Terrifying Tales and a Long Lost Friend

Urban myth or true story, I don't want a pet snake!

I have to date failed to keep up with modern methods of internet communication and have not been a great user of Facebook, MySpace or the many other networking sites that exist. I don't mind them, I'm sure they are a very good way of keeping in touch with the friend you saw at the weekend, but I simply haven't been that bothered. I sit in awe as I see colleagues with literally hundreds of connections/friends typing feverishly to inform their network of each and every aspect of their lives.

I have an account on Facebook that has laid pretty dormant until about a week ago and a significant number of my friends are linked due to the fact they have moved away to sunnier climates, bred children or are friends from oversees, thus leaving no option than to communicate via a virtual medium due to distance or the sudden realization that their newborn bundle of joy has all but snuffed out their social lives and from now on they will be forced to enjoy other peoples' tales of wild nights out, as it seems babysitters always have to go home just as any party starts to get wild.

Recently however I have been drawn to the dark side and am now totally at ease with uploading photographs, telling the world about what I am doing at 7.43 on a Saturday morning and I can even now determine which Winnie the Pooh character I am (Tigger).

But this has not a great deal to do with what I meant to write about.

A few months ago, through a previously unmentioned networking site, I got back in touch with a friend from my teenage years who I had been out of contact with for a mere, ooh, 25 years... Apart from making me feel really old being able to write that last line, it's been an altogether pleasant and somewhat eye opening experience that led us to meet a couple of months ago and open eyes very wide indeed and dropping a few jaws to levels thought physiologically impossible. It's safe to say that memories do tend to bias things and i-wife, who in the name of propriety was present throughout, spent hours laughing as my ex-girlfriend and I (did I mention that part?) shared stories that to be honest differed to such an extent that I'm not even sure we dated or indeed knew each other at all!

Present at the whole event was ex-girlfriend, now mother of two and professional lady (who'd have thought?), i-wife and i-sister in-law who is an academic/creative type and who's input into the evening sent shivers down my spine.

Sister in-law is currently doing a PhD in something Shakespearean and does some classes for the undergrads. She was recently taking a class in 'scary literature', although I'm sure the class had a far classier and more sophisticated title that befits the literati and academically elite, however I forget what she called it. Scary literature is more of a 'does what it says on the tin' title.

The remit of the class was to look at scary stories throughout the ages and I guess discuss them. One of the attendies however had a tale that he insisted was true. It goes thus:

A young lady I know has a snake that she simply adores. The snake, a Boa Constrictor, has spend the past few years in the company of my friend and has been the main focus of her life. The snake shares the house with her and even curls up at the end of the bed when she goes to sleep.

Just recently she has noticed that the snake has not been eating and was worried about its' health so she took it to the vet. The vet asked a few questions about the snake's habits and as the snake had not really changed any behavioral traits and lacked any signs of ill health, the vet suggested she keep an eye out and if the snake had not started to eat within a few weeks, she should return for a more in-depth examination.

A few days later the young lady awoke to see the snake was lying next to her, however rather than being curled up at the foot of the bed, it was laid out straight as a pole next to her. This she thought a little odd, however put it down to the snake's recent abstinence from food. The next day however, she awoke and the snake had assumed the same position. A call to the vet was now due.

Whilst the examination was in progress, the vet asked whether the snake had been acting strange, or whether all was OK, apart from the lack of appetite. The young lady decided to mention the whole snake pole thing and as she told the vet of the weird wake up position, the vet's face went visibly pale.

"Do you live alone?" was the first question. "Can you get someone to come and stay with you?" followed, sending alarm bells off in my friend's mind.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"You must not stay in the house alone with the snake." the vet announced.

"There's a reason your snake is not eating. There's a reason he was laying next to you like a pole..."

"Your snake is starving itself."

"The reason it's lying next to you is to measure itself against you."

"Your snake is getting ready to EAT YOU!"

Now, shivers aside, I have to say that I was not expecting that. I even didn't believe it possible, however after a little research, I found that a 120lb female human could in some cases be something of a snack for a large snake. There are a million and one websites that show videos of snakes eating creatures larger than my wife - a sight that leaves me feeling a little good, a little bad. At least if a peckish python or an ambitious Boa gets into my house, the wife is sure to get it before me!

So the moral of the story. Never forget your friends as they may one day again bring joy to your life. And. Never go to bed without someone smaller next to you!

Finally I get my leg over!

For some years now i-wife has accused me of being a serial hobbyist, a claim I refute somewhat nervously as she may have a point.

Golf, photography, playing the guitar, rugby, racquetball, basketball, cycling and cooking are arguably a fair representation of recent flirtations with hobbies and leisure activities, and admittedly most of the expenditure on the above listed has been difficult to justify.

However! Oh however... I-wife stand aside... I have finally found my hobby - I am a horse riding nut!

It's been 3 months now, an hour per week and considerable expense to ensure I look the part, but to date I have struggled to get my leg over. Eric has been super patient and has quietly stood still while I kicked his rear end every time I tried to dismount, but today, success, I finally managed to get my leg over his hind quarters, dismount him and effect a landing that would make Nastia Liukin fear for her Olympic dreams in 2012. It's difficult to imagine, even for me, but today I was for a moment in time, on top of my personal equestrian world.

Note: Eric is a horse.

So, why horse riding you may ask? After all, it's not exactly without risk and whilst you are young, you have a greater tendency to 'bounce' when tumbling to the ground at quite a considerable speed, as demonstrated most gracefully by a young rider who only today parted company with her steed, landing with a thump, promptly getting up, dusting herself off and continuing as if nothing had happened. Plasticity is king it seems and the greater the ability to bend, the better chance you have of remaining in tact when one's charge gleefully canters off into the distance without you, save a lonely boot that is wedged into a stirrup.

When it comes to cash investment, horse riding makes even golf seem like a bargain hobby. The helmet, the jodhpurs (not a pretty site, but essential for avoiding chafing), the boots, the chaps, the body protector that led my 3 year old to comment that I looked like a policeman (how a 3 year old would know that I care not to imagine), and I dare not mention the lessons; all pretty quickly make a new Big Bertha seem extreme value for money and buying used golf clubs or pond balls is far more acceptable and hygienic than a previously owned helmet or boots.

I have to say, it's worth every penny though, possibly proved by the fact that last week I landed at Heathrow airport at 07.00 having flown an overnighter from Washington DC, collected my bags, drove 99 miles door to door and still managed to be riding at 10.00.

Well, it's simple (unless you want to get into deep conversations about men that reach a certain age and start riding motor bikes, buying sports cars and shopping at Henry Lloyd in an attempt to prove they still have 'it' - none of which I have done incidentally as Henry Lloyd doesn't seem to do XL sizes), daughter #2 is fanatical about riding ponies and every weekend for many months I have stood watching her enjoying herself, unable to find sufficient plausible reasons not to give it a go. She has been trying to get me to join in for months and I now regret the missed opportunities when I was busy making feable excuses not to join in.

So has it met my with my expectations?

It has certainly cost more that I expected. It has definitely scared the pants off me more than I imagined, particularly today when cantering around the school convinced that Eric's ears were supposed to be below my head and that I should actually not be hanging on for dear life thinking 'STAY TALL, STAY TALL' in an attempt not to test my levels of bounciness on the rubber and sand mix that doubles for a crash mat. Most of all it's given me something that I never expected, something that money cannot buy that means more than my ability to do the perfect rising trot, run my poles or even canter with the horse below me as is apparently the norm. I share something with my 10 year old daughter that nobody can take away. Something that is for us, our special time, a chance to be together without a mobile phone or the need to be somewhere else - that is why I love to ride. That is why I drove 99 miles on 3 hours sleep and climbed on a few hundred pounds of slightly emotionally unstable muscle, not because I love the thrill, because I treasure the time.

It's Fathers' Day tomorrow, a chance for kids to show their respective dads how much they care and love them and this year daughter #2 has arranged for herself and daughters #3 & #4 to take me to a family day at a nearby golf club. They are all as excited as their ages allow at the opportunity to make Daddy happy and proud, and the build up to the event is as important as will be the day. It's a powerful reminder that whilst tomorrow is officially a day for Daddies, what really counts is that we recognize and cherish that the love of our kids is unconditional, pretty much irrevocable and stays strong every day of every year for ever and ever.

The opportunity to ride with my daughter is one I will hold on to and treasure. The chance to read a book with my little ones, or the recent excursion to see As You Like It at the RSC with daughter #1 are all ones for the scrapbook and whilst I don't write a diary or keep a little box of memorabilia, these occassions will stay close to my heart forever.

Happy Fathers' Day to all and a special thank you to my Dad on this day for being such a wonderful man for so many years. I am proud to call him my father and his influence and understanding has helped me be the person I am.

For tomorrow I turn...

...and turn I will!

At about this time last year I was sitting in my chair, confidently awaiting my 40th birthday.  I really wasn't that bothered about the new decade careering my way as I had diligently prepared for the inevitable onslaught.  The ridicule that I would have to endure from the under 40's was merely evidence of their insecurities and would be met with fire and brimstone.  Comments about being over the hill and middle aged would be deflected by my meticulous positive mental conditioning that was my shield.  I could and did survive the day, aided by sympathetically reassuring comments from more senior well wishers who, in some cases, remembered their 40th birthday in black and white.  No.  I was pretty damned cool about the whole thing. 

For the younger set (and to those of you who are under 25, please take the concession seats here and worry about your 30th), well their time would come, and as for the older people, well they knew what was to come and I can only assume that they knew the deal - there's a catch it seems.

You see tomorrow I turn 41 and that one is the one, or the 1!  That one/1, such a small and insignificant number is one of a kind, one heck of a 1!  One day, one year, one person, one birthday!  ONE! 

A few months ago I was comparing notes with a friend of mine who turned the magic four O and he too was pretty relaxed about the whole affair.  Yes there was a party, there was cake and the usual humorous cards, but that's no different to any other birthday is it.  We discussed how he was feeling and agreed that the whole 40 thing was just a myth.  All that mirth and jest was simply bravado, we were and are still the same people.  

Our controlled, randomized study sample of two reported that essentially the passing of a new decade was uneventful and something of an anticlimax.  Our lives continued and we could still relate to the 30 somethings we call friends, as it was only weeks ago that we were still able to wear hoodies and call people dude!

Now hoodies, baggy jeans and oversized K-Swiss trainers (am I still aloud to call them trainers?) only show up on receipts for my kids and within the passing of 12 months I find myself irresistibly drawn to the woolen jackets and comfortable sweaters at the riding shop where one of my darlings takes me to practice her negotiating skills.  She's getting pretty good but there will never be a pony! 

To date I have resisted procuring a new wardrobe, the jackets, the rust colored corduroy trousers, the chequered shirts and the plethora of accessories that go with these delights, but I am starting to be seduced by the dark side, the dark green side.  Oh why does she take me there?  

Cake!  They have a cafe.  She takes me there for cake.  She's better than I thought....!

So to look back at the past 12 months.  I have an amazing wife whom I love dearly and has supported me in many an insane quest.  My wonderful kids teach me new things every hour of every day and a few things at night, like how to SMS at midnight without detection - although I obviously eventually caught on and don't need this skill.  My life is as rich and fulfilling as I could have ever dreamed of.  

I have a small but loyal group of friends who I care for dearly and an equally small but equally loyal group of 'not' friends who I also care for dearly, as they help me appreciate my true friends all the more.  

From diapers to hormones, nappy rash to acne and new, amazing experiences yet to come, what a wonderful way to turn 41!

Now, all I have to do is finish the dishes, tidy up the toys and I can just squeeze in a quick episode of Morse before bed.

Happy?  Happy!  

Are we human? - The Killer question

A moment if you please reader... We are moving to a new place. An amphitheater of philosophical discourse, profound, deep and thought provoking commentary on subjects that have vexed the most learned minds throughout centuries, nay millennia.

Aristotle, Socrates, Jean Paul Sartre and even a few of the really sparky thinkers of old may be scratching their celestial head gear at this one. Rodan's 'The Thinker' may even slip an elbow from his thoughtful knee.

The ability to think, combined with reading and language is an awesome phenomenon. It gives us an opportunity to discuss and debate virtually anything. From the origins of man, right up to (or down to) Big Brother. We, as educated humans, have the ability to make conversation about anything. If we find it tough, then we add a bottle of gin, a few beers, or (depending on the desired outcome) maybe a dozen cans of Red Bull. Once more, a galaxy of intellectual fireworks erupts! Eventually of course the physicists arrive and spend $50 billion on a whizzy machine in an attempt to prove to us great thinkers that everything has a mathematical answer and we all sod off down the pub, or fall asleep in our chairs.

Sir Francis Bacon once said, "Read not to contradict or confute, not to believe or take for granted, not to find talk or discourse, but to weigh and consider." - I've been keeping that one in my bag since I was about 10, so am particularly pleased that years of education have finally started to pay off - thanks M&D.

So to the killer question:

Are we human, or are we dancers?

I'm off to find the Red Bull, I think we may be in for a long night.

Sex or a 100% wool overcoat?

I was talking to i-wife the other day (I call her thus because we seem to communicate more on a virtual basis than face-to-face) and she was setting some rather clear boundaries as to what I can and most definitely cannot say on my most private public space.

Having listed many things that are clearly far from suitable viewing for the eyes of babes, she jokingly said the following: "....and don't mention our M&S sessions....!"

The comment passed me by for a few hours and then during a particularly long and tedious journey to work where my first, second and hopefully third best selling novels are currently cultivating, my over caffeinated brain started to wonder (again). Was this a slip of the tongue, or is there some deeper power at work here?

Now please, let's not start our blog relationship by you getting the wrong impression. I like a bit of S&M, but the kind with peas, where the mashed potato is buttery and a bit chunky, and the sausages have to be well cooked, even a little charred. Apart from that let's keep this strictly CBBC/Nickelodeon Jr.

So here's the question/s:

At what stage in one's life does S&M turn to M&S?

When does Marks & Spencer achieve a higher ranking in the 'things I did this week' chart, to a bit of rumpy pumpy?

Are there telltale signs that one should look out for, or are the increasingly frequent trips to McArthur Glenn on a Sunday morning the beginning of the end? Oh wait! There's an M&S there..

So, who stole the Greek Goddess that used to perch seductively on the sofa and replaced her with someone that is dressed like a guest at the Ice Hotel who decided to pop outside for a breath of fresh air? All I can see is a nose!

I have the answer and I think I may be the first person to work out why as we progress through life, M&S takes an increasing share of our children's inheritance. Let's take the Animal store - too young, BHS - too old, Hugo Boss - too damned expensive (but tempting), Primark - too damned cheap, JJB - I'm too lazy, Edinburgh Woollen Mill - I'm still breathing. So, where to shop?

As I sit at my rather radical MacBook Pro (with trendy red case) and type this, I am finding a strange comfort in the fact that I can buy a pack of five pairs of socks (with suspenders if desired), some really quite nice food and even exchange currency, all under one roof and with the approval of my parents who have shopped at M&S since I was a boy. I remember only too well being dragged into the ladies underwear department and not knowing where to look. Not much changes, except now I'm being dragged by my children and have to pay!

Anyway, I have to run as there's a sale on mens' winter coats on the first floor.

Where did it go? The first attempt...

This isn't as easy as I thought it was going to be...

So where did the weekend go? What happened to lazing in bed on a Saturday morning until it wasn't? Days when you were forced to get up to avoid dehydration or a caffeine headache, rather than being woken up because either you, or one of your offspring desperately needs to go pee..

When did ballet or horse riding have priority over the life enhancing qualities of Scrap-heap Challenge, or, and this is what caused me to start this blog - since when should a man in his prime(ish) have to negotiate being able to sit in his own adopted armchair with a cat?

I consider myself a relatively mild mannered person, however, all this nurture, develop and grow stuff we 21st century dads are supposed to embrace is starting to seriously hamper my ability to be the big alpha male that I thought genetics and a few hundred thousand years of hairy knuckled descendants were supposed to have etched in my psyche.

So, back to the weekends. Is it me, or is the 48 hours period that we cherish so much suffering from the effects of the credit-crunch, or the same product managers who slowly but surely made chocolate bars smaller?

Gone are the heady days of sleepless nights on the beer, whilst still managing to get in a rugby match, a bit of golf and a hearty meal at the local Indian emporium. In seems to be the choice of one of the above, (or a guest appearance with 10 minutes to play) so long as it doesn't involve the risk of physical injury or the loss of a good nights' sleep, as it now takes more than an acceptable level of time to recover...

I have a theory - evolution failed us!

No, really! We men were not designed for this. Don't get me wrong, I am not some kind of chauvinist, I think we should have been upgraded and had the gods of evolution done some forward planing they would have prepared us for it, but essentially they screwed up.

They let us believe that we were all macho and gave us loads of hormones that make us feel super human and caveman like, but essentially we are just confused and feeling let down. We need to get in touch with our more sensitive areas and get to grips with reality.

Take my wife for example. She's holds down a pretty cool job that demands more than 37 hours per week shall we say, takes the main carer role, tidies up after us all, runs the finances and still keeps smiling. I on the other hand have to occasionally wash the cars and mow the lawns and my life is a complete wreck!

Discuss.