The One About Scuba Diving in Lesvos

I have recently read about a 60 year old Australian woman who has survived a shark attack whilst snorkelling off the apparently popular Whitsunday Islands in Queensland.

As I read I couldn't help but be consumed by admiration for this absolutely mad woman who fought the shark off by punching it on the nose and kicking it in the neck. She suffered bites to her thigh and buttocks, lost several litres of blood and will need to undergo at least 5 more operations to repair the damage. The woman is reported to have said "I wasn't going to let that shark get the better of me."

I wondered if that was a common Australian attitude because I know, that in the very unlikely event of my swimming off the coast of Australia (I have seen the film JAWS, people)and having the misfortune of glimpsing a sharks fin on the horizon I would indeed be screaming "AAARRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH I'M GOING TO DIE!!!!!!" The shark wouldn't have to be anywhere near me to get that reaction.

But our Aussie heroin, instead of booking herself in for therapy, stated "I'm going to get a new remodelled bottom, so that's a positive"!!

Incredible and a lesson in the power of positive thought.

You may have guessed from the start of this post that I am not the bravest of coastal swimmers. I kid myself that if the water is clear I don't mind swimming or snorkelling in it and that it is just the muddy and murky waters which disturb me; I don't like the idea of not being able to see what is lurking in my ocean space.
In truth that is just not the case and I am in fact pathetic regardless of visibility levels as a holiday in the lovely Greek island of Lesvos proved.

Picture the scene. Stepping out of the plane onto the scorching tarmac of a Greek runway. Sun hat, glasses, Bermuda shorts and vest top, although we had left Gatwick at 5am in the rain and in temperatures that would have frozen the...well you know the rest. With a small bottle of water in hand and rucksack over our shoulders, my, then wife-to-be, Dave and I climbed into a taxi and were driven a hair-raising 2 hours to our holiday destination. The Greek driver smoked and smelled of sweat, the windows were fully open as there was no air conditioning, the radio crackled the sounds of traditional Greek plinky-plink music and we negotiated at terrifying speed hair pin bends on one side and land-slipped boulders on the other; the perfect start to a holiday in the sun.

Our hotel was basic but perfect for what we wanted- a simple holiday. Simple food, simple local wine, simple days, simple nights- no hassle, no challenges- just simple, relaxing, kick off your shoes, laze about type of holiday.

Dave it seems had other ideas and as she unpacked her goggles, flippers, 2 snorkels, wind-up head torch, piece of purple cord (I don't know why!), beach bat and ball, pop-up tent, nose clip and inflatable crocodile, I realised that the only thing simple about this holiday was going to be my girlfriend!

Now Dave is an excellent swimmer and is more graceful in the water than I could ever hope to be on land and has more adventurous spirit in her little finger than I have in my entire body. But I do try to keep up with her and appear excited at the same time; although I confess to being more than a little apprehensive when she booked us in for a day’s scuba diving for beginners (you will recall my shark-phobic tendencies!).

The day arrived and early morning we headed down to the small fishing port where we clambered aboard a small boat and received a crash course in scuba diving. Instruction was given on how to breathe with breathing apparatus, how to use hand signals, how to clear our ears of the pressure by blowing out through a pinched nose etc etc. Our dive would last 30 minutes and we would be diving no more than 5 metres.

Once I had shoe-horned myself into a wetsuit and had been assured by our instructor that there were no dangerous sea creatures off the coast of Lesvos (well you've got to ask haven't you?), Dave and I slid off the boat and into the sea.

In fairness I didn't realise that the water was shallow when I clung onto to the boat with the top half of my body and clamped my legs underneath it like a giant bulldog clip. It was only when Dave stood up next to me that I realised that the water was only 4 ft deep. I should have got back into the boat at that point really but not wanting to disappoint Dave I waded with her further away from the boat and to a rendezvous point where we were to put our mouth pieces in and kneel on the ocean bed whilst waiting for the rest of the group to join us.

Now kneeling on the ocean bed weighed down with weights and oxygen cylinders should be quite easy to do...Dave could do it. But for some unknown reason I kept floating upwards. Dave would grab my arm and pull me back down again, would indicate the rotating hand movement that I should do to keep me in place but off I would go again floating towards the surface.

After 5 minutes the instructor, concerned that I was too light (that'll be the day!) walked me back to the boat and increased the weight in my dive jacket. That, he assured me, should do the trick and feeling a little more confident I rejoined Dave for our dive.

Now apparently if you want to sink down to the bottom of the ocean all you have to do is dip your head forward and down you will go, unless you happen to be useless at it like yours truly. When I dipped my head, instead of gliding gently down to the sea bed with the others, I ended up vertical with head downwards before tipping over completely and looking like an upturned turtle struggling to right itself. As soon as I turned myself back over so that I was looking down and not gazing at the sky I floated back up to the surface.

In a sort of 2 steps forward, 1 step back way, I made my way slowly down to about 2 metres but was stopped in my tracks by a high pitched whistling noise in my ears clearly due to the water pressure and probably by the blood rushing intermittently to my head.

I stopped swimming and floated to the top again. By this time I was getting so frustrated, that my face mask started to steam up. So there I was some 12 inches below the water’s surface unable to see a thing through my mask and being deafened alternately by a high pitched whistle and the blub, blub, blub, blub, blub of air escaping from my breathing apparatus.

And just as I thought things couldn't get any worse there in the distance was a large jelly fish floating its way towards me.

"AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH, I'M GOING TO DIE!"

Panicked and by now beginning to hyperventilate, I raced the 12 inches to the surface, giving no thought to the bends, and swam as fast as I could back to the boat.

My nightmare only got worse as I tried to lift myself onto the boat but failed to do so as the extra weights packed in my dive jacket now weighed me down. So there I stood in 4 foot of water, waiting to be stung to death by a giant jelly fish; helpless and hopeless.

Sometime later Dave and the group arrived back, full of their diving adventures and oblivious to the trauma I had suffered. Helped on board, I took Dave to one side, crumpled into her arms and sobbed whilst relaying my experience.

"I didn't see a jelly fish, are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. It’s still out there" I said pointing to the beast as he bobbed up and down on the waves.

“What that translucent thing?"

"Yes (getting slightly irritated now). Jelly fish are translucent aren't they?"

"That's not a jelly fish darling. It's a plastic bag!!!!"

Had I have realised that earlier on I probably wouldn't have felt the need to piss in my wetsuit!

So hats off to the 60 year old Aussie. I think she and her remodelled bum deserve a medal.

The One About A Boiled Egg

Sun comes home from school demanding as he always does a snack to keep him going until dinner time.
Sun: "Can I have a soft boiled egg and soldiers Mummy?"

Now, for some unknown reason I find it extremely difficult to boil an egg and retain a soft yolk.

I have tried the Delia method of leaving the egg in hot water but removing it from the heat. I have tried placing it in a pan of cold water first, I have tried putting the egg straight into hot water. I have used an egg timer, I have guesstimated. I have even watched a video by the British Egg Information Service, which states that the water should be 3 cm above the top of the egg! I still work in inches so that really threw me. Then she stirred the egg half way through and I really couldn't see the point of that. Then I read a comment from a viewer that had tried the British Egg Information Services technique and apparently his egg had turned out "as hard as shit" so I didn't bother going any further with that method!

Now, like most parents, I don't like disappointing my son so I have learnt to manage his expectations.

Me: "So you would like a boiled egg, would you?"

Sun: "Yes please Mummy"

Me: "Ok Sun, but instead of a runny yolk how about a nice hard boiled egg?"

Sun: "No I'd like to dip my soldiers in it."

Me (switching the telly on):"Oh look it's Special Agent Oso on. You like that don't you?"

Sun: "Yeah it's my favourite programme." (getting very animated)

Me: "Oh dear. You're going to miss it because you'll be eating your egg in the dining room. I would let you eat it in here but the yolk might drip onto the carpet. Now if you were having a hard boiled egg you could've eaten it in here whilst you were watching TV. Never mind"

Sun (almost shouting):"No, no, no. It's ok Mummy I'll have a hard boiled egg instead."

"Are you sure?" I say, wringing my hands and stifling an evil laugh as I make my way to the kitchen.

I have out-witted a 4 year old and I FEEL GOOD,BABY!!

So on goes the egg- straight into cold water where it wobbles back and forth just 3ish cms below the water line. Up to the boil it comes and I carefully lower the heat so that the water simmers in the pan. I give the egg a little stir- just in case- and wait until a point in time when I am sure that it has been on long enough to be truly rubbery.

I plate up some chunks of cucumber (one of his five a day!),10 grapes (another one of his five a day- god I'm good!), a small polish sausage- kabanos and then I begin to peel the egg.

It's not as firm as I was expecting!

It is decidedly soft in my hand but I have committed myself to peeling it entirely, so the shell must go.

I am beginning to worry now. After duping Sun into accepting a hard boiled egg it seems I have quite accidentally produced a soft yolk. How could this be?

To be on the safe side I put the now naked egg into a ceramic egg cup and gently remove the top.

To my astonishment the egg yolk is semi- soft! The white bit and the outer yolk are hard but a tiny yellow puddle of yolk remains runny right in the centre!

So now, not only can I not deliver a soft boiled egg but I can't even hard boil one!

I feel fairly useless at this point until I have a sudden flash of inspiration.
I have duped him once. I WILL DUPE HIM AGAIN!!!!!! (MwahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahaha, accompanied by evil wringing of hands!)

I take the plate into the living room and place it on an occasional table next to Sun. (NB to self- I wonder what the table is when on occasions it isn't a table?)

Me: "Here you are Sun. Now you know that you couldn't decide if you wanted a soft or hard boiled egg!!!?????"

Sun: "Yes." (He is so hungry he would agree to anything at this point!)

Me: "Well I have made you an egg that is half and half! I have hard boiled it but left a little bit of runny yolk in the middle so you can dip your sausage in it."

Sun: "WOOOOOOOOWWWWWW!!! That's really clever Mummy!"

Me: "I KNOW!!!"


So, I got away with it. This time!
I really hope he never asks for his egg to be poached!!

The One About Sun and the Embarrassing Incident

I love kids or to be precise I love my kid. He is a very bright 4 year old or so I like to think. He is very good at maths, has started to read and has a wide vocabulary.
So it was no surprise to me when, the other evening, he told me that we should "compromise" over what he was going to be fed at tea time.
I proposed a healthy roast chicken and vegetables; he wanted a jam and marmite sandwich, a packet of jelly babies and yoghurt with chocolate balls.
We settled on pasta followed by yoghurt. He also negotiates very well!!

Anyway being very impressed with his command of the English language I was actively seeking an opportunity to show off and when a situation arose with Sun and his cousin arguing over their opposing choice of which DVD to watch, I sprung into action.

Me: "Now Sun, we have spoken about this sort of situation before, haven't we?"

Sun: "Yes Mummy we have."

Me: "So if your cousin wants to watch Ice Age and you want to watch Cars, what should we do?"

Sun just looked blank. He obviously needed a bit of prompting.

Me:" If your cousin wants to watch Ice Age and you want to watch Cars what do we need to do?.....(Sun still looking blank)......we need to...?

Sun: "TELEVISIONS. We need 2 televisions!"

Me:" I thought we might compromise!!!!"

Sun looked at me as if he had never heard the word before!! So much for showing off!!

The trouble with him being bright is that we sometimes forget he is as little as he is. He is going through the rude word stage at the moment. Everyone and everything smells like poo or wee-wee or he is declaring that he can see your willy.

Me: "Sun you can't possibly see my willy because I am a lady and what don't ladies have?"

Sun: "Elbows?" (NB to self: did I say he was bright? Perhaps I'm getting him confused with Dave! Must check with school!)

Now as far as bodies are concerned we are ok with nudity in our family and have never felt the need to cover up around each other. But there have been a couple of incidents just recently when we have questioned whether the time had come to be more discreet.

The first was when Sun gave me a lovely picture that we had spent some considerable time drawing. It was a picture of a person with spiky hair, ears, big eyes and a huge smile. On the body in the area of the chest were 2 large circles. My wife Dave and I gave a knowing look at each other and commended him on the picture.

“It's a picture of you Mummy" he declared and off he trotted.

We had a brief conversation about the location of the circles and concluded that they could only be his representation of my breasts.
So we were greatly relieved when he informed us that they were in fact my nostrils.

What they were doing on my torso is beyond me but I guess mine is not to reason why.

This morning however I caught Sun innocently videoing me naked in the bathroom on his kids digital camera. We had a discussion about privacy and respect and said that videoing people when they were naked wasn't a good idea. He seemed to understand and we agreed to delete the video once I had finished in the bathroom.

I didn't delete it however as I got caught up in my morning chores such as feeding the cat, the chickens and Sun, then washing up, putting dirty clothes in the washing machine etc and as the morning went on I forgot all about the video.

In fact it didn't cross my mind again until I saw Sun showing the neighbour his selection of self produced short movies on his camera. I think my saving grace was that the images were quite blurred and the neighbour had forgotten her spectacles! But I didn't realise that until after I'd had a Tenna Lady moment and then truly did smell of wee-wee!

In the words of my mother....."Kid's! Who'd have them??"

The One About a Home Made Christmas

It's nearly Christmas, in case you had failed to notice. Although you could be forgiven for not realising it if the lack of Christmas cheer in my local Asda is anything to go by. Apart from Slade blasting out and the odd cashier (and I do mean odd cashier) with flashing Christmas tree earrings and a tinsel halo, there seems to be a distinct lack of Christmas buzz.

Not to be deterred we have been doing our best to build the excitement throughout December. And in fact I am going to write this blog whilst listening to Christmas tunes and I may even pour myself a snifter of Christmas sherry to warm my cockles and to really get into the festive mood.

Cheers!!

Sun is 4 now and is getting very excited about Santa's impending arrival and I'm guessing that like most children he has become the Devil incarnate whilst he waits for Christmas Eve. The build up to the actual day seems to have taken years for one so small and quite frankly he is fed-up having to be good just to ensure that he doesn't get relegated to the naughty list.
It doesn't help that we have fireplaces in most rooms in our house so there are few places he can go where he can't be overheard by Santa or one of his elves. Add to that that Mummy has a hot-line in to the North Pole, aka Grandad, and the poor boy has no escape.
In an effort to keep him on the straight and narrow, Sun has received an email as well as a letter from the main man himself plus he has visited him in his less than convincing grotty hole at the local garden centre. I think Dave and I may be in serious danger of inflicting Santa overload on Sun, but it's too late now with only 3 sleeps to go. We can't stop, we are on a non-stop roller-coaster of seasonal hype which will only end at 4am on Christmas morning when Sun, in an absolute frenzy, the making of which is all ours, tears into our room before tearing into his presents. (Note to self- keep back some of the sherry- likely to need it at about 9.30 am Christmas morning to keep myself going!)

But it will be worth it to see his little face when he see's Santa's magic footprints leading to the pile of parcels and sees the thank you letter attached to the chimney breast, just above the empty plate and glass where once F.C's mince pie and sherry lay. (Another note to self- might need more sherry!)

Ah, Christmas seems made for children, doesn't it? Unless you have a Dad like mine, who would ring a bell outside my bedroom door if I wasn't up by 6am on Christmas morning. "He's been, he's been!!" he would shout. "Dad I'm 17 and hungover!" I would reply.

Hang on, I'm having a flash back!!!.....Was anybody else subjected to bread and dripping on Christmas Eve? Were times ever that hard??

Talking of which and fittingly considering the current financial crisis, one of my favourite Christmas's occurred in the 80's at a time when my sister, Emmy-lou, aka, psycho bitch from hell, which seems a bit harsh unless you know her (but said with total affection), was the only member of our family in paid employment; the rest of us had been made redundant. As you can imagine Christmas had to be a slimmed down version that year and so a crisis meeting was called to decide how we could bring good cheer whilst spending little money. Dad and uncle would brew their own beer, all cakes, mince pies, sausage rolls, sweets etc would be home made, and Emmy-Lou and I would make our own crackers and Christmas hats.

So with crepe paper, toilet rolls inner tubes and glue sticks in hand we set to crafting our way through 13 or so Christmas crackers and hats. It was the most fun I had had in a long time and how Sis and I laughed when we typed up all of Dad's corniest jokes to put inside the crackers; jokes we had heard year after year and although they were terrible, we held them with great affection and still do mainly because they make Dad laugh so much!- One liners such as "My wife's an angel- always up in the air harping about something. My wife wanted an animal skin coat for Christmas, so I bought her a donkey jacket. I have a photographic memory that was never developed. I have 3 children-one of each!!" And so they went.

Christmas lunch arrived and 13 of us squeezed around a table made for 8. The crackers and hats looked great at Christmas lunch. The crackers pulled well although we did have to shout "BANG" every time one was pulled because we had forgotten to put the snap in. The hats were very festive and actually looked much better than the flimsy paper crowns that you usually have to wear.

The fun started however, when the jokes were read out. With each new joke Dad laughed louder and louder and with each new joke the rest of the family joined in the punchline until 8 jokes in when Dad, who was by now holding his splitting sides, suddenly stopped laughing and said, "Hey, they're all MY jokes!!"
Needless to say Dad's sudden realisation was funnier than all the jokes put together and the rest of the family burst into laughter. We laughed so much, probably helped along by the home-brew, that the combined body temperatures around the snug table started to rise and one by one the dye from our paper hats started to run down our foreheads and there we sat for the rest of the meal with green and red staining on our faces. Very festive!!

Emmy-Lou said that the colour in the hats ran because they were crepe, but I thought they were alright!! ;0)

Anyway, for now, whatever your current financial situation, I wish you and your families a Very Merry Christmas and a Peaceful New Year.

One more sherry then, just for the road!! Hic!!

The One Where Dave Learns to Fly

I have awoken this morning to frost. Not the journalist but to that lovely white layer of frozen dew that looks so picturesque from the bedroom window but is actually an absolute pain when it comes to defrosting the car for the school run. It signals the start of winter for me and despite the weather warnings I never quite believe it is going to happen until it does and then I realise that I have never replaced the empty bottle of de-icer that I finished back in February and somehow the scraper that has lived in the car boot all summer has now miraculously disappeared, probably stolen by the scraper fairy who has been egged on by his buddies the sock elf and glove goblin.

So gloveless, this morning, I pulled a debit card from my pocket and with freezing finger tips scrapped each window just enough for the police to be satisfied that I had a clear view. Sun as usual was very helpful and drew, with his finger nail, pictures of his family all over the car in a sort of miniature Rolf Harris way.

“Have you guessed what it is yet, Mummy?”

“I think so Sun. But what is that hair doing between Mummy’s legs?”

“It’s NOT hair; it’s your shoe laces!”

Oh well that’s alright then! Although I’m still not 100% happy having to drive to school with a picture of me looking like I have unruly pubic hair. But then I love my son and don’t want to quash his artistic sensitivities, do I?

I have found, since being a parent, that it is helpful to check things out with your child before jumping to a conclusion. I have heard of parents going to great lengths to explain what sex meant to a small child and then once the child was well and truly confused asked “why did you ask, Jamie?” “Cos my friend has gone home for lunch and said he would be back in two secs!” Or the time a parent, with notepad and pencil in hand explained in some detail to her little girl what a penis was, only to find out later that the penis was actually a pianist and that the school concert was going to be cancelled because the poor chap was unwell!!

Check it out Parents. Check it out!!

Anyway, getting back on track, this morning’s frost has bought memories of skiing holidays in France to the front of my mind and today I thought I would share with you one such story.

Many of you will know my wife Dave and will know how very confident she is and how she likes to grab life with both hands. Intrepid or stupid I’m not sure what it is but it makes for fun as we travel this path together.

Our first skiing trip was no different. Whilst I was having palpitations in a skiing lesson, snowploughing at a snail’s pace down a slight incline at the entrance to a car park, Dave was itching to throw herself in gay abandon down the side of the nearest mountain.

I was very apprehensive about this at first but after a few glasses of French plonk at lunchtime and having 2 experienced skiers with us who promised to hold my hand, we took the cable car up to the top of a mountain and slowly worked our way back down.
In most part it was a gentle run with lovely tree lined avenues for us to ski along. It had been a warm day with lovely blue skies and the snow was soft and slow to ski on which suited both of us just fine.
Our experienced skiers were great; they knew the run well and anticipated the route with us novice skiers in mind. It was simple- all we had to do was follow their instruction.
The final piece of the run was a long narrow gentle decline. We parallel skied gently down it but for those more experienced the fun was in aiming their skis straight down and seeing how much speed they could pick up before reaching the hillock close to the bottom which would slow their descent onto an area where 3 runs merged.
Although slowly done, it was thrilling and up we went again to complete the circuit for a second time before heading back to the hotel for a bit of the old après ski.

The following morning, elated with her confident performance on the slopes the previous afternoon, Dave arranged with our experienced skiers, to go back to the same run after breakfast and give it one more go before trying something a little more challenging.

Now funny this, but the days previous soft snow had frozen over night and the slopes were far more slippery than they had been. It had taken a little more effort to get down the run on this morning and I was lagging someway behind Dave. I thought however she would stop at the final descent and wait for me to catch up, but with wind in her hair, rucksack on her back and poles in hand she pushed herself over the edge and she was gone.

I trundled after her and could see ahead of me in the distance, Dave hurtling straight down the hill. No parallel turns, just straight down, speed building as she was going. I could just hear her experienced skier shouting after her as she herself tried to catch up, but Dave was seriously going for it!

I was unaware at the time that Dave had no intention of going THAT fast. She had got herself stuck in some previous skiers deep frozen tracks and couldn’t turn her skis to slow herself down.

With her rucksack flapping in the wind and her knees absorbing shock after shock as she hit icy mound after icy mound, Dave knew the only thing to do was to remain standing and wait until she arrived at the hillock where the sudden ascent would slow her down. But it didn’t. Dave was going so fast that she hit the hillock and like a rocket launched off of the top flying through the air and landing, on her feet, some metres away where she finally came to a stop.

About 10 minutes later I arrived at the hillock and reaching the top could see Dave still crouched holding her knees and shaking like a leaf. Her experienced skier was absolutely no help as she doubled over crying with laughter.

Poor Dave! Skiing has never been the same since. In fact I think it is true to say that she lost her appetite for skiing on that day.

So what is it, intrepid or stupid? You choose.

The One About Dad and the Roadrage Incident

My Dad is a bit of a character and for many years we have laughed both with him and at him. Of course we are allowed to do this because we are his children and that really is a child's prerogative. It makes up for the times when he embarrassed us in front of our friends by dancing like a...well ...Dad!! Or duped us into going to bed early or worse getting up early by claiming it was later than it actually was.

I never really understood what he got from that!! As an adult I would probably say now "Hey Dad, why did you feel the need to do that...you know, the lying about the time thing? Is it something we should talk about? Can we up your medication?"
You know the sort of thing. But of course as a young teenage girl I would just cry and scream "IT'S NOT FAIR...AAARRRGGGGHHHHHH...NOBODY ELSE'S DAD LIES TO THEM ABOUT THE TIME. I CAN'T BELIEVE IT. YOU'RE SOOOO DISRESPECTFUL. I HATE YOU!!!!!!"

So as I am obviously quite scarred from this bizarre behaviour I am purging the emotion by re-counting embarrassing incidents that Dad has been involved in. Call it therapy if you like.

No, really lets face it we all laugh at our parents and I have absolutely no doubt that Sun will do exactly the same to me and my wife Dave in not too many years hence. And if Dad knew how to write a blog I have no doubt he would be beating me to it.

That said let me tell you about Dad and a road rage incident.

My Dad used to travel a fair few miles every day to get to and from work and driving through London in the rush hour is nobody's idea of fun. The last thing anyone needs after a long day at the office, is an idiot sharing the same stretch of road who can't drive for toffee. But this is exactly the situation that my Dad found himself in.

On this particular day, Dad, in an effort to unwind on his journey home, tuned the car radio to some obscure, but I'm sure, very relaxing station and lit his smokers pipe before pulling out from the office.

Not long into what should have been a relatively pleasant commute, my Dad was cut up by what could only be described as a dangerous driver.

Furious that his entire life had been suddenly shot before his eyes, Dad waited for an appropriate point along the journey and then pulled into the nearside lane and alongside the offending driver with every intention of giving him a piece of his mind, with possibly an expletive or 2 thrown in for good measure.

Shooting his head round to the right, with a fierce look on his face, you can imagine Dad’s shock when in realised too late that he still had his pipe in his mouth. The pipe came into sharp contact with the side window and was shoved towards the back of his throat. The mouth piece of the pipe deflected off his uvula and only just missed spearing his left tonsil.

Oblivious to the near disaster, the idiot driver, who I should probably now refer to as the other driver, pulled away from the lights and continued on his journey.

Now you can fully understand why Dad became even more irate and so it’s no surprise to hear that Dad followed the other driver to the next set of lights where again he pulled alongside him with again the intention of pointing out his less than illustrious driving skills.

Keen not to repeat the last humiliating episode, Dad wound down his window, pushed his head out, and with eyes bulging and face glowering he shouted in his meanest voice “Oi”, at which point his pipe fell out of his mouth and onto the road where it then bounced under the car.

It was at this point that Dad decided to let the other drivers’ misdemeanour go and sheepishly opened the car door to retrieve his pipe.

Thankfully the remainder of his journey was less eventful.

I don’t know about mobile phones but pipe smoking whilst driving seems well dangerous.

Love you Dad xxx

The One About Swine Flu

Whether you call it Influenza A, H1N1, hamthrax, porkulosis, piggy pox, porkinsons disease or trotter rot, take it from me swine flu is not funny.

I have had a burning dry fever, extreme night sweats, pounding headache, aching limbs, nausea, vomiting, raging sore throat, chesty cough and to top it all swollen neck glands the size of an un-castrated boars gonads- which if you have never seen them are really huge!! Possibly the real reason behind the name Swine Flu!!

I have felt miserable. Well actually not miserable because for the first 3 days I didn't have the energy or inclination to talk or feel anything other than in an "out of it" sort of way.
Of course, and I am sure you will appreciate, my recollection of those first few days is marred by my raised temperature, but what I can tell you is that I spent night after night in clammy bed clothes and under a damp duvet; I tossed and turned in delirium until finally the fever broke. OK, so there was no delirium but there was plenty of tossing!!

I haven't been able to turn my neck for days and when my cat sat on my stomach, which she is prone to do in the middle of the night, I thought the pressure was going to make my glands pop!!

When I thought it couldn't get any worse, I woke up and found that my nose, lips and mouth had been invaded by the herpes simplex virus. Cold sores have set up camp on my face and look set to be there for a week at least. If you are a sufferer and I mean a sufferer, not like that irritating perfect-faced courier who wears her motorcycle helmet to go swimming (purlease!!) you will know that they can be very painful as well as unsightly. So at the moment, eating, drinking, expressive talking, laughing, shouting, sneering and grimacing are definitely out of the question! And my gums!!!!! Don't get me on my gums!!

Needless to say I have been feeling rather sorry for myself of late.

For those of you who don't know, I share my life and house with my wife Dave and our son, Sun.
Now, I obviously don't want either of them to become infected with my germs but I feel Dave is going a little too far with her deep-cleaning regime. All surfaces that I touch, walk on or sit on are being bleached to death. I have been banished from any "food preparation areas" which in our house is commonly called the kitchen- name it and shame it Dave!! My toothbrush has to be rinsed under boiling water. God forbid that I forget to cough into my sleeve. I have been quarantined in the bedroom and if that is not enough, I have caught her on a number of occasions when she thinks I am sleeping, showering me with an icy cold blast from a spray that allegedly kills 99.9% of all known germs! YOU ARE NOT FUNNY DAVE!!

But things are picking up. There is light at the end of the tunnel and gratefully not at the top of a golden ladder shrouded in mist and looking suspiciously like it belonged to a guy called Jacob - if you get my drift.
7 days down and 5 days worth of Tamiflu later, I am feeling half as bad as I did but still feel knocked for 6. (NB to self- an awful lot of numbers were used in that last sentence- maybe reconsider!)

I am on the mend.

Just a quick observation before I sign off; Dave did phone the National Swine Flu helpline when I first became unwell but the line was bad and all she could hear was crackling!!
You couldn't make it up ;0)