Raining, cats and dogs

Following our aquatic success on Saturday we planned to go to Ocean World Manly on Monday – an appropriate pursuit for a Bank Holiday, and a great way to further enhance our fishy knowledge. BUT the weather remained true for such red letter days– it poured. Deffo not a good day to take a ferry over to Manly. Saturday’s washing is still hanging, sopping outside. No point bringing it in now, I reckon. Do it good to get some natural outdoor space. Might give it a more acceptable odour too. I sigh, ahh, if only we were loaded, some nanny/cook/peasant would be doing this stuff so I could concentrate on other more important matters like where do I buy a kayak. Shame we’re not minted.

Re-grouping the troops around breakfast, I announce it to them, considering how they might feel about being let down. All due to the weather really, but from their perspective, it’s all daddy’s fault no doubt. I decide to broadcast the news in as gentle a manner as possible.

“We’re not going to Ocean World Manly today, kids.”

Expectant, shiny faces crash to upturned mouths, exposing half chewed weetabix and low fat milk, accompanied by wailing and general gnashing of teeth.

“Aww….but why?”

“It’s too wet.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“It was too wet for your football but you still went.”

I look at William, almost admiringly. This is indeed a very good point. Maybe he was listening at Law School, after all.

But not good enough.

“Yes but it wasn’t that wet, was it? In fact it was practically dry. After all, the ref allowed the game to go ahead.”

“So?”

“So it’s a lot wetter today. So we’re not going.”

“Awww.”

“We’ll go another time”, soothes Katy. “Doesn’t matter. It is very wet outside. Daddy is right.”

Feeling a tad guilty, I decide we should hit the cinema instead.  A 3D film is on about cats and dogs…hmm be good for them to learn something about domestic pets, I muse. Miaow-miaows might benefit from some direction in life.

“Can we take Charlie?”

“No, don’t be silly, he’s a cat! Can’t take cats to the cinema.”

“But it’s about cats. He’d like it.”

“Yesh. Charlie likesh catsh.”

“No. No way is the cat coming. Beside, cats don’t like popcorn.”

“Yes. Daddy is right. Charlie would be scared of the dogs.” Good job Katy is around.

“Will there be dogsh in the shinema?”

I give up.

So, off we go. It feels slightly strange drinking gallons of coke and tubs of popcorn at 10:30am but we soon all get into it and feel ill in no time at all. The 3D specs are a great hit and add a certain air of intelligence to the troops, ahem.

 

The film is a cracker, all sorts of clever cats and dogs that can do amazing things like drive cars, answer the phone and shoot each other. One of them could even parachute itself onto a skyscraper. My mind wanders to miaow-miaows, that blooming useless beast. If it got it’s act together it could do some of this stuff. I imagine a super debonair miaow-miaows dressed up as James Bond or Pussy Galore, zooming about in a convertible, raking in the dosh for the family.

That’s it! I decide, Miaow –miaows is going to be a Hollywood actor! We’re going to be rich!!!!

Pets who actually do something for a living

Returning home at break-neck speed, we get ready for action...

“Right, miaow-miaows,” Miaow-miaows does Turramurra”, act 1, scene 1!”

“Miaow.” says, miaow-miaows. He doesn’t move a whisker.

“I repeat- act one, scene one, miaow-miaows, take 75. Go!!”

“Miaow.” Still no action.

“I don’t think miaow-miaows understands, daddy.”

“Yes he does, Katy. He’s just being awkward. All actors are like that. Massive egos. All he has to do is jump off the sofa, run into the garden, set fire to the bins, put on some shades and drive off in mummy’s car.

Let’s try again.”

“Go miaows-miaows!”

Nothing happens.

“I don’t think he likes it, daddy.”

“He does. He loves it. All the attention. Give him some more tuna in brine to entice him.”

“But he’s had four tins already.”

“Hmm. More drink.”

“He doesn't like Pimms and Lemonade.”

“Miaows-miaows pay attention! Do something! or you’re out! One last chance!”

Katy pleads with the beast, “just do what the nice daddy, I mean director, says. You’re such a clever pussy and you look lovely with your hair permed and mummys lipstick. Yes you do.”

“Take 76. Go!!!!”

Nothing!

“Right, miaow-miaows you’ve had 77 warnings. You’ve done absolutely nothing. You’re fired!!!!”

Knew we should have got a dog.

Miaow-miaows trying to strike a pose during “Miaow-miaows and the mystery of the missing sandwich”

Over a silent lunch, with spaghetti made from Dora’s sauce from yesterdays life-saving lasagne, Katy pipes up, “never mind, daddy. Miaow-miaows isn’t a very good actor." It’s not your fault.”

“Humph.”

“He’sh rubbish” says Tom.

“Yep, you’re rubbish, miaow-miaows” agrees William. “ We should’ve got a dog, shouldn’t we dad?”
“Humph.”

The kids go out to play whilst I ponder life and the meaning of outdoor washing lines.
It’s not too long before I hear screams.

“Minesh fashter than yoursh!”

“No it’s not. Mine is the fastest. And, I’ve got more than you.”

“Guys just be quiet. Mine are so cute.”

There, before me on the garden path, are the the three kids, utterly engrossed by an army of snails. And I mean an army. There’s hundreds of them. Slimier than the Italians during World War II, they are retreating, running away. But hold on, there’s more to it than that. There are snails smiling, snails doing strange looking droppings, snails slobbering over leaves, snails staring in awe at Katy, snails fearing for their shells, snails about to be devoured by a four year old, snails about to do their first sky dive from 10m. Hmmm. Gifted snails.

Maybe, Australia does have talent after all!

That’s it!!!!! I’ve got it! A film about snails! That’s original . No-one’s done that before… snails. If they can do one about ants, they can deffo do snails! These guys are pumped and better still, you can eat them. That opens the Frenchy market. Could do with a trip to a farmhouse in Normandy.

Hold on kids, I’ll get the video…you round them up…we’re going to be rich!!!! Nanny here we come!!!!

  

Daddy Time

It continued to pee down throughout Saturday night and it’s still very heavy when we rise early doors on Sunday morning.

I hope my footy match is on. Been looking forward to it all week and need a good run around to blow the cobwebs away.

“Your match won’t be on”, states William.

“Yes, it will.”

“No it won’t. It’s raining.”

“Yes, but its not that bad. Just a bit of drizzle.”

The wind-screen wipers are on full blast and I can hardly see a yard in front, as we drive carefully onwards. My decision to deliberately not look at the wet weather line and ground closures web-site was the right one. We’re going anyway.

The match will deffo be on

“Can we go home, daddy?” pleads Katy.

“Home? I’ve not played yet!”

“Match won’t be on.”

“Itsh raining” says Tom.

“Look guys, the game will be on. It’s not that wet!”

“No, it wont” snorts William.

“Yes it will!!!” I insist.

“Wont.”

“Look I don’t care if it’s on or off. I’m playing anyway!”

“Huh?” says Tom.

“You can’t play on your own”, says William.

“Yes I can and I will.”

“You don’t even have a ball.”

“Yes we do. Tom have you brought the ball?”

“Huh?”

“The ball. You know we always take the ball to football.”

“Nah. I didn’t bring it.”

“Oh, can we go home then?” asks Katy.

“No!”

“But you don’t even have a ball!”

“I don’t care. I don’t need one.”

“Can’t play football without a ball.”

“Well, I’ll buy one then. So there! Out of your inheritance.”

“Whatsh inheritansh?” asks Tom

“Something you guys are not getting. So just shhh and let me concentrate. The match will be on.”

“Won’t” says William.

I decide to let him have the last word rather than crash the car.

We’re playing the divisional champions today so should be a good game, even though it’s a “friendly”. One thing is guaranteed, no way are they winning.

And the match is on. The pitch is great and with the rain pelting down, really suits us Scots in the team, of whom we have three- or four, if you count Burnsy from Walthamstow. We have a comfortable 3-1 win.

Me winning a header whilst knocking over their centre half & then kicking no.4 in the nuts – takes years of practice

 

Burnsy asks kindly after the refs mother whilst Gordon suffers from terrible heartburn

Arrrrgh. That's better. Feel much more relaxed now and ready for the remainder of the day...

And it’s a good one too, as Gordon and Dora invite us all for dinner. Yep, even the kids.

Miaw-miaows isn't invited and rightly so. He’s done absolutely nothing but demand grub and Jenny’s chair at the table all week. She’s going to have trouble re-gaining that when she gets back.

Kids run off to another room to attack Gordy’s teenage children whilst him and I relax over a cheeky beer – watching the rugby league final.

Katy and William take over the rumpus room

Tom farts and the place is cleared. He’s very pleased with his efforts.

I ignore the screams, the bangs and the smashing glass from wherever the kids are as Dora assures me they are fine.

Dinner smells great and even better, I’m not cooking it.

When I say dinner, it was more of a blind date – for me.

Sensing that I was home alone for six months without a lady friend, my super hosts arranged for some hot chick in a bunny suit.

Wow, was she a looker.

Lovely soft brown hair, to die for eyes and even better, hardly said a word.

She nibbled my hand seductively between courses.

I was so gobsmacked I can’t even remember her name.

Seemingly she loved me and wants me round again this Saturday.

Unfortunately, I’ve had to decline as we’re off to see some Mermaids in Manly but no doubt I’ll call again soon.

It’s been a good day.

 

Connor carries William home: well, only the last 8 miles.

Fishy tales

There's no doubt about it, Sydney Aquarium is fantastic. In terms of a day out it's right up there with The Great Wall of China, a trip to Ibrox or an afternoon with Uncle Angus.

There were long queues outside the Aquarium on Saturday morning

The kids are super-hyper as they've wanted to go there for yonks but for one reason or another we just haven't got round to it. I guess not living in Sydney for the last 38 years might have been a factor. I'm fairly sceptical, thinking what’s the big deal about a couple of fish in a tank? Mind you, I was most pleasantly surprised by the near death underwater snorkelling experience in Fiji, so I'm perfectly willing to admit there is a slight possibility I could be wrong.

Saturday eventually comes. Being a weekend, we decide to have a lie-in and don't get up until 6:00am. This turns out to be good practise for the following day's promised “even longer lie-in” when we forget the clocks go forward and get up at 6:00am again.

Make a packed lunch: good job I bought that 20 pack of rolls, I congratulate myself. We're getting through about 8 a day. That block of tasteless cheese has been a first class investment too. Some nice refreshing tap water to wash it all down and we're off! Ah sod it, I'll throw in a packet of ready salted too. Why not push the boat out, it is Saturday after all.

 

Things that bite you and a shark

The miaow-miaows comes in to inspect what's going on.

"Out my way, miaow-miaows, we're busy!"

"Miaow."

"Don’t you miaow at me, miaow-miaows. We're off to the Aquarium, so there!"

"Miaow."

"Yes, that's right, dad," says William "and there's lots of fish there, isn't there, dad?"

"Yes. I would think so."

"And sharksh" says Tom

"Yeah, you wouldn't like it miaow-miaows, so you're not going," enforces William.

"Miaow-miaows would actually like it," explains Katy. " He would like to eat all the fish. Wouldn't you miaow-miaows?"

"Miaow", nods miaow-miaows.

I feel ill.

"Yes but he wouldn't be able to, would he, dad?"

"Hmmm?"

"The fish are in big cages. And the sharks would kill him. Then Katy would be sad, seeing miaow-miaows head bitten off."

"You guys are mean," says Katy

"Mmmmmmmmm, MIAOW-MIAOWSH!" shouts Tom, jumping high at the same time as shouting.

The Tourettes seem to be developing nicely across most of the family members. It's spreading outside as well. I now have a friend (who shall remain nameless, in case he gets sacked and divorced) who periodically says "miaow-miaows".

We have conversations such as…

"Going for a beer tonight?"

"Miaow- miaows"

"Ah. Very funny. Did you see the game last night?"

"Yes, miaow-miaows."

He's in banking, so maybe it’s understandable.

What's happening here? We're going well off track on this blog. That blooming cats fault.

Anyway, I blame the pussy and escort him off the premises. I might need a holiday.

 

Well, one can wish, can’t one? Thx for the card!

I hang out the washing, uncertain to do so up or down, as it’s my first one in Australia. I complete in truly efficient time management style. I notice the veggy patches I cleared last week have now got weeds bigger than the stars of Day of the Triffids . Funny the vegetables never grew that quickly. Decide I'll worry about that later.

 

See? domesticated me, I am.

By 6:05 we're ready to go. Ah, slight mistake. The place doesn't open until 9:00am. We arrive at 8am. There's some foreign student thing sitting on the steps in line ahead of us. Looks like he's been there all night, probably on an exchange from Peru and has never seen a fish before. Doesn't look too smart from the outside, neither does the Aquarium. I knew it, I thought to myself, this place is rubbish! More touristy tackety clap trap. Maybe we should have lunch now, rucksack is blooming heavy.

I ask a man for directions but he just points us to the platypus. Great to see one of them – funny wee things. A bit like Esther Rantzen with her tongue out.

Wow, there's certainly a lot of fish in here! Not only fish, there's killer crustaceans, jelly fish, eels and slippery, slobbery giant fish. Even dugongs (which I keep thinking are called Dungas, after the Brazilian midfielder – there is a resemblance) are there. Best of all are the sting-rays. Those guys are super cool. Smiling in a most sinister manner ready to kill at half a chance. Black fish, blue fish, yellow fish, fish with stripes, hairy fish, baldy fish, clever fish, slow fish, fish with poor personal hygiene, all swimming around in circles like a bunch of paranoid Scousers on the run. The sharks are OK but a bit boring. They don’t attack anything. William tries to smash the glass to see if they want a piece of him. 

 Kids go bananas and shout constantly at me, as do all the other kids with their mums and dads. They in turn look to the heavens and try to lose themselves in the world of fish, wishing Captain Nemo really did have a house 20,000 leagues under the sea.

“Dad, dad, look at that fish!"

“Hmmm?”, staring at 10,000 of them I decide to nod and say “yeah, well done, cool!”

“Dad, dad, did you see the shark’s bottom? It was filthy!”

“How do sharksh wipe their bottomsh, daddy?”

I’m ignoring that one. 

“Daddy, daddy, daddy, look at the jellyfishes!” raves Katy, the sensible one in the quartet. I’d like to have some quiet time with her pondering the aquatic social issues of the day and marine biology in general. Alas, there are more insistent matters to attend to.

“ Can I have a jellyfish?”

“ No, you'll have a roll and like it.”

 This is my fave photo, a plastic inflatable squid on the ceiling.

Failing to cope and feeling a tad envious of the dads that have mums with them I come up with a plan. 

I develop three standard answers which I randomly rotate.

"Cool!”

"Oh, isn’t that a big one!"

"And sorry, I missed that!"

And my personal succour punch that I was really proud of “guys, guys, did you see the massive tartan fish? Keep looking – might be way over there. Don’t worry, I’ll wait here.”

I give up trying to read the fact sheets about the fish, environmental aspects of marine life and why sharks get such bad press these days. It's all Steven King's fault seemingly. I promise myself to go back alone someday when I'm less busy, to learn more, probably when I'm 82, have developed rickets and about to give up football.

Katy in her usual studious fashion has taken a notebook and selection of freshly sharpened pencils. She scribbles notes avidly and illustrates sharks. Periodically she shouts a fact at me…

"Blue tailed sharks grow to 8m and 44.5 cm, approximately!"

"Nursing sharks like temperatures of 22 oC best and are considered a delicacy in many parts of Southern Indonesia.

I take a selection of high quality videos and photos, some of which actually show the aquatic wild life, not just the land versions. Four hours fly past. It's been a great success. No whingeing, no fighting, no complaints, no miserable faces. I think the kids enjoyed it too. 

 

Like ravenous dungas we wolf our lunch then wander on.

The tale should really end there but it doesn't. One of those super Sydney afternoons where you just stumble across something going on. Usually it's a bunch of naked fire-eaters or an acrobatic didgeridoo player. Today it's some Spanish fiesta thing, totally free, at Darling Harbour. We wander over.

Two young ladies do a Sumba on the stage. It's the dancy thing that Jenny's started doing. They implore the crowd to join in, staring squarely at me and my unshrinkable 6ft 4” frame. Not effin likely mate, I think, the rucksack is still very heavy and I’ll look a right nancy. I try to hide behind Katy but it’s no good, the Kids go for it and the lady next to me gets really carried away. I think she really should have been carried away. Of course, I yield to the pressure, drop the ruckie, wiggle my bum about a bit and pary I’m not on day time TV. It's a pretty nice atmosphere, to be fair, and the kids don’t seem too embarrassed by their dad.

Then tradegy strikes.

The Spanish Flamenco dancers come on…very nice they looked too. All red dresses and black hair, even the ladies, feet a stomping, head held high, arms up...oh no...oh no...finger clicking. Loudly.

I lower Tom from my shoulders so he can’t see. It's too late , the damage is done. He’s very concerned that they are better than him. I look to the sky for inspiration.

At first nothing comes apart from random thoughts and questions, “why cant you buy cabbage in Australia?”, “should we move to a bigger house or accept what we’ve got?”, “how would I fit a kayak on to the car?” I worry about my nuts consultation on Thursday.

Then it comes to me…

“They are castanets, son! They are not really clicking their fingers. They’re rubbish.”

“Oh. You rubbish!!!!” he shouts.

William joins in with his new pet phrase, usually reserved for shopping, “It’s a rip-off!” then “It is, isn’t it, dad?”

“Let’s go see the dance troupe from Patagonia singing about the lamas, lack of local amenities and how the people are usually revolting.” I suggest. 

Katy takes notes.

Hope she doesn’t read that out at school.

They truly are awful. It starts raining- heavily, an act of God.

I think of the washing and we head for home.

Black Friday

Ah, good old Friday. A nice quiet day – children at nursery and kiddies clubs. Me at work. Cat doing nothing.

I pay the Chuckle brothers, I mean plumbers, with a wad of cash.

Would you trust these guys with your bathroom?

(Thank goodness I kept my trousers on.)

I’m still recovering from walking into the local bank, asking for three grand in 50 dollar notes, showing no id and walking out with it. Maybe they thought I was holding them up.

“Yes, Officer, he was 6 ft 4” with grey hair, heavy sunken eyes and exhausted looking. Spoke with a strong South African accent. He had an accomplice with him. He kept asking questions and had a nervous twitch.”

“Uh huh. Young or old?”

“About 60, maybe 70. Walked with a limp.”

‘No, not the old git, the accomplice.”

“You could say he was baby-faced.”

“Nervous twitch?”

“Yes. Kept clicking his fingers. Right in my face too. Think he’s a nut case that one.”

Tom is actually a master of disguise, so he’d probably get away with murder – he usually does.

  

Wanted for a large number of crimes – mostly domestic (check out the socks).

“Ish that a hundred dollarsh, daddy?” enquires Tom.

“No. A bit more than that, son.“

“Wow, more than a 100 dollarsh!” he shouts. ”You could buy a lot of lollysh with shat.”

“Yes. And keep quiet about it. I don’t want mugged.”

“Whatsh mugged?”

“It’s a severe beating administered to someone who’s in need of relief from their cash, or other assets such as photographic equipment. It helps if you are a tourist.”

I know he’s not listening. I sigh. Kids ask loads of questions but never listen to the answers. Some of the stuff I tell them is pretty useful too, like the solvent based yellow pigmented inks that adhere to vinyl, the history of Rangers and why the Tigers are better than Pymble, even though we lost 5-1.

“Oh. You’re rich, aren’t you, daddy?”

“No. Certainly not but we’re doing ok.”

I shop at lunch-time. To my surprise I find it doesn't make much difference not having the kids with me. I still can’t think clearly and remember what I need. I go to the default position and buy a 20 pack of white rolls, some apples and a packet of ham. I grumble to myself that Ozzie supermarkets are crap. Well they are, compared with Tesco, Asda and the like. There you could get a proper packet of ham that would last a  month for about fifty pence and get two free chickens with it. Here, you get five slices for 5 dollars and it’s not even processed. It’s the proper healthy stuff, made of real ham – weird. If I’d have wanted proper ham I’d have gone to the butchers. Honestly, can’t even buy rubbish these days.

You can find all sorts of fruit in supermarkets

I make the kids and I pizza for dinner. Came out perfectly, cooked at a random temperature and time, as I cant see the dials on the oven properly, never seems to work right, so my luck is deffo in. Anyway, It’s a hit and gone in about 30 seconds. I wonder if I’m feeding them enough. I offer some rolls. No takers. William asks for more fruit. I allow him ONE apple. I’ve lost count if he’s had five or six already.

I worry about the TV stuff they’re into now, all American teenager sitcoms. They’re not funny at all.

I put my foot down, switch the sitcom off and introduce them to The Blackadder, a proper historical comedy, with proper comedians, written by proper script writers. Five minutes in, I make the mistake of mentioning that Baldrick (Tony Robinson) is from Nailsea, where their Great Nana lives.

House prices plummeted in Nailsea recently

“What, really?!” says William excitedly.

“Yep.”

“Wow, she’s famous!”

“Who’sh Baldprick?” asks Tom

“It’s not Baldprick, Tom, that’s rude. Its Baldrick: B,A, L, D, R, I, C, K. It is, isn’t it dad?”

“Why ish Baldprick rude, daddy?”

“Tom, he’s the smelly peasant one, next to the Blackadder.”

“Does Great Nanna know Baldrick, dad?”

“Hmmm. Yes, probably.”

“Wow!”

“Do they, like, have lunch together?”

“Errrm hmm, maybe. Don’t know.”

“Oh. Yuch, he must be stinking.”

There follows a spate of questions “Why is the Blackadder on a horse? Why is that man carrying a sword? Why did he get his head chopped off? Why is the Blackadder peeing on the tree?”

“Ish great Nanna in thish epishode?”

“Can I have a horse for Christmas? Ish it Chrishmash tomorrow? Why has the king got a beard?”

Percy’s trousers bring it all to a head…”Why does Percy have a cod-piece? Whatsh a codpeash?  Can I have one for Chrishmash?”

“No, don’t be silly, Tom”, says William. “Cod pieces cost a lot of money, don’t they dad?”

I don’t know how to respond to this so choose silence as an answer.

“Daddy can buy ush codpeashes!” shouts an indignant Tom.

“No, he cant!” says William, “They cost too much.”

“Daddy can!!!!” stamps Tom

“He has hunnersh of dollarsh. I shaw him mugging the lady in the bank today.”

Roll on Friday

Thursday was a reasonably quiet day, all things considered. My indoor team, the mighty Irn Blue, play every Thursday night. So I woke up, my mind wrestling for oh, must’ve been a good four seconds, as to whether I should splash out on a baby-sitter in order to play. There were the kids to think of, the sanity and availability of the baby sitter, whether the toilet was still clean enough, the cost and whether it would really matter if I played or not.

As usual, when it come to any footy matters, I decide yes.

          

 Not to be confused with the delicious soft drink, my indoor footy team, Irn Blue

Tom has a morning swimming lesson, which he excels at and is now ready to move to the next level. I can’t help but laugh seeing him standing poolside in his trunks and goggles (which he insisted on wearing since we departed the house), beaming widely, showing off his finger clicking to his fellow students. What a boy.

The kids had a “free” day i.e. no nursery or child clubs. The now tattered itinerary on the fridge formally stated “Ally and kids at home – Ally off work.” Hmmmm, I thought. Don’t have a lot of holidays and there are 3 more days in this category before Jenny returns. I’ll have nothing left if I’m not careful. I remembered the kids enjoyed being in work the other day, seeing Diamond and the labs.

Right, in to work we’ll go, with a break in the nearby park at lunch time.

I construct a packed lunch, of some sort. Wrinkly brown rolls with bits of seed stuff on them, hacked open, a slice of cheese and a rip of ham delicately placed inside. I sniff the products, hmm – interesting perfume. I make 6 and discover they don’t naturally fit in the lunch box, there’s only comfortable room for two. I then discover bread based products are readily re-shapable with a bit of force and encouragement. I admire their new original form, from such humble beginnings too.

I pull out some crisps, and biscuits as well as some fruit – or what’s left of it. William goes through about 5 items a day and will eat green apples till his face adopts the same colour. Tony Blair would be proud. My banana consumption has really dwindled from the two-or-three-a-day days, not sure who to blame for that, maybe the monkeys.

 

Tony Blair and his cabinet (top) and The Monkees (bottom)

“I love your work” enthuses Katy.

“Aww thanks, Sweetie.”

“No, not your work, your work”

“Oh…hmmm.”

“I do too. It’s really great” agrees William, who’s dreaming of free Anzac biscuits.

“Yesh”, shays Tom “I like Diamond.”

“Hmmm. Maybe try and keep away from Diamond, I mean Damon, his name is Damon, a bit today – he’s a very busy man.”

“Will Iain be there?” asks Tom.

“Yesh.” I say.

“It’s not yesh, dad. It’s yes.”

“Grrrr.”

“We like Iain”, they all say.

“Yes. He’s a very nice lad.”

Parking outside my building, I should have seen the early warning signs. I’d not even got out of the car before the three of them had leapt out and gained access, through a fellow employee opening the “security” door to let them in.

“Wwwait!”, I shout. Too late, they are in. Through the glass doors I can see them heading straight for my office.

I look at the door opening colleague with amazement.

He looks at me and says “It lovely day, innit. Lovely kids, man”

“Yes. Thanks. Ha ha ha ha ha ha.” I try to photo-fit his face to a department but fail and decide to wipe him from memory.

William is behind my desk, sitting on my chair and reaching to switch on my computer.

Tom has taken over the white board and already drawn some scribbles – again with permanent markers.

Katy has arranged her corner and has her “school teaching” lessons all planned. She is just about to address the class, when I intervene, tell them who’s boss and evict the young pretender from my chair.

Bored with vandalising the white-board, Tom declares “Shink I’ll shee Ian now”.

“Hmmm.” I say, head down in a bucket of email. Then realising, say “no! no!!!” but too late, he’s gone.

To be fair to Iain, he’s a very mellow, placid kinda guy, with a passion for Falkirk, large unhealthy lunches and wild-life. Maybe the latter explains his tolerance of lesser spotted 4 year old boys that rummage around his desk, spill his coffee and nick his cricket ball.

  

I can see all this through my office window. I decide I can’t see it and get back to writing a proposal that’s simple enough for Americans to understand but complicated enough so that everyone will think ”hmm- don’t know what the guy’s on about, best let him get on with it.”

William asks for biscuits – again.

Katy asks if I’m ready to play schools now - again.

My resource allocation isn’t tying up with the project tasks.

Tom is throwing the cricket ball high in the air in the middle of all the desks. There is a crowd gathering.

I feel my head getting a bit sore. I put it down (yes, my head) and stare at the monitor.

“Can I just have one biscuit, please dad?”

“Knock-knock” says Katy.

The Head of Electronics breaks from a  meeting and passes Tom, looks at him and smiles – “great catch, mate.” I cover my eyes – don’t encourage him!

I put my head down again.

“Just one biscuit….please?”

“Arrrrrrghhhhhhh! That’s it – let’s go to the park!”

“What’s for lunch?” enquires the human race’s answer to Dyson.

“Rolls”

“Hmmm. Again?” continues William.

“Yes. Again.”

It’s good to get some fresh air, my head begins to clear. I cast my mind to tonight's footie. Undefeated in 3 games so far. A win tonight will put us in a good position.

My rolls go down faster than the Belgrano. Katy nibbles, Tom eats half of his, declares he’s full and runs to the swings. William with his eye on the bigger prize, pudding, forces his down and waits.

“Was that good, big boy?”

“Yes,… hmm delicious, thanks, daddy. Never seen rolls that shape before. Did you make them?”.

I selectively reply “Good boy. Would you like some more? Plenty more.”

Then rather too hastily for my liking, he says, “no thanks.”

He happily munches his apple reward. Must remember to go to the shops today, haven't been since yesterday. Get more fruit, oh, and rolls, kids love ‘em..

 

Footy time at last arrives. It’s great driving off in the car on my own-some. Good to see the lads and morale is high.

The opposition only have one decent player – mind you, he is blooming good. I sub myself and he scores. Damn! 1-0 down at the end of the first quarter.

2nd quarter is worse and we go down 3-0. I’m furious with my team, their team and the ref., who red carded one of our lads. We go 5-0 down with 9 minutes to go and it aint looking good.

I watched a bit of the Incredible Hulk last week on TV. How the mild-mannered Scientist goes green, bursts his shirt and throws cars, buildings and naughty people around. He must’ve been an indoor footie player. The heat, the intensity, the non-stop action, the physical and verbal abuse. Arrrrrrrgh I can feel it. My mind thinks of wheat rolls with seedy bits, Diamond, Iain, knock-knock jokes, finger clicking and supermarket shopping.  I come out for the final quarter with a ripped shirt, green skin, eyes a-popping, blood thumping.

Sadly, despite scoring 2 and earning a penalty, it’s not enough. We lose 5-4.

I look forward to Friday.

Trains, pains and imbeciles

Well there’s no denying it folks, Wednesday was a monster day. My first full day with the troops. From stepping in the filthy beasts pee on the back doorstep first thing in the morning, to the cold Hungry Jacks burger and chips on the train home at night, it was eventful to say the least.

As I bent down to inspect my wet foot, the plumber and his tiler arrived, just off the boat from deepest Kazakhstan somewhere.

“Ah, Ally, good morning!”

“Grumpppph,”

“What is smell?”

“Arrrrrgh. Grrrrrrrrr.”

“Anyway, it no matter. I crashed my car. Is why I late.”

“Grrrr.”

“It ok. No worries, just slight scratch on side. You ok?”

“Brilliant thanks.”

As he continued to rabbit on about interior flushing systems, the benefits of flexible but durable silicone fillers and the current state of bathroom walls in the greater Sydney area, my mind wandered to more important things.

“Sorry lads. Gotta go. Your knowledge of interior toilet construction between March 1984 and April 2008 really is impressive but I need to make the sangers.”

My head spun with thoughts of cats pee, morning tea, afternoon tea, pick up times, Diamond, project proposals, bloody Americans, the washing machine and more thoughts of cat pee – what exactly did the pussy not understand about peeing round the house? It seemed to pick up the “no more craps in the bath” lesson pretty quickly. Anyway, I decided it deffo was not going to accompany us into Sydney and the open night at Law School. Hmm. Other things to worry about, forget the cat.

Would the kids endure an open night? What should they wear? What should I wear? What about grub? What if they make a massive noise or start setting fire to something. Had I got all the right forms? What was the name of the course again?

 

The train into Sydney was it’s usual timely smooth and “entertaining” self. Sparsely populated as it drew out of Turramurra station, slowly building up to being rammed 10 minutes later. Tom assumed his normal role as chief entertainer, enthusiasm mounting with every new stop, as he delighted seeing more people rolling up to view his show.

William, on the other hand, was more focussed on pure and hard facts. He knows all the station names, their number of platforms and approximate arrival times of most trains on the Northern Shore Line. He routinely asks everyone else if they know which station is next, delighting when they inevitably get it wrong, even if they’re almost right. In some instances this failing is merely due to a lack of linguistic skills in pronouncing well known stations such as Artarmon and Wollstonecraft.

“It’s not Wooooolstoncraft, Tom. It’s Wollstonecraft. So you are wrong.”

“No, not Atttamorn, Tom. It’s Artarmon. It is, isn’t it, dad?”

“Yes, son.” I say with increasing weariness.

Tom is not at all dampened by this and instead just ramps up his show.

“Look daddy, someone is sitting beside you!” pointing to a middle-aged ( I suppose I should say young) Asian lady who made her biggest mistake of the day, boarding the 4:45 at Chatswood.

“Don’t point”,  reprimands daddy for the four hundredth time in the last decade. He ignores this, in a manner consistent with his siblings,  giggles loudly, and in his true charismatic style, seduces a broad semi-toothless smile and a hello from her.

Oh no. That’s it, he’s in. The classic mistake. That’s the green light for the full show to begin. I consider playing the sweeties trump card now but weighing up the long night ahead I think it’s better to endure what I know is coming and save them for later.

“Hello, my name is Tom. T, O, M. I am four.”

Katy, William and I groan.

“Oh that lovely.” foolishly replies the lady, hook, line and sinker.

Seeing she has taken it well, Tom is satisfied he has touched first base, and happily begins his finger clicking routine.

I have to hand it to the lad, if there is such a thing as a skilful finger clicker, he’s your man. He has talents unique to a very small part of the population.

He lures his audience in with a very proud “Look, I can click my fingers!”. Which he does, synchronously, with both hands stretched shoulder width apart, adopting the classical style, loudly, with his thumb and middle finger. Usually right in the face of the victim. The victim spontaneously mirrors back with their own finger clicking and smiling. They do this to the rhythm of the train. As the other passengers, seated and standing, look round and begin to join in, I put my hand over my eyes and wish Sydney trains had toilets.

The main victim always nods and says “yes, very good” and “ooh”.

It’s not their fault, it’s impossible not to finger click back when an endearing, dribbling four year old who is absolutely madly passionate about finger clicking is two inches away from your face. The pleading bright blue eyes are the clincher.

Katy, William and I groan again.

Tom smiles broadly then goes in for the kill.

“Yesh. That’sh good. But look, look. I can do it like thish!”

The victim stares in astonishment.

                                 

 

Tom has an uncanny ability to finger click not only with his middle finger but his index finger. Not just a sort of shuffly skin over bone half hearted effort. He can do it at 200 mph and at high decibel. Well, you try it. Every time I do it sounds like a mouse with constipation. It truly is an art.

Obligingly, the victim tries this technique too. I look at her, hoping she is the one. The chosen one. The Charlie Willy Wonka was looking for. The golden ticket holder. The only other person in the world that can click like Tom.

She smiles confidently. I hold my breath. This is it. This is it! She’s a professional finger clicker!

Her fingers poised forcefully in the starting position, she pushes hard. Skin on skin, bone on bone. Tom pauses, looking concerned, staring with dribbles, remnants of chocolate mousse (at least I hope it’s chocolate mousse – no idea where he got that from) and crumbs of crisps.

The result…a weak, fairy damp squib of a sound, like a wet fart. He sighs in relief then continues smiling.

Katy, William and I groan.

Up and down the train the other passengers try…and fail.

Tom is exuberant. Yet another success.

Right, “we’re getting off.”

Off he struts finger clicking loudly, like a mini John Travolta, beaming all the way.

I instruct him firmly that there is to be no finger clicking at the law school.

Good old William navigates us through Central station, past the sodden heaps of homeless, each of whom Katy insists on talking to. Amazingly, they all take to her and enquire if she’s enjoying her school holiday.

“Aww, the tramps are so nice, daddy.”

“Errr. Yes.”

“Why are they tramps?”

“Hmmm. A number of reasons. Don’t go so close to them, as many of them have fascinating but contagious skin diseases.”

“But they have no home or shelter and no money. Poor pariahs of society.”

“Well, it’s a very difficult social situation , sweetie pie, mostly due to Maggie Thatcher and the complexity of the human mind. We’d best move on.”

“Yes, move it Katy or we’ll be LATE,” barks William.

Outside the Uni, I issue my final warning to the troops regarding behaviour. I run through the top commandments: No farting, no shouting, no fighting, no singing, no finger clicking, no being rude, no fires, no sticks, no stones, no laughing, no nose picking, no yawning, no asking if we can go home now, no stealing, no pulling down the curtains, no pulling down underwear and most definitely no playing with or displaying dangly bits. All do most solemnly swear to behave.

With a deep breath, I open the door and we pile in.

“Alexander Grant”

“Ah solly. What was sulname?”

Oh no, not another Chinese woman. Sydney is going Asian – not that I’m against that. Love Singapore noodles me. Just that they never get the accent.

“Glant. I mean Grant. G, R, A, N, T”

“Ah, Glant.”

“Yes. Glant.”

“Oh lovely accent. Where you flom?”

“North Turramurra”

“Oh. Nolth Tullamulla”

“Yes.”

“Ah. Thele is a Noth Tullamulla in Sydney.”

“Yes, I know, I live there.”

“Oh no. Ha ha ha ha. I mean whele you flom oliginally.”

“Oh, oliginally? I am oliginally flom Glasgow in Scotland.”

“Oh that lovely. My Uncle he visit the Glasgow he loving the ilon blue dlink made fae gulders.”

“Irn Bru. Ah great. Where are you from?”’

“Palammatta”

“Palammatta?”

“Yes. West of Sydney.”

“Oh ha ha ha. Paramatta. I mean where you from originally.?”

“I oliginally flom Palammatta”

“Oh. ah so.”

I give up.

“I am Scottish. You have lovely Ozzie accent.”

We move to the lecture theatre.

Kids, being the characters that they are, were not intimidated in the slightest entering a dark, busy lecture theatre. I instruct them to head for the back row and the end seats on the door side, just in case of emergency.

Surprising, I thought to myself, No-one is giving us a second look. Even Tom is not able to make eye contact with anyone.

Before I can stop him, Tom has sat down next to an Oriental couple. I smile at them. They stare briefly then look at the stage. Bollocks to you too, I think.

Katy eagerly gets her notebook and pen out, ready to be educated.

William looks bored.

Tom looks like trouble.

 

I assess the situation. I panic. I bring the sweeties out.

“Aww thanks, dad!” shouts William.

“You’re the best daddy in the world!”, gushes Katy.

“Than-shoe daddy” shays Tom.

“Shhhhhhh!!!!!” says daddy.

No-one looks. Amazing.

Head of department comes in and introduces the front row of “eminent” academics. They slowly and painfully rise to their feet, by the time they have almost straightened they are instructed to sit back down.

And so the briefing begins.

Weird being back in a lecture theatre after all these years. Don’t think much of my fellow students – bunch of grey haired old farts, just like me. No more rampant totty to dream over- they all look super, super serious.

“And so the areas of jurisdiction within the departmental function are critically deemed worthy of research as intellectual property amasses in a truly global sense. Of course there are two, at least, or possibly more, answers to that question (what question?) that substantiate the political implications of trade mark law. It is claimed that such an infringement of copyright practices would be best circumvented through a thorough disclosure of prior art…”

I look at the kids. They don’t look at me. Just as well.

Tom’s face is covered in bits of mentos sweeties. Struggling to release the bottom end of the tube, he mightily forces the wrapper off. They fall on the floor. The fold down seat swings up on him.

I start laughing.

I look at William. His eyes are totally glazed over as he stares blankly out to the stage. I laugh again and feel myself begin to sweat a bit. I’ve got a dose of the giggles.

I look to Katy . She has given up taking notes and is drawing pictures of flowers instead. I look back to Tom who now has his knees up at his chin as the chair wins the weight game but he doesn't mind as he still has a gobful of sweeties.

An hour later the introductory lecture is over. Kids say nothing. I say nothing.

We head to the break out rooms - intimate venues where the ratio of staff to perspective student is about 1:1 as there’s only 6 students there. Three of whom are under 11.

Awww shitty plops. Knew this was a bad move.

William heads for the back row.

“No. We’ll need to go nearer the front.”

After 30mins of monologue about how brilliant the uni is – seemingly they even have a cafe, I’m struggling.

“Any questions?”

Hmmm. gulp. I’ve hardly listened to a word. I thought science was boring, and dreary scientists the lowest form of human possible but these legal academics, well, they’re from another planet! Research without actually making something new and useful sounds alien to me. Still, let it wash over me. I know of at least two normal lawyer/legal people even if one of them only scored 2 goals all season.

“Ahem. Hmmm excuse me. I’m from Scotland but live in North Turramurra.”

The kids nod proudly. Thought I’d get the cultural things in early.

The Professors pause and look at me blankly.

Only 90% daunted, I continue.

“What do you consider the ideal personality traits of a patent attorney? I have worked as a Research Scientist for the last 20 years and need some re-assurance that I would be able to transfer into the legal profession, that you have so enthusiastically described this evening.”

Oh no. Can’t believe I said that. In front of the kids as well! Let’s go!!!!

After much harumphing between themselves and pointing at each other, they nominate a spokesman.

“Well, there are five, if not more, possible answers to that question that one could consider within the framework of a leveraged legal position. Social networking according to media irregularities exemplified through web domains and other information technologies make up a considerable portion of cases. Much of this we can discuss in greater detail with you tonight after this session. However…”

I knew I shouldn't have asked that, I’ve had enough. Feeling an emotional surge, I blurt out.

“Ooops sorry, have to go. We all need the toilet! I mean, the youngster needs the toilet, not me. Well I might do but well I don’t, I went before you see. Kids didn't though. None on the train – terrible state of affairs don’t you think? Potential legal case there- Grant bladders vs Railcorp- ha ha erm. Hmm.”

“We don’t need it, daddy.”

“Yes you do, guys.”

“Sorry we need to leave! Thanks. I’ll get my form in tomorrow. Honest tomorrow. Ehm, tonight maybe. Thanks, great. Brilliant. Good fun. Can’t wait to start.”

“What doesh bollocksh mean, daddy?” asked Tom.

Just you stick to finger clicking, son.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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