SkateFraud.

Verbal has just bought a skateboard. She’s already conquered the ex-board to the point where we no longer pre-book a hospital appointment every time she swishes along on the deadly thing. Which has taken a while as that wheeled lunacy is nothing less than an accident that hasn’t quite happened yet.

But apparently it’s rubbish at tricks mainly due to the weight and the inability to plot a course that involves straight lines. So a£10 skateboard from Argos* and some youthful enthusiasm has already turned the kitchen into an impromptu skate park. My first attempt was pretty typical of anything that merges an Alex, something with wheels and anything requiring balance skills. I gave the board some ‘umpty with my right foot only to find I’d suddenly acquired seven league boots without the luxury of a seven league crutch.

The board sped off backwards almost kneecapping the dog, while I – in the manner of comedic potential energy – rocketed forward landing carefully on my face and elbow. This illicited howls of delight from the kids “Dad THAT WAS ACE, DO IT AGAIN” and a whimper from yours truly here. The dog pitched in with his terrifying slobber of life, and I was back on my feet before drowning was added to an escalating list of injuries.

I wasn’t allowed a skateboard as a kid. This may have been, in part, due to the demand being made while lying in a hospital bed with a busted pelvis. Even back in those unenlightened times, the physio couldn’t see any benefits whatsoever of placing a healing mid section of hip atop a small wheeled cart with no brakes. I did sneak a go on my mates, which was my first and last attempt at the alien skills of the boarder. Too fast to get off, too scared to turn it uphill, my brief – yet tremendously exciting – skateboarding history ended in Mr. Mills hedge having easily cleared his low front wall at the point of impact.

So, already my ten year old daughter is better than me. That will not stand. And neither will I at the moment especially having googled “Advanced Skateboarding” only to find myself entirely wrong for the sport. I have no trousers with gussets terminating just above ankle level, no wild thatch of hair, no ability to rotate and flip my ageing body except from vertical to horizontal and no tattoos. Surely though, an experienced Mountain Biker like myself with the hand-eye co-ordination of a special needs stoat should be able to master the simplest tricks.

Like getting on without falling off. I know some of you must have pierced the inner circle of these dark arts. Time to pony up and share your secrets!

* A place I’m coming to think of as “The LIDL REJECT STORE

The Menace Sledge

Before we start, let’s stop for a second so I can get my excuses in early. Firstly – after the flurry of activity some time ago – there have been some problems in the actual build due to exploding drill bits, lost wood and last minute design changes. This is what happens if you put a ten year old in charge. The only possible way things could have got any worse is if I’d be installed in the post of engineering director.

But I was happy in my role of “insane driller” and “frenzied hammerer” – as I’ve said to you before, to a man who only understands the hammer, all the word is a nail Anyway what’s built isn’t finished because I couldn’t find the right powertool to inflict more injury on the mutation that squats before you. Secondly, the lost wood I obliquely referred to earlier may have been accidentally set on fire.

Because the “to be painted” pile was left perilously close to the “to be burned pile“. And as I trudged down to the shed for the sledgehammer*, I couldn’t help noticing some brightly coloured wood being licked by hot flames. I did offer “something from the woodpile, Madam?” to bring the beast back to height, but Verbal has even less patience that me and wanted it finished today.

Which it isn’t. Too cold for rattle can paint, not enough snow to see whether it’ll maim my firstborn in a) ten yards b) five yards or c) no yards at all as it splinters on first impact with the snow. But what’s there – as you can see – has all the skill, craft and care that an artisan such as myself can lavish upon it. For example, how many sledges do you know that have “go faster holes” in the runners plugged by modellers’ clay? Or a cunningly installed 3/4 drill bit that could – at any time – dislodge itself to become an unwanted brake.

She likes it. God only knows why. Maybe it was the lovely job I did with the rifling bit** to countersink the seat screws. I mean it’s clearly dangerous enough already without subjecting Verbal to metal chafing. She thinks it’s a triumph, I’m not so sure but I am reasonably confident what anyone else who sees it may classify it as. Already have my strategy for that “no, no nothing to do with me, it’s something that made in school, bless ’em

Verbal is hoping for snow. I’m hoping for a some queue jumping allowances at Hereford A&E.

* I had some fine and neat work to complete.

** Probably not the proper term, but that’s what it looks like to me

“We’ve lost a carriage!”

LOST? How can you lose something 80 foot long full crammed full of noisy humans? I mean it was only standard class but even so, derailing the entire lot of ’em (or “ballast” as I believe the airline industry terms the poor buggers slammed into the cheap seats) seems to some way beyond a bit careless.

I have been re-introduced to what I believed was the lost art of shunting earlier (for those in London, this has absolutely nothing to do with attempting to remove a hamster from behind a gerbil, cunningly inserted in a bodily orifice) as we downsized the train for reasons lost in the feedback of the PA system. The delay was pretty epic but since I’d already been abandoned for 45 minutes in the pissing rain, at least I was merely irritated rather than partially drowned.

On finally arriving in London, my insertion into the late rush hour tunnel rats was met with a piece of marketing so breathtakingly deceitful, I found myself in grudging admiration at the chutzpah. It alleged the Circle line had “been improved for all passengers” which sounds good until you examine the facts swirling below the spin.

Because all the self congratulatory signage could have been simply replaced by “The circle line is no longer a circle, it’s more of an aspirational arc”. No longer can one travel from Paddington to Farringdon in spherical motion unless you’re desperate to change at Edgeware Road. A station just one stop from mine and clearly of not enough interest for any tube train to actually terminate there in my lifetime.

Slightly pissed off but unsurprised, I schlepped a mile on the lonely road of a windswept platform before being deposited at the Hammersmith and City line complete with funky new electronic information boards. Heading West it told me a train would be along in nine minutes which was somewhat superseded by the physical manistification of said tube turning up 30 seconds later. Not so much luck heading the other way with the cheerful LCD announcing “more information soon“.

Not soon enough, after five more minutes I’ll never get back, I engaged the only reliable form of transport – Shank’s Pony – and strode back past the train I’d left some twenty minutes earlier in a quest to find some transport that might take me to work. This proved to be down about a thousand slippy steps – lift broken for about the past epoch if the fading and careworn sign was any judge – finally transporting me to a destination for which I’d left some five and a half hours before.

On the way home, things went well up to the point where Edgeware road inserted itself unhappily into my travel plans. For a while anyway, certainly enough time for me to miss my train by a good twenty seconds. There is really no other feeling quite like running up a platform as the train ruthlessly steams out of the station. I particularly enjoyed the passengers waving and grinning as they flashed past.

So today I’ve been abandoned, randomly shunted, delayed and sent in every decreasing circles by smug signage and lies to the power of marketing. A Brit like myself can only be pushed so far so – in a moment of vibrating fury – I decided to complain. In writing. The response from various bored looking officials can be summarised thus: “Go bark at the moon, it’ll be about as effective and save on stamps and administration

Instead I’ve decided to conduct my own survey which can be found below:

1. Was your train:
a) on time
b) a few minutes late
c) apologetically wheezing into the station some 45 minutes past the scheduled arrival time

2. If you answered a) or b), how was this delay communicated to you:
a) Frequent updates and apologies on both platform and train
b) Apologies when boarding the train
c) Staff apparently either asleep or laughing behind their hands.

3. Was the weather:
a) Balmy and dry
b) A tad damp
c) Biblical characterised by a man with a beard looking for some cheap wood and a second giraffe.

4. If the train was not on time, was it able to make some up on the journey:
a) Yes, arrived early to London
b) No, but it didn’t get any worse
c) Not even close, over an hour late most of which was spent resting at Worcester Shrub Hill

5. Now on the train, was quiet carriage:
a) Quiet
b) Occasionally interrupted by pointless and desperate pleadings to use the travelling chef
c) In a state of barely contained violence as two brummies debated the finer points of the Villa front 2.

6) Was the quality of the Chef on Board food:
a) Excellent. Like a five star restaurant
b) Adequate, it’s only a little kitchen after all
c) Non existent after the oven apparently exploded while tackling a difficult bacon sandwich.

7) Was the Tube Journey:
a) Seamless, efficient, clean, well signed and quick
b) Slightly less unpleasent that being shot from a canon
c) Entirely useless with only the outside chance that random electrocution might visit IPOD’d passengers to cheer me up.

8) And finally,how would you describe your journey today as:
a) Excellent. Why would anyone choose a different form of transport?
b) Average, better than driving I suppose
c) Unflinchingly sh!t and depressing.

If you answered mainly c), you are clearly travelling First Great Western and London Underground. Our focus groups suggest investing in a time share donkey or training to become a ultra runner. Both of these experiences are likely to be cheaper, quicker and significantly more pleasant than continuing with the delusion that£150 and four hours should be enough to get one man to London for 9am.

If you answered b), then your trip is on one of the UK’s franchises not currently massively in debt, or having an accident.

If you answered all a), you are in Switzerland.

I can’t believe I’m saying this but BRING BACK CHILTERN RAILWAYS. No really, and a fully licensed bar on the 05:52 from Ledbury.

Got a Wii?

You’ll be needing some of these then. Possibly. Before I share the web site with you – which is somewhat coy regarding the exact use of these rather suggestive items – it’s worth first explaining how I intend to use them.

We have a number of in-laws visiting very soon to celebrate the fact that most of their adult life, they’ve been married. Not sure that’s much to celebrate, and certainly at least one of them gives the impression of being more than adequately cheesed off about the whole thing. So to spice it up, I was thinking “Right then, who fancies a game on the WII, there you go Mr. W that’s one’s yours, Yes you can hold it like that if you’re feeling frisky and Mrs. W? Grab a load of that puppy

Then “KIDS, OUT, NOW” and “Okay I’m loading the game now, on your marks, set….”

I think it’ll go well. Although possibly not end well. If I’ve spiked your interest, check them out here, and thanks to Samuri for finding them. The man’s a porn-hound 🙂

Rumination.

It’s quite a collection isn’t it? Of the eight bikes on that wall over half of them are mine. And while that’s a ratio tending to the static over the last few years, two things have recently changed. Firstly, I’ve singularly failed to add to the collection in over a year, and I’ve started to worry I may still have too many. Because at least three have become nothing more than wall art. Maybe I should frame my un-ridden frames.

The problem is somewhat mental but largely fiscal. A terrified peep from behind clasped hands worried out a figure barely short of six more – committed and mostly spent on this Dragons’ Horde of a house. I can only assume we have some fire breathing scaly pet in the cellar because – while there have been some big ticket items – It’s beyond my grasp to understand how we’ve spend so much.

Okay we’ve installed a satisfyingly fuck-off oak clad RSJ in one room, chased out every ground floor lintel and raised it four inches, ripped out the entire shell from the base of the house and re-stacked it with insulation, under floor heating and an oak floor so eye wateringly expensive I barely dare stand on it. And we’ve skipped a heating system based entirely on fire-bricks, and replaced it with a room full of stuff that converts cold to hot through a process of elven magic.

And yes, those elves run amok in 400 metres of garden buried pipes, atop of which a garden has crystallised from a car park and a couple of eneveloped drawings. Labour is a big part of this cost* because I am far too lazy/busy/useless to shovel/paint/nail – although the breathtaking scope creep of the bloke whose spent most of the last four months doing stuff I cannot begin to understand reminds me of being back at work. He came to build a dry stone wall for three days in June and has yet to leave.

Other men have drunk deeply at the bucket of of our disposable income fitting, grinding, plastering, wiring and painting. Which means we should be finished, right? Wrong, wander outside for a breath of fresh air and stand in a place where a porch may be, look through a 30 foot wall of shit windows that all need replacing and revel in half the garden barely retrieved from the triffids. And don’t get me started on upstairs. Mainly, because we haven’t either.

What has this to do with bikes then? Well my normal N+1* rationale suddenly feels profligate. Examine that photo and from the left we have the lovely, carefully restored Kona that’s been ridden twice since Christmas. Next to that is my happily deranged sidekick equipped with the shortest chainstays in the free world. I spent a lot of time throwing that off stuff but lately it’s just hung on the wall. Next up is the Cove and we’ll be back to that. Then Carol’s bike which I’d better not consider selling, tempting as it is.

Moving along, we’ve the fantastic Pace 405 a bike that needs more terrain, more commitment and more rider that I’ve been able to give it. Except possibly once. Then there is the faithful Jake, commuted like a demon, but rarely switched from tarmac to dirt.

Five bikes, and the only one that gets ridden a lot I want to swap for an ST4. Don’t ask for reasons, we’re way beyond that now. So I look, and I ponder and I think all I really need is a single MTB and a road bike. Something that is everything I am not, honed, fast and light and mostly carbon. Sell the rest, to hell with a second hand market which pays nothing for emotional value, go minimalist. Ride what you have, don’t leave it on the wall.

But, but, but one MTB isn’t enough. And if you’re going to have a spare, make it a good one. And that DMR has given me so much for so little, why sell it for buttons? And the Kona MTB is brilliant really, an icon, an anchor on what’s important about riding. But I still need an ST4 and one of these which has somewhat holed my rationalisation plan below the waterline.

I might sell the cross bike although even that feels like a betrayal, but it’ll free up a space on the bike wall for 18lbs of Carbon Ego Boost. And then, if that doesn’t feel too bad maybe the Kona. Or the DMR. Not the Pace though, that’d just be wrong. And even if the ST4 is as brilliant as I remember, I can’t get rid of the Cove.

So N+1 just became N+2. That’s not rationalisation, that’s bloody madness.

* Not the One Eyed Wonder’s Labour who merely find ever more innovative ways to cock stuff up on our behalf.

** Where “N” is the current number of bicycles owned.

I do not love the smell of wet plaster in the morning.

Last night our swanky new heating system suffered the kind of failure that can easily remodel your house, replacing solids with liquids. Assuming the crisis does pass, I will explain how three minutes of my life were exercised in rotating big wheels, flipping switches and winding flange levers. To ask if our heating system is a bit complex is akin to wondering whether Tesco is a tad busy the night before Christmas.

However, until then let me share with you some fine satire on the world of modern life and corporate speak. I’m sure you’ve probably seen it before, but it cheered me up this morning. And I really did need cheering up.

*TESTICULATING.
Waving your arms around and talking bollocks.

*BLAMESTORMING.
Sitting round in a group, discussing why a deadline was missed or a project failed, and who was responsible.

*SEAGULL MANAGER.
A manager, who flies in, makes a lot of noise, craps on everything and everyone and then leaves.

*ASSMOSIS.
The process by which people seem to absorb success and advancement by sucking up to the boss rather than working hard.

*SALMON DAY.
The experience of spending an entire day swimming upstream only to get screwed .

*CUBE FARM.
An office filled with cubicles.

*PRAIRIE DOGGING.
When someone yells or drops something loudly in a cube farm, and people’s heads pop up over the walls to see what’s going on. (This also applies to applause for a promotion because there may be cake.)

*SITCOMs.
Single Income, Two Children, And Oppressive Mortgage. What yuppies turn into when they have children and one of them stops working to stay home with the kids or start a ‘home business’.

*SINBAD.
Single working girls. Single income, no boyfriend and desperate.

*AEROPLANE BLONDE.
One who has bleached/dyed her hair but still has a ‘black box’.

* PERCUSSIVE MAINTENANCE.
The fine art of whacking the crap out of an electronic device to get it to work again.

*ADMINISPHERE.
The rarefied organisational layers beginning just above the rank and file. Decisions that fall from the ‘adminisphere’ are often profoundly inappropriate or irrelevant to the problems they were designed to solve. This is often affiliated with the dreaded ‘administrivia’ – needless paperwork and processes.

* 404.
Someone who’s clueless. From the World Wide Web error message ‘404 not found’ meaning that the requested document could not be located.

*OH – NO SECOND.
That minuscule fraction of time in which you realize that you’ve just made a BIG mistake (e.g. you’ve hit ‘reply all’).

*JOHNNY-NO-STARS.
A young man of substandard intelligence, the typical adolescent who works in a burger restaurant. The ‘no-stars’ comes from the badges displaying stars that staff at fast-food restaurants often wears to show their level of training.

*GOING FOR A McSHIT.
Entering a fast food restaurant with no intention of buying food, you’re just going to the bog. (Loo) If challenged by a pimply staff member, your declaration to them that you’ll buy their food afterwards is known as a McShit with Lies.

*MILLENNIUM DOMES.
The contents of a wonder bra, i.e. extremely impressive when viewed from the outside, but there’s actually naught in there worth seeing.

*GREYHOUND.
A very short skirt only an inch from the hare.

* SALAD DODGER.
An excellent phrase for an overweight person.

* SWAMP-DONKEY
A deeply unattractive person.

* MONKEY BATH.
A bath so hot, that when lowering yourself in, you go: ‘Oo! Oo! Oo! Aa! Aa! Aa!’.

* MYSTERY BUS.
The bus that arrives at the pub on Friday night while you’re in the toilet after your 10th pint, and whisks away all the unattractive people so the pub is suddenly packed with stunners when you come back in.

* BREAKING THE SEAL.
Your first pee in the pub, usually after 2 hours of drinking. After breaking the seal of your bladder, repeat visits to the toilet will be required every 10 or 15 minutes for the rest of the night.

* TART FUEL.
Bottled premixed spirits, regularly consumed by young women.

* PICASSO BUM.
A woman whose knickers are too small for her, so she looks like she’s got 4 buttocks.

Stolen brazenly from Julian who is old mate and recent hedgehogger.

Bridge Works.

Well it doesn’t really. There is a famous* motorway bridge that fords the mighty River Severn and is occasionally open for traffic. When they finished it back in the late 60’s, the mechanical plant was so fucked they just buried in the soft clay. Which makes a fantastic jape if you’re ever asked by the metal detector nerds for a good spot to go electronic lawn-mowing**

Last year they closed it for twenty dark weeks to break the world record for the longest continuous smoke of a dog-eared roll up. Honestly, on re-opening the only difference appeared to be a nine foot length of Armco and a sign informing us of how our council tax had funded a few thousand hours of chain smoking slackery. This year they’re straining the boundaries of sanity by offering up 24 weeks of low speed slinky cones under the auspices of generic “Bridge Works

.No idea what this means. Unless it’s a group noun for thirty orange hatted stationary vehicles acting as a leaning post for shoulder shrugging hi viz jackets. I had much time to muse on the exact purpose of closing this arterial masterpiece today, while some desultory clearing of a large accident took place.

For one hour I sat with the radio merrily informing me I’d be better off leaving at the junction some 100 yards behind me unless my travel plans included staring out of the window and swearing. Since the crack of dawn had cracked me out of my happily duvet’d bed, and my destination still felt many days away, I couldn’t help but gird the grumpy gland and wonder why the fuck this always happens to me

And some others obviously, but it’s not like they’re important. At this time I really wanted to be in one of the many emergency vehicles speeding down the hard should, or the inventor of a teleporting machine, or – and to be honest this was about the limit of my aspiration – back in bed dreaming of excuses why I don’t need to be here.

Anyway sufficient time passed for me to consider a second shave before a slow rubber-necked crawl past the remains of what was clearly a fairly impressive stack with three cars still on their side and all sorts of industrial equipment sawing away at bodywork that was unlikely to buff out.

And then I noticed something fantastic. Not the mirrored queue on the other side created entirely by ghoulish commuters with nothing better to do that stop and stare, or exchanging a respectful, manly nod with a policeman who waved we through. No it was the mere fact that two of the destroyed vehicles were BMW’s. And the other one was an Audi.

That’ll learn you tailgating and testosterone don’t mix won’t it cock-boys eh? One of the drivers of cockmobile-1 was still staggering about jabbering into his mobile phone. I didn’t just smile, I thought “hey two BMW’s AND an Audi – that’s worth an hour of my time

Still gloating will always come back and poke one up the behind, as was perfectly observed when some five miles down the road I noticed a happy sign declaiming “Road Works here for 28 weeks, Delays possible

Possible? Possible? People will die and mothers will give birth in these queues. At this rate I’ll have to ride through the winter and get the train. Imagine how grumpy I’ll be then.

* well famous in Herefordshire, but then that’s a short list including a cow that looks a bit like Jesus.

** I refuse to call them “detectorists” in the same way that “Railway Enthusiasts” are Train Spotters in dirty anoraks and “Aeromodelling Pilots” are sad old geeks who would cherish the kudos of being as cool as a train spotter.

It’s not my fault – part 2

Returning from Afan last weekend, my mind was made up that another bike needed to join the “happy shed” of existing lovelies. I’d even managed to meet my rule of “one in and one out” by selling Random’s little bike. Not sure this is entirely in the spirit of that rule either, since we are about to spend about half a bathroom refurb* on replacing it.

However, having reviewed the house budget, it seems we are in the eye of a debt storm that has all the signs of a Gordon Brown like approach of carrying on spending, even when you don’t have any cash. The difference is, we’re unlikely to have much success tapping up the IMF for a loan.

So I’d consoled myself that really spending over a grand on a new frame was going to go down about as well as a squelchy turd on a new sofa. I was going to press on with what I had, and merely invest in some lust and jealousy when my friend’s new one turned up.

I was lamenting this disastrous situation to Tim H who simply turned the tables by sending me a link to a bike site offering three years interest free credit. Thereby chopping my fiscally rationale off at the kneecaps.

Thanks Tim. I may as well go for a custom colour as well eh 😉

* This is the way you start to think about money when a) you don’t have any and b) you’re in the middle of a never ending project to rebuild your house.

It had to happen :(

I’ve been in denial about it. Displaced the horror of the situation by pretending that probability theory may be looking the other way. Ignored the signs, or should I say grim portents. But really, deep down I knew that eventually this sad – nay tragic – day would fall upon us.

What can this event be I hear you cry? The Hedgehog Ringmaster losing his vocational status of “grudgingly employed“? Worse, far worse. A plague of genetically modified potatoes rising up from their soily graves and falling, locust like, on innocent people and property? I wish it were so, when compared to the uncleanliness of what I am about to share.

A long time reader, and someone I’ve been proud to call a mate for many years has GONE AND BOUGHT A BROMPTON. Yes dear readers, a man who bestrides the MTB world as cycling colossus -having earned his wheeled spurs riding fast and furious* – has traded it all in for the unworldly wrongness of Lucifer’s folder.

I cannot bring myself to name him. In case whatever infection he has clearly been infected spreads through the power of electrons. But let me just say, that only earlier this year he was chastising us all for not finding places where he could rip downhill on his VP-Free.

And now a Brompton. And probably cycling clips, a beard, hemp clothing and an unhealthy interest in calculating mortgage compound interest. It’s all downhill now** my friend, illicit subscription in “Which Folder“, Titanium Hinge Upgrades, Dynamo’s and the sharing of cheery hellos with others who’ve fallen under the spell of that bastard union between a shopping trolley and a blind welder amped up on crack.

It’s a sad, sad day here at the Hedgehog. I feel like holding a wake. Instead I shall be holding a glass later and toasting my dear departed buddy whose gone over to the “other side” 🙁

* and often upside down and lost in the trees.

** unless you’re on Satan’s Scaffold in which case I’d be inclined to carry it on the grounds it’s safer and quicker.

Interrupt Driven

There are many scientific studies postulating the theory that men cannot multi-task. I am here to tell you today they are absolutely right. But you can keep your expensive research and large group studies, because they are not needed to illustrate this essential truth. All that is required is to ask a bloke to perform a simple task, and then continue to interrupt him until he explodes.

All that stood between me and something far more interesting was schlepping a few barrowloads of earth from one end of the garden to the other. I was ignorant of the logic behind such soil redistribution, but happily so – engaged in that manly, physical act of the rude mechanical.

However I had barely turned my spade in anger, before being informed my selection of soil was from the wrong pile. Since our garden currently has the landscaped aspect of a set from “attack of the giant killer voles“, this is an easy mistake to make. So moving onto a second pile of brownish, parched dry, rock hard ground – that looked EXACTLY THE SAME as the one I’d be shooed away from – I applied some pent up energy to the job.

Half way through the first barrow, no.1 daughter sidles up and wonders if progress can be made on the “Menace Sledge“. A quick review of the languished project signals some creative work required before further painting can commence. Verbal is dispatched to the barn to do her worst with a roll of masking tape and a copy of my last appraisal.*

Barely a further spade had been turned before no.2 child demands some bike based action. Grumpily downing tools, I release the ickle pink one – steady – from its’ hooked prison, furnish Random with gloves and helmet and wheel her out into the garden.

Believing now that nothing can divert me from my primary task, I attack the pile with gusto only to be told that in fact it is stones that we need, not soil. So – grumbling darkly – I upend the soil back from whence it came and begin to replace it with rocks strewn into our garden’s moonscape. On presenting these, I find they are the wrong type of stone.

Beginning to sizzle gently, I am not even allowed to correct my mistake because suddenly a sledgehammer, some nails, long bits of wood and an owl** were now gazumped onto the critical path. Now as a bloke, I can deal with multiple tasks, but only in serial form. Whereas this kind of multi-threaded scenario turns me into a cross between a headless chicken and one of the extras from the movie Scanners.

Finally I’m back where I belong on the barrow. For about two seconds before Verbal wants me to approve the paint template – which I hurriedly do -before declaring that she’s been promised a pound if she washes Carol’s car. Fine, just get on with it. Oh you can’t? No, because muggins here is suddenly 2nd Helper assigned to hosepipe duties.

Deep sweary sigh. Drop Spade. Find hosepipe. Find bucket. Fill Bucket. Send child to turn on hosepipe. Stomp around garden looking for spraying attachment. Receive admonishment regarding lack of correct soil/rock/hammer/owl. Begin to rotate on spot in manner of organic drill turned up to 11.

At which point smallest child demands some satisfaction on bike related problem. Deciding this is a job only I can do and so be freed from minutiae of family life, grab spanners and skulk in workshop cursing the non linear world I live in. Fix bike, feel the happy, blokey glow of finishing something before being drawn back outside by sound of swearing.

Verbal is one of only two people in the world who can make Carol swear publicly***. She’s a bright kid, but sometimes has the legendary stubbornness of a mule crossed with a camel. Convinced she cannot actually turn the hose off – having turned it on some ten minutes earlier – a cross garden debate ensues focusing on exactly which way anti clockwise is.

The last couplet went something like this: Wails” I don’t have a watch” Shouts: “Oh for FUCKS SAKE“. I decide to step in before social services to, only to find myself involved in another maelstrom of requests. I very nearly put both kids in the barrow, threw the bike on top, chucked in the hammer, nails and wood, filled the lot up with dead birds and wheel them outside to the cry of “FOR GOD’S SAKE I AM A BLOKE, ARE YOU TRYING TO DRIVE ME MENTAL?”

I remember watching those endless sitcoms where hen-pecked middle aged men would listen wearily to the incessant requests from their spouse, and answer only “Yes Dear“. I used to think this was spineless and stupid. Now I’m seeing it as some kind of coping strategy.

I did eventually – in case you’re even slightly interested – finish the task I’d started some hours before. At which point I locked myself in the barn and muttered my way through some pointless tasks. All of which I lined up behind a large mug of tea and in an order that could be quickly and simply worked through. At no point did I think “tell you what, I’ll put this bolt down and go and refelt the roof“.

I’m coming to the conclusion that men, like life, are simple. It’s the women that make things complicated. My next step is to try and explain this to them, for which I’ll need to understand them first. I’m 42 years old, and I’ve no idea where to start on that one.

* it got off lightly. I had it earmarked for chicken shitting duties.

** I made that up. But I wouldn’t have been surprised if such a request had been followed by “Oh come on, I’ve TOLD you why we need the owl loads of times”

*** Obviously I am the other one.