August, 2007:

A baby’s first words are funny things. I have it from reliable sources that my own was “more” – a rather telling insight into my future gluttony. Even more revealing was my brothers first word: “mirror”, which in turn was closely followed by his second, third, and forth words – “Heyyy, lookin’ good!”

Evan’s first word is “ta” (A British word meaning thank you for all you non English speakers). He has other forms of communication of course, a chortling “hur hur hur” when he sees something he want’s to eat, an outraged “Bah!” when his sister snatches his toys off him for the bazzilionth time, and a weird baby crocodile like noise that means… well I’m not sure what it means, but he does it a lot so it must mean something.

Sure his first word could have been more heartwarming (“Daddy”), informative (“hungry”), or controversial (“Mark Hamill sucks chives”). But “ta” is pretty good. It’s polite, short, and to the point, and won’t be an embarrassment to him in later years (Kerry’s first word was “wobblebottom” unfortunately).

What’s more, when taking him to high class restaurants we will be sure to receive admiring glances from our fellow diners, who will talk in hushed voices about what a delightfully well mannered young man he is. Oh yes, a true social sophisticate.

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We looked after my Dad’s dog Holly over the weekend. You may remember that Holly actually used to be our dog, and it was surprising how quickly we fell back into having her around the house. For Evan it was all a new experience however. He took great enjoyment crawling around after her and pulling out great clumps of fur from her ears, and Holly was admirably stoic in her tolerance.

Every now and again however Holly would hear what she took to be a horde of thieves and murders outside, and go on a bit of a barking spree. This sudden sound terrified poor Evan and he would burst into panicked frightened tears. Despite our reassurances that the alleged thieves and murders were actually only the postman he would be totally inconsolable for two or three minutes, only calming down when distracted by spotting some revolting object to stick in his mouth. As a result we tried to keep Holly as quiet as possible.

“I’m just going to take Holly and the kids out for a W. A. L. K.” I told Kerry, spelling out the final word so as to avoid the dog twigging what was on the cards and going bananas.

Amy looked up. “Yes. Daddy and me are going to take Holly on a D. I. U. Cock”.

“A what?!” I asked her, trying not to catch Kerry’s eye.

“D. I. U. Cock” she repeated exasperated. “It means a walk Daddy”

Now I know I’m dyslexic, but I’m sure that’s not quite right.

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When I was around fifteen years old my friend Paul and I spent nearly an entire summer sat on the roof of my house armed with a pair of binoculars. As well as a wonderful place to catch the sun’s rays the roof also provided an excellent vantage point to see into the centre of the village. Of particular interest to us was the view we had of a double-glazing shop.

I’m guessing that double-glazing shops do most of their business by appointments. The casual shopper is probably rather unlikely to just pop in on a whim and walk out with an entire set of new windows they didn’t really need. Therefore the shop assistant was relatively untroubled by customers and, as that summer was a particularly pleasant one, spent much of his day sunning himself on the steps of the store.

Or at least he would have done if Paul and I had chosen to do something productive. But we were young and full of joyful malice. Instead of spending our holiday riding bikes, exploring the countryside, and experimenting with alcopops like any normal teenagers, we chose instead to torment another human being to the brink of insanity.

The salesman would emerge from his shop and settle himself down on the steps. We would then get my Dad’s cordless phone and ring the store. He would stand up and turn to go inside and answer the phone, at which point we would immediately hang up. He would settle himself back down again, and once he looked really comfy we would pick up the phone and ring him again.

And repeat.

Initially he tried to rush inside before whoever was trying to call hung up, but after a while he got wise to us and started attempting to ignore the phone. You could almost taste his raging internal battle every time we rung: Is this a genuine caller? Or is it those bloody bastards again?. Eventually man’s primeval urge to answer a ringing telephone would win through and he would wearily stand up. At which point we hung up again. Oh the fun we had.

We performed other jolly japes with the phone that summer. One favourite was ringing a particular phone box next to a bus stop. When a random member of the public answered it we would tell them that we needed to talk to our friend who should be there waiting for a bus. Then, looking through the binoculars, we would describe someone standing at the bus stop (maybe the man in the purple t-shirt or the woman with the wonky hat). When the poor victim went over to tell the person there was a call for them we would hang up and watch the ensuing confusion.

Yes, we were complete bastards.

No doubt karma will eventually bite me in the arse and I myself will fall victim to a caller asking for Mr I.P. Freely. But something somehow tells me it will be worth it.

_{Apologies to readers of Toast Ambassador who will have heard this story before}

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I have a theory that there is one thread that links all of the great philosophers throughout history. They each had chronic bowel problems. Socrates, Plato, Spinoza, Nietzsche; each and every one of them spent countless hours sitting on the toilet lost in contemplative thought, their concentration broken only periodically by the need to make little “nnng” straining noises. It is my belief that the sole reason there are no truly great modern philosophers is the proliferation of high fibre breakfast cereals and newspaper’s Sunday supplement magazines.

I was sitting battling with my own intestinal blockage the other day contemplating my own mortality when I began to wonder when I would see my last otter. It is entirely possible that I may realise when I have my last meal, or see my loved ones for the final time, I might even get enough advanced warning to compose my last words (I’m favouring “ To infinity and beyond!“ at the moment). But I’m unlikely to recognise when I see my last ever otter. I mean, you don’t really see them that often anyway – maybe in a zoo or something, but that could be years away from my death. Similarly, when will I have my last glass of red wine? I don’t even like red wine so I could well have already had it. A sobering thought.

The time is fast approaching when I will no longer be able to throw Amy in the air and catch her, she’s just getting too big. In a few years this will be true for Evan too. There will be a point in the future when I no longer read the kids bed time stories, or give them baths, or put them in their car seats. My life as it is now will be shed like old skin, replaced by new routines and experiences. And while I look forward with optimism to what the future holds, it still makes me a little sad to see my past disappear behind me.

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3:30pm: Dan and Amy set off for home after an enjoyable day spent together at a local community farm. Dan intends to drive the 20 miles back to the village, pick Evan up from nursery, then take both him and Amy to grandparents where they will be spending the night.

3:35: Dan and Amy become ensnared in a particularly nasty traffic jam.

4:00: Dan and Amy still ensnared in a particularly nasty traffic jam.

4:30: Dan and Amy still in traffic jam. Dan begins to worry he won’t be able to make it back to pick up Evan on time. Rings Kerry.

4:35: Kerry leaves work early and catches train home.

4:50: Kerry’s train is delayed.

5:00: Kerry’s train is still delayed. Kerry begins to worry that she wont get back to town in time to catch her connecting train to the village. Dan and Amy still ensnared in a particularly nasty traffic jam.

5:15: Dan and Amy desert the traffic jam and go to Ikea, reasoning that if they have to be trapped in an infuriating claustrophobic mass of humanity they might as well be able to look at furniture at the same time. They buy and then eat reasonably priced scandinavian hot dogs.

5:45: Dan and Amy rejoin the traffic jam. Kerry has missed her connecting train and so gets a taxi back to the village.

6:10: Kerry picks up Evan from nursery. Is charged a fine for a member of staff having to stay behind with him after closing time. Kerry makes offhand comment about things not being able to get much worse.

6:30: Kerry is feeling flustered about getting Evan to grandparents before bedtime. Fills up car with petrol prior to setting off for their house. Car makes funny noises. Kerry remembers that the car actually takes diesel rather than petrol. Rings breakdown service.

6:33: Dan and Amy still in traffic jam. Dan receives a phone call from Kerry telling him that she has just put petrol in their diesel car. Dan swears and regrets taking the piss out of a work colleague when he did the same thing earlier this year.

6:35: Grandad sets off in order to collect Evan from Kerry while she waits for the breakdown service to arrive.

7:00: Dan and Amy arrive at Grandparents house.

7:15: Breakdown service takes Kerry and car to local garage. Mechanic tuts through his teeth and makes “it’s going to cost you” noises. Breakdown service give Kerry a lift home

7:20: Granddad and Evan arrive at Grandparents house.

7:30: Dan sets of for home.

8:00: Dan arrive at home. Dan and Kerry abandon previous plans to go to the cinema and watch V for Vendetta on dvd instead. They quite enjoy it.

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