Saturday, 30 March 2013


In my day and age is a phrase that seems to crop up a little too often in a life still not over, but the reality check is that I say it and Easter-time is no different.

Easter meant an easter egg in a mug and a stomach-ache from eating a tad too fast; and perhaps a few larger-size creme eggs, or perhaps my hands were smaller back then. Now in this modern day and age, I am apparently called upon to offer Easter presents, let alone Easter eggs. Now as far as I recall on Jesus birth you gave presents on Jesus death and resurrection you got an egg, and be thankful about it

So now that I am of a certain age, I am called upon to be inventive in my present giving. As I remember the days of metal coat-hangers, glitter and sticky-back plastic that could make ordinary household items into a frightening pseudo-present that was gratefully received as homemade, as apple pie, or not as the case  amy be and was invariably found to be, or if truth be told, found in a rubbish bin some days or months later, but hey its the thought that counts.

So in true "Blue Peter"  fashion, I have perfected a three stage imaginative gift bearing process, which I recently explained to a family member, imagine...think of an egg... a big chocolate egg in  shiney wrapping, now  step two think ... think of the wrapping alone around a hollow shell. Step three , now don't even imagine the wrapping.

I believe my popularity has waned.

For those of a younger dispostition, Blue Peter was an educational children's programme that besides talking about historical characters, providing gardening tips, age-group related painting competitions, also fashioned things from household items for the kids to repeat at home. Retro-austerity if you wish.

Saturday, 9 March 2013

Man on a Doomed Mission

I am a man on a mission.

There is a favourite T-shirt missing. It is black, it is classic. I look good in it and that is not the case with many a T-shirt.

There are two usual suspect to be harangued. Its a dirty job haranguing, but when there is haranguing to be done by the Laws of the Daddydom, I will do it.

Son refers me to daughter.

Dauughter refers to son.

Dad finds evidence, by a search of assorted laundry items, otherwise what was once called the floor of a toddler bedroom, I find a T-shirt, my T-shirt, my  favourite T-shirt, it is  somewhat trampled  by teenage daughter feet. I am not happy.


A stirrong defence is mounted by the daughter with an air of being a victim of unwanted and unnecessary accusations, that it was delivered by a Mother. How was she to know a non-descript black T-shirt was mine. Eh Voila.

Then she adds with a confident air of admission  and a smile that  a thought may have passed between brain cells, that it may have been her fault after all.

'Sorry I should have checked the XXXL label and I would have known it was yours.'

There was no need for that extra X.