May, 2009:

The other day Amy and I were in the local corner shop engaged in tense negotiations. She was trying to persude me to let her buy a Panini Hannah Montana sticker album.

Normally Kerry and I try not to interfere in Amy’s decisions about what she spends her pocket money on. This is because we want her to learn the value of money and the benefits of saving over frivolous and impulsive spending. And then when she’s learnt those lessons we want her to teach to us too.

But Panini stickers? Those things are like crack cocaine man. Once you’ve tried them, you’re hooked and there’s no going back.

For the chronically foreign I should perhaps explain that Panini stickers are a bit like baseball cards, but instead of boring pieces of cardboard with glorified rounders players on them you get highly exciting stickers which all go in special numbered spots in a dedicated album. Traditionally they are associated with soccer, but over the years there have been all sorts of different Panini albums, from Transformers, through Care Bears, all the way into WWF Wrestling Superstars. Basically anything that can cause the 5-12 year old demographic to become rabidly obsessive.

Throughout my childhood I’ve owned several Panini albums, although tragically never had the financial clout to complete any of them. I have come near a couple of times though; the closest being with my magnificent Return of the Jedi album. But it was never to be. I’m actually pretty convinced that some of the stickers were so rare that there were only two ever printed, and both of were safely locked away in the vaults of the Tower of London. I only needed the bottom half of Wicket the Ewok and the special foil one showing the destruction of the second Death Star. To this day I still find myself grinding my teeth while I subconsciously re-live the frustrations of opening packet after packet of stickers and finding only swops.

DAMN YOU PANINI! DAMN YOU TO HELL!!

Ahem… Sorry.

So, back to the point. Eventually I relented and let Amy buy the Hannah Montana album and four packs of stickers. And to be fair I must admit it was a useful way of working on her numbers with her. The stickers go all the way up to 186 so there was lots of opportunities for tackling the higher numbers.

Quick calculation: 5 stickers in a packet, £0.40 a packet. So assuming that she never gets any swops (unlikely), a full 186 sticker album would cost £14.88. Good grief, that’s almost a hundred and forty nine packets of Space Raiders! It’s an outrage!

But I don’t think it’s ever going to get that far. Amy seemed to pretty much loose interest in the album after she’d put the initial stickers into it. Now it’s just sitting dejectedly on the kitchen table. I could probably even get away with throwing it in the bin if I wanted to.

Except…

It does look pretty empty, what with only 20 stickers in it. And at only 11% full the chances are pretty good of not getting any swops if I bought just a couple of extra sticker packs…

If you’ll excuse me, I’m just nipping off to the corner shop.

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Yesterday Evan graduated from the “toddler room” at nursery to the “big room”. The next stop after this is school. My little guy is growing up.

Those aren’t tears in my eyes by the way, I’ve been chopping onions. Yeah, that’s it; chopping onions.

Could someone please point out where the pause button is on my kid’s childhoods? Or at least the slow motion. Because I’ve got a suspicion that at the moment this damn thing called life is stuck on fast forward.

Got to hold onto it while you have it I guess.

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On Saturday Kerry, the kids, and I went camping. Despite the rain, 4°C temperature, Evan refusing to sleep until 10:30pm and then waking screaming at 5:30am, and the apparent inability of our children to behave themselves in cafes we had a really good time.

Well, in retrospect anyhow.

Although we took the camera with us we didn’t actually take any photos, which is about par for the course for us at the moment. In fact the only record we’ve got of the weekend is this phone camera shot of Evan stealing my Dr Pepper (I’m not usually much of a fan of the good Doctor, but the campsite shop was poorly stocked and times were desperate).

I must admit we did cheat a bit. At around teatime when the rain started really coming down we decided that discretion was the better part of valor and made a break for a nearby cinema in Sheffield.

The original plan was for Evan and I to go and watch Monsters vs Aliens 3D, while Amy and Kerry would go and see the Hanna Montana movie. There’s nothing like a bit of conforming to gender stereotypes to transform your children into societies mindless drones, that’s what I say.

As it turned out Monsters vs Aliens was sold out, so Evan and I were forced to trudge reluctantly into the soppy girls film instead. I considered making a break for the Star Trek Movie instead, but I’m pretty sure Kerry would have divorced me.

Hanna Montana was OK, but (and I can’t believe I’m going to say this) it was no High School Musical. The music and dance routines were pretty tepid, and the cast just didn’t feel hungry enough. At least with HSM you get the impression that you are watching a bunch of talented young performers who have worked pretty hard to land the roles they’ve got. Rightly or wrongly the whole Billy-Ray / Miley Cyrus thing smells a little of nepotism to me. Amy of course enjoyed it, but it’s pretty telling that she declined the chance to go and see it next weekend with her Auntie Megan (although to be fair that’s probably more to do with her embarrassment about being seen in public in the company of someone with such a leathery and wrinkly face).

Still, by having the novelty of going camping combined with the warmth and popcorn of going to the cinema I guess we got the best of both worlds on Saturday night (see what I did there!?).

Sunday morning (and due to getting up with Evan at 5:30am there was a lot of Sunday Morning) was spent killing time until it was time to head over to my brother Sam’s where we went out for a meal to celebrate his and his partner Lucy’s birthday.

Sam’s recently returned from a 6 day 90 mile hike along the first section of the Pennine way. Usually something like this would lead me to complain bitterly that he always have to go one better than me. But considering that not only was the weather pretty grim for him at times, but that he also had to carry his tent on his back and spent every night desperately trying to dry out his socks on his guy rope I think he can keep this victory. I still have more letters after my name than he does, not to mention my ability to pass a mirror without spending twenty minutes preening myself and me having fractionally more surviving hair follicles (providing you count back and ear hair that is).

You can read all about Sam’s adventures on the Pennine Way on his blog.

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I’m fairly notorious within my family for not feeling the cold. In the winter I wear a summer jacket, and in the summer I’m generally found in shirt sleeves. I’m sure my hardiness is partly down my thick blubbery layers of fat keeping me warm, but I’m also convinced that it’s a largely a psychological issue. If you are constantly monitoring your temperature and what your nerve endings are telling you then you’ll become fixated on how cold you feel and consequently feel much worse.

Of course I’m not advocating attempting to navigate to the South Pole wearing Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt. You’d need a woolly hat and a pair of thermal socks at the very least I’d think. But in a bland temperate climate like England’s there are very few days in my opinion when you need much more than a jumper, a waterproof coat, and a stubborn refusal to allow a few numbers on a thermometer disrupt your plans.

I’m proud to say that my children appear to have inherited my thermal fortitude. Although at times Amy does take the whole thing a little too far. Every morning we have a running battle over the appropriateness of what she wants to wear; usually a summer dress and socks. She is resistant to all attempts at negotiation and compromise, feeling that to accept tights instead of socks is tantamount to agreeing to wear full Eskimo garb and crawling inside the belly of a Tauntaun (speaking of which, have you seen this? I want one).

Evan on the other hand is much more rational in his clothing demands. He simply finds it impossible to comprehend why he can’t just walk around in pyjamas all day. Particularly if they are his favourite pair with George from Peppa Pig on them. Occasionally he can be tempted to get dressed by wafting his Batman or Thomas the Tank Engine t-shirt in front of his face. But more often than not it’s a case of sticking his shoes on my ears or some other such tomfoolery, and then quickly getting him changed while he’s distracted by his internal monologue about how much he hopes he’s been adopted.

Amy however is made of sterner stuff. She accepted that she probably wasn’t adopted a long time ago, and has resigned herself to going through the process of divorcing her parents just as soon as she’s old enough to get to the solicitors office on the bus on her own. No pencils up the nose or underpants on the head is going to distract her from the horrible truth that her parents cruelly and maliciously want to prevent her from catching hypothermia.

So the battles continue each and every morning. Sometimes one side gains an advantage, and sometimes the other. But the war continues afresh the next day with renewed vigour.

Soon of course the changing of the seasons will mean that socks and summer dresses are completely appropriate clothes to wear. What’s the betting that by then she’ll be insisting on wearing a scarf and gloves to school.

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On Monday I re-walked the first section of the Dales Way – 17 miles along the river Wharfe between Ilkley and Grassington. Unfortunately I didn’t take my camera with me as the forecast was for rain and I didn’t want to get it wet.

It I had taken my camera with me however I’d be able to show you pictures of myself, Dave, Rich Brook, John, and my sister Megan striding courageously and purposefully across the beautiful English countryside with a song in our hearts and a spring in our step. I’d also be able to show you photos of my sisters wrinkled and leathery face flapping about in the rather gusty wind. Thank heavens for small mercies, that’s what I say.

It did rain, but not in any amount that we couldn’t cope with. And anyway it gave me a chance to try out my new waterproof trousers. They were very comfy and dry, with the added bonus of producing a swishy swishy noise as they rubbed together with every step. Combined with the regular clacking of my walking stick on the path every two paces I was almost a one man rhythm section.

I intended to use the walk as a sort of barometer for how difficult I’m going to find the upcoming Cumbria Way at the end of this month. And I’m pretty pleased to report that I’ve come away from it feeling rather optimistic about the whole thing.

Although it is virtually all on the flat, 17 miles is a long way to walk in anyone’s book. And I’m very pleased to say that I didn’t find any of it a struggle at all. At one point at around mile 14 we passed the place where last year I threw myself on the ground and was unable to move for 20 minutes due to sheer exhaustion. This time however I just strode past it without a care in the world. Bloody marvelous.

What’s more I didn’t even ache the next day. A fact I’m still struggling to comprehend. It looks like losing 70lb and talking an hour long constitutional every morning actually improves your fitness levels somehow. Who knew!?

I’m not fooling myself that the Cumbria Way is going to be easy however. In fact Gary’s recent comment on where we are sleeping on the first night has very much unsettled me:

I’ve stayed at Seatoller YH, its very nice for a YH.

I’ve ridden a bike up Honister Pass from the other side of Seatoller, its a very long uphill, very long, so long that you forget what your life was like before you started the climb – the descent into Seatoller is very short and very steep, I wore out a pair of brake blocks in doing so as I get too scared when my bike hits 40mph.

I hope for your sake that you are going up the short steep side and not up the long steep side, its life changing is the long steep side.

We are going up the short side Gary, but I’m finding it hard to take much consolation in that. Still, I’ll be a lot better prepared for it than I was last year, that’s for sure.

You never know, at this rate I’ll be jogging up Everest by 2012.

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