will cost money we will probably have to raid the boy’s accounts for. Well, it is for them, after all. And when it comes to a large car for me, well there aren’t all that many of them on a company car list. They tend to be more expensive and have higher emissions than normal cars, which is going to cost me money in the tax I pay for the privilege of having a company car. I’m penalised because I have twins.

Similarly, before Mrs Aitchworld got pregnant, but when I knew we were trying, I had a camper van. It was a thing of beauty – it was a VW and it was lowered, sat on fancy alloys, had two tone paintwork and side bars and other accoutrements. It was by far the coolest vehicle I have ever owned, and I have owned some really cool cars. No, really, I have. However, the interior, was poor when I got it, so I ripped it all out, kept the useful bits, sold the good bits I didn’t need and binned the rest. I then rebuilt it to my own specification. The front had three seats in it, so I figured a seat for me, a seat for Mrs Aitchworld and another for Aitchworld Junior. I didn’t bother putting seatbelts in the back, nor seats that could take them. The seats I installed were for lounging only. So when we realised we were having twins, I had to let it go. I also had an MX5. That had to go, because I would have only been able to fit one child in at once, which wouldn’t have been fair on the other. Or it just wouldn’t have got used.

I did wonder how we managed when I was a child. When I was born, my parents had an Austin 1300. This was followed by an Austin Maxi when I was about four years of age and my sister came along to extend the family and a larger car was needed. Externally, compared to modern cars, the Austin Maxi is relatively small, but back in the days before cars came festooned with side impact bars and hundreds of airbags, it was a big car. And the child safety seats that my sister and I had back in the day weren’t the size of your average armchair, like they are now. Getting us in and out of them wasn’t as painstaking as it is these days with modern seats and I would like to think my head escaped being knocked too badly (although some may think that is debateable).

Of course, that assumes we were put in car seats at all – I have already documented that I was put in a carry-cot in the back of the car with a seatbelt holding me in place when I came home from hospital and I believe I was driven all round Scotland in this manner on my first holiday just a few months later on my first family holiday. My dad was ahead of his time in that respect though, as he actually fitted rear seatbelts into his car at a time when they weren’t factory installed as standard and weren’t a legal requirement. Most people didn’t bother and the carry cot would have just sat on the rear bench seat possibly wedged into place, but more often not. Different times.

All of these memories (and many more) were brought home to me this week when we booked the holiday I talked about last time I posted. After much prevaricating, we booked a ferry over to France and intend to spend ten days over in Brittany.

Every few years, as a child, my parents would drag us over to France. However, my sister and I weren’t strapped into big armchairs that were, in turn, strapped to the rear seat of the car. In an Austin Maxi, the rear seat folded down forwards or backwards. This was quite innovative in its day and has never been repeated in any other car, to my knowledge. Folded forwards, it provided a large load area for furniture that needed moving, or junk that needed transporting to the municipal dump. Folded the other way, they formed a handy bed for children to sleep on.

And so it was that when we went on holiday to France as children, the rear seat was folded backwards into the boot of the car, where my sister and I were supposed to sleep all the way down to Portsmouth. All of the luggage went on top of the car on a roof-rack, loosely covered with a tarpaulin tied with bungee cords, but not tied tight enough to prevent it from leaking severely enough to ensure all the clothes in the suitcases were soaking wet when we arrived at our destination, should we travel through rain. This was the 1970s though, so it never rained in the summers, which, incidentally, were always hot and they lasted for months.

Although the travel arrangements will be different, or at least the safety systems will be, this is somewhat of a pilgrimage for both me and Mrs Aitchworld. Both of us have been dragged to this area of France as children, although at separate times, as there is a slight age difference between us. I haven’t discussed the safety arrangements of her childhood trips, but I assume they were equally as of their time as mine were. The reason we have picked France is because her parents have booked a large cottage over there that has room for us to stay and they aren’t averse to us taking advantage of the space, which means it should be a cheap holiday. Should be…

Back to the cost of having twins, I have no idea why I assumed any different, but the boys will require passports for us to go to France. I didn’t even consider this, so it’s a good job Mrs Aitchworld was on the ball and picked up the forms. Of course, passports cost money and we have double the expense. And, nothing to do with having twins, it turns out my passport only has a few minutes validity left on it, so I will have to pay for a new one.

As the ferry crossing is a night one, we have booked a cabin, but to get two cots into a cabin requires booking the largest sized and most expensive type on the boat. In fact it is so complicated that you can’t even book the option of having more than one cot online – you have to ring through to the ferry company to do this, and even then some of the staff don’t even know it is possible to book this.

And I think I have decided on what new car I am having. It will be tall and long, and although we won’t be folding the seats back into the boot to form a bed and the boot-space will be available for luggage, we will still need a roof-box on top to cart all the crap we have to take with us, which means we have to pay for a long, tall car. Or a van, in other works. But not the cool camper van I once had.

The low-cost ten days away all of a sudden doesn’t look as cheap as it did when we initially embarked on Project Holiday. As a nod to the ‘70s though, I have decided that I will be ordering the new car in a rather fetching shade of brown.

I Am a Camera. Camera, Camera…

Most of the time these days I keep a notebook to hand and every time I think of something I may want to write about in greater detail I jot down a little reminder. This habit stems back a few years to when I used to think I had my most genius ideas in the middle of the night, so kept a pen and paper by the bed to record them. I was somewhat abruptly disabused of this notion one morning when I read the notes I had made during the night when disturbed from slumber. The first one read “Property development idea: buy fire station and convert into house. The town doesn’t have a serial arsonist living here so can do without fire station”. At some point during the night I must have woken up after pondering it in my sleep a little more because the next note read “Scrap the fire station idea – couldn’t climb up a pole after a night in the Rose & Crown”.

Obviously I was thinking along the right lines though, for some years later somebody bought the Rose & Crown, knocked it down and built houses in its place. I don’t live in one of them though and I can’t get a pint at the fire station, although I am sure they will have a pool table there – we still have no serial arsonist living here so they must do something to while away the time.

Despite having a near photographic memory when I was younger, the ravages of age and an unspecified quantity of alcohol over a number of years has left it with “QUALITY CONTROL” stickers plastered all over it like the pictures I used to send off to Truprint did. So I’m back to my note-making habits.

Most of them I write about within a few days and I scribble them out as I expand upon them here, but some get left hanging because they don’t fit in with whatever I am rambling about at any particular moment, to be used at a later date. Other notes just baffle me as to why I ever wrote them in the first place. I am looking at one now, which simply reads “Balls – Hungry Hippos”. I haven’t a clue. Flicking back a couple of pages further still, I have one that says “Looked at me like I’d shat in her Cocopops”. I don’t know who the “her” was to whom I refer, or why she was giving me such a look, but it was obviously important enough to scribble down, so maybe one day it will come to me. Or one night – things tend to come back to me in the small hours of the night, so if I keep my notebook to hand the mystery might get solved if I connect the two events.

Of course, Facebook can help with its “Memories” and “On This Day…” features. I often look through my history using these functions but rarely share them as it is a way of boring all of your friends all over again with the same baby pictures that you took a year ago that they weren’t all that impressed with first time around. The old, pre-parent-me used to be of the opinion that all new born babies were actually pretty ugly. And then our two were born and of course ours were the cutest, most beautiful babies ever to have graced this earth. Facebook’s handy look back element allows me to see that I may have got a little ahead of myself and that even Henry and Arthur, as new-borns, on reflection might have been slightly awkward looking and not quite as cute as I remember them. They were still pretty damn fine looking though, even though I do say it myself. And of course, like me, they get better looking with every passing day.

One entry in my journal that I do remember what it was all about was one that simply reads “International flights”. I went into great detail last year about our summer holiday. It was challenging to say the least. It was also in the Lake District in August, so it was more holiday than summer. Even our last foreign holiday was in Iceland rather than somewhere hot. So we are overdue for some summer sun. Well overdue actually, because the last time, no, the last two times we went on holiday to somewhere supposedly hot, it rained. The first time was Ibiza and despite them not having rain for months prior to our arrival, it started raining within half an hour of picking up a hire car. The second time was the Algarve, and again, no sooner had we picked up a hire car then it started raining. Not to be perturbed though, we want to go somewhere hot again.

Mrs Aitchworld’s sister and her husband live in America, have three children between the ages of 6 months and five years old and they think nothing of jumping on a plane to come over to the UK. I can’t think of anything more daunting, but it is possibly the only way of getting somewhere hot, but how we are supposed to get everything we need over to where we need it, I have no idea. The other option is somewhere like France and taking a ferry over there. The only difference between that and a holiday in the UK, other than the weather, is that a route will have to be carefully planned and it will probably mean many stops along the way to keep the boys happy and content, and setting off a week before we need to actually get to our destination, but it is an option and one we are seriously considering. And given that we would take one of our own cars, it would mean that hopefully the curse of the hire car won’t reign (or rain) over us this time.

Back to the notes, there are various entries about teeth in the book. This may sound stupid, but it was only after both boys had cut about four teeth each that it suddenly occurred to me that we should, perhaps, be cleaning them somehow. It struck me that this might be quite difficult to do. And I was right – not since we had to put one of the cats into a miniature T Shirt (for medical reasons – long story) have we had this much of a struggle to achieve something that should be really quite simple. I have heard that crocodiles, once they snap their mouths shut, can be incredibly difficult to coax them into opening them again, and brute force just isn’t enough to cut the mustard. Well, both Arthur and Henry must be genetically related to crocodiles in this respect because no amount of coercion, gentle persuasion or bribery will open their mouths in the presence of a toothbrush if they take it upon themselves to object to a quick toothbrushing.

One note I have made simply reads “Pearl & Dean”. In the early hours of the morning I was reminded of how this particular entry came about. Henry is in the habit, when the sun rises but before we do, of waking up and lying in his cot chattering away happily to himself. Obviously he is too young to form coherent words of any meaning, so instead just makes repetitive noises. It is impossible to write these down, but despite this my attempt at doing so is “Babababababababababa Ba Ba Babababababa Ba Ba…” The only way I can describe it is a tuneless soliloquy of the tune that those cinema advertising giants, Pearl & Dean, utilised in days gone by.

That pretty much brings me up to date and all entries in the notebook ticked off. Except one last one, which I was about to leave and write about at a later date, but events tonight brought it to the fore. I work away quite a bit and when I do I miss the boys. Mrs Aitchworld has tried on numerous occasions to utilise the Facetime function on our devices, but the boys just don’t get it. They just try to grab the phone or the iPad and stuff it in their mouths, not giving a shiny shit that daddy is on the other end of it. Until tonight. Tonight they got it. Tonight Arthur looked at me on the screen of Mrs Aitchworld’s phone and grinned the grin of a cat from Cheshire. Somewhat appropriate, given that’s where we live. At first I thought it was just a fluke, but started to play a game of peekaboo, angling my phone away from me so that I was out of shot, then angling it back again and proclaiming “boo”. This elicited giggles from Arthur. Then the phone was handed to Henry, who also grinned at me and then laughed like a drain when I disappeared and then re-appeared on the screen.

Sometimes, life on the road is good. After a run of nights of disturbed sleep through illness or teething, the odd night on my own in a hotel where I get a night of unbroken sleep, it is great. Other times, like tonight, it sucks.