Tag Archives: life

Literally literal lives

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This cartoon made me laugh my socks off because it brings back so many memories.  All those early pitfalls and unanticipated problems that spiralled from the tiniest bit of communication bijiggery*.

Like when Richy Rich took LB camping for a long weekend with some of the other kids. He was about five. Richy called from the beach on the Friday evening; all eating fish and chips, everyone having a fab time. So, so cool.  First thing in the morning LB got up and said “Home”. He’d camped. Job done. Continue reading →

The grind of music

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LB loves music.  One kind at a time.  He started with Peter and the Wolf as a pup. Moved briefly to Gary Gilmour’s eyes, the Beatles and then to Keane. Keane were a keeper. We had a good three years with a constant Keane backdrop.  It will be many years before I can hear a Keane track without sobbing. Thinking about the opening bars of Walnut Tree brings me out in a cold sweat.

But then it was over for Keane. Dropped overnight and replaced by drum and bass. Constant tinnitus. Relentless, tiny, teeny, tuneless noise. All the time. All.the.fucking.time.

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Taliban telecon

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LB had a friend at school for a few years. Joe H. Joe H was outrageous in the best and worst senses of the word. He was a very funny guy. LB found him hilarious and talked a lot about shooting up in the playground and smoking weed with Joe H.  He left school last year and wanted to give LB his phone number but rules forbade this. Instead I had to write in the school diary to ask Joe’s mum to give me the number.

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The yellow cable

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“How can I help you today, Madam?”
“Our internet isn’t working.”
“Ah, can you tell me if your router is working?”
“Well the power light is on but the internet light is red.”
“Madam, can you tell me what colour the DSL light is?”
“Er, it’s not on.”
“OK madam, could you plug the yellow cable from your router to your computer?”
“Oh, no, it’s a wireless router.. there isn’t a yellow cable.” Continue reading →

The H word.

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Holidays. Shudder. Even the word makes me feel queasy.  Going on holiday was like taking a bunch of pups off to some new park, full of smells, the hint of the odd rabbit and plenty of trees to piss against.

Plus, of course, the real hounds who delivered their own brand of disruption effectively most trips.  (Little aside here to mention the infamous time that Stan decided to have a wee on Petey’s designer sweatshirt on the beach in Pembrokeshire. Sigh).

So a gentle, informative, visual start to this new thread…

1. Find space.

 

That’s it.

 

 

 

 

Teller me on a Sunday

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Sunday morning in Ottawa. The workshop had finished the evening before. I’d recovered from flight outrage and pigeon dawn.  My replacement room had been palatial with stunning views of demonstrations around City Hall.

Now I could check out and wander round Ottawa for the day before getting the bus to the airport for the evening flight home.

Perfect.

Just needed to get some cash as I was down to a few coins and then a day of pure pleasure, peace and relaxation. Continue reading →

An Appointment to Act

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Laughing boy got a letter, out of the blue, towards the end of the last year. It was very official and obviously some government type letter, but it wasn’t clear who it was from. Anyway, it stated that some woman would be visiting him the following Monday morning at 10am to assess his capacity to manage his own finances once he turned 16. Well. What can I say? “What the shitfucktosswank is going on?” sprung to my mind.

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Harry Potter and the Dumbledouble* scandal

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Ok, starting with a hands up that I ain’t read any of the HP books or seen any of the films. I am surrounded by people who have and have (Richy Rich excluded).  Anyway this (for me) very topical post came about because during a big lunchtime discussion about HP yesterday, I mentioned that one of the Hometowny ‘burb characters (see Chicken bone man) was in the first HP film. Rosie had met him ten years ago when he opened their new primary school building.

This caused some considerable disbelief around the table and led to one person, in particular, lets call him Adam, questioning the veracity of the tales I tell more generally. I’ll let a section of the long facebook discussion that followed fill in the next bit of the story;

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Nanny McPhee and the supermarket sweep

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In addition to reversing the car, supermarkets were always a no go area with LB.  He would turn into some character from a horror film with blood-curdling screams that penetrated every aisle.  My strategy, if I couldn’t avoid the trip, was to grab, squash, snap and sweep*.  (Grab (LB), squash (him into the trolley seat), snap (the straps shut) and supermarket sweep).

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Tears (and disabled children)

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One thing that seriously naffs me off, is when people talk about parents of disabled children experiencing bereavement.  I think it’s careless, pat, unreflective and unhelpful.  Some may, of course. Fair enough. But I suspect an awful lot don’t.

I think the everyday rules and sense of order, predictability and certainty disappear when you find out you’ve landed a speshy.  These rules/order revolve around ‘mainstream’ lives, not the lives of families with eel children.  And I think there is a sadness. A deep sadness, that is made up of all sorts of different things. Anyway, this got me thinking about tears and how much I’ve cried since LB was born.

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