Imminent Baby Challenge Day Three: "Just the Shine"

T-minus 24 days until blast-off! Or less! Or more!

Today's word has given by my very lovely and heavily pregnant wife Lyn - it is "shine" and the random genre picker gave me "crime". There are far, far worse combinations than crimes involving shiny things. Actually, come to think of it, the majority of crimes revolve around shiny things.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you - "Just the Shine".

Imminent Baby Writing Challenge Day Two: "Cloak, Club and Cups"

T-minus 25 days until blast-off! Or less!

So Day One seemed to go pretty well. Now though, the choice of an old university friend of mine - 'hammock' - which got paired with 'fairy story'. Not an easy one this, but I've given it my best go. Thanks very much for the word - and it's been brilliant to see photos of your lovely boys on Facebook. Tomorrow's word is 'shine' and the genre is 'crime'.

If any of my readers want to chip in a word, I'll write you a story too!

New Baby Celebration Day One: "A Flash of Pink"

To help celebrate the imminent birth of my second child and mourn the fact that I'm not going to be writing for a while once that happens, I asked some of my friends on Facebook to throw a word at me and I'd write them a story about it. To keep it interesting, the genre would get picked by a random selector. To make it really difficult, I'm going to try to do one per day.

This first one came from a very dear friend of mine who lives in Canada and who I sadly haven't seen in bleedin' ages, but it's been brilliant to see her flourishing in far, much colder, soils. The word was 'blues' and the topic was 'thriller'.

Because I have a brother, I'll always have a fiend (not a typo)

It was my brother's birthday at the weekend - he's turned 30 - so Mum and Dad, with their usual generosity, put on a slap-up feast. For once, there's not much of a story here. Just family sitting around a table, enjoying each other's company and only occasionally descending into rows about Brexit. Rather than forcing jokes about a lovely afternoon, I'll let the pictures do the talking.

It's like looking at me, but with optimism about the future

Food? But look at all the lawn toys! Golf instead! Play now!

Oh...wait. Hummus? What was I saying?

My brother and his lovely fiancee

 Celeste insisting on washing up the cutlery. From a different angle, you could see a quarter moon. Think about it Tom.

Tom's game attempt to light his birthday candles in a stiff cross-breeze

For some strange reason, I didn't think putting a picture of a bare-bummed toddler in the paddling pool on the internet was wise. This will have to suffice.

A lovely afternoon was had by all. I drank enough beer to catastrophically wreck my diet and Lyn kindly drove the three of us home afterwards. Celeste went to bed nicely and I fell gently asleep too, stretched out on the living room floor (I wasn't drunk, I was just really tired - oh hell's bells, who'll believe that?)

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Celeste and I have been indulging in our usual power games over getting dressed in the morning for a while now, but today she used some of my own tricks against me. I'm so proud. And concerned.

Imagine the scene...

ME (pointing at several piles of socks): Right - no fussing about. You have a choice between this pile, this pile or this pile. Which ones do you want to put on?

CELESTE ignores me, snatches up a pair of tights from the sock draw and her trousers from the floor and turns to face me with a stern face, determined to not let me control the morning's sock agenda.

CELESTE: You have choice Daddy: trousers and tights. Which put on me first?

ME: *giggling*

CELESTE: No fussing Daddy!

ME: *giggling hysterically*

Battleground: Footwear

EDIT: Further cheekiness at the Sainsburys Cafe today! When the nice lady comes up with the sauce sachets, Celeste stole them all and put three carefully in front of me.

CELESTE: Here your choices Daddy. No fussing! Pick one now.

Celeste is a strict custodian of the sauces

Quiet Contemplation

Quite a personal one from me this week. About four years ago, I was having a really difficult time at work. I'd just moved schools to a promoted position and nothing was as it had been presented at the interview and tour. It was less like trying to buy a car and being sold a lemon, as buying a car and finding it on a driveway up on bricks with the tyres stolen and the engine out on the road, on fire. Lord only knows what the management team thought putting someone with zero experience in charge would accomplish. Anyway, after killing myself for a few years, I quit and was immeasurably happier for it.

This story came out of that nightmare experience, towards the end once I'd handed my notice in. I had a sudden moment of clarity about how miserable I'd been (God bless Lyn for her strength in putting up with me!) and how work had consumed every waking thought. The place described below is real. There is a coda at the end if you read on.

The Hollow

When I drive home from work, I pass a sunken hollow in the woodland through which a babbling brook flows. My steep approach along the road means that I only see it for an instant and I never remember that it’s there until it’s gone, but one day I will stop and paddle in the cool inviting waters.

By the stream, I’ve spied the stump of a felled tree and I will sit on it while I unlace my smart work shoes, rest them on the soft mossy soil and tuck my ironed socks carefully into them. The cool temperature of the water will be a shock at first, but I will become accustomed to it. There may be fish in the water or there may not be. All will be still while I placidly investigate the flat stones on its bed with my curled toes.

I first saw the hollow with the stream in the spring. I had finished my first day at my new job and my stretched nerves were stuffed full of lightning. My little car hurtled its way up and down valleys: for a moment I saw it and thought of stopping and stepping into the shallow water. Then I was gone and my thoughts drifted to microwavable dinners and tomorrow’s meeting. As days sped by, I gradually developed a picture of the hollow through these brief still pictures. I saw snowdrops and bluebells surging upwards through the damp soil, adding splashes of colour to the monotone green palette. I watch a flick book: skeletal dark branches suddenly sprout tight green buds which unfurl into glorious leaves. Sometimes there would be birds, other times not: they flicker in and out of the sequence like friendly sprites.

There was no time to stop, though. The gutter on my house needs repairing and there are promotions at work that need chasing. I need to put the washing on and put the bin out before it gets dark. Perhaps I’ll stop next week when the pace has slowed.

It is summer now. I am promoted and I am wealthy, but the extra responsibility makes me tired and stressed. Some days, I go home and fall asleep in front of the television's predictable burble of bad news. I have a new car, which is much faster than the old one, but I still make the effort to slow for a moment when I pass the hollow. That surging vitality I saw in spring has matured into the lush strength of summer. Although the bluebells and snowdrops are gone now, they have been replaced with all manner of vibrant plant life: a tangle of wild roses, ranks of daisies and eruptions of flowering grasses. Sometimes, as I hurtle by, I see little specks of colour hovering above the water – I imagine they are dragonflies, busily darting this way and that. The days are hot, so I roll down the window of my car and allow the smell of the meadow to waft in. On the days when I do this, the smell of warm grass replaces the artificial lemon funk of my air freshener.

Autumn arrives. I have succeeded at my job and I am proud of what I have achieved, although precisely what my achievements are is difficult to remember. I play golf regularly with my boss, although I dislike his company and I detest the sport. It is important to make him like me, so I often drive directly from work to his home so that he can enjoy talking to me about lawn care and classic car maintenance. To my delight, the route is similar to my drive home: I still see the hollow when I drive there. I often think of stopping there: the water will be less pleasant and the weather will be colder, but it will still be my hollow and I can still paddle my toes in the river. The hollow looks more barren now. The summer plant life is thinning away, and although much of it is replaced by an impressive spread of blackberry-heavy brambles, the black earth beneath is starting to poke through. The thought of snacking on those blackberries while I paddle beneath the trees’ riotous red foliage is appealing, but unfortunately, I can’t today – I have to eat dry pork chops with my boss and his humourless wife. Or tomorrow either – the kitchen needs repainting. I definitely shouldn’t go there while I’m this tired as I won’t enjoy it. It’s important that I choose my moment carefully.

When the year slips quietly into winter, the hollow slips quietly into a palette of greys and whites. Much of the exuberant growth has died away and the rich black loam is speckled and then covered with white frost. The slow freezing of the hollow is inexorable and gradual: days then weeks pass as the birds and insects flee, the mud around the brook freezes solid and a hostile wind funnels down along the river’s valley. I am tired, as I am much of the time. I have lost interest in my job, but I do it anyway. There are payments to make on my car and my house, so I do my hours and go home. I have more time to sit beside my river, but it gets dark earlier now and the river has frozen solid. It’d probably be too difficult to find somewhere to park my car and pick my way down the slope. I feel I’ve missed my chance.

But this has not happened yet. Snowdrops and bluebells still carpet the ground near the tree stump; birds still flit skittishly from branch to bush to water. Today, I will paddle in the water.

I stop driving.

***

Now, some years later, I have finally stopped at the hollow to paddle. Unfortunately, it is private properties, and I'm not allowed near it. This is probably a metaphor, although I'm lost as what it is!

Red wire or blue wire?

Ah. I think we've hit the terrible twos. In helpful preparation for adolescence, Celeste has started seesawing between her useful joyous, cheeky self and an irritable, tearful sulk. Sample dialogue:

ME: There we go! Hair all brushed up and beautiful. I've got rid of all of the tangles and...

CELESTE: *tearing up* Put them back!

ME: What? I...

CELESTE: *starting to sob* Put back tangles!

ME: What? I can't put back...

CELESTE: *sobbing* My tangles! Put back!

And so on. Although this has made getting ready in the morning a minefield of upset, it has given me a great idea for a book I could write:

Cut the red wire or blue wire? Nope - it's a trick: they're both booby-trapped!

I thought these might be suitable chapter titles:

• Dinner Time: Give Peas a Chance
• Bedtime Routines: Brushing a Tooth, the Whole Tooth and Nothing But That Tooth
• Buridan's Ass: Picking between the red dress and the blue dress
• Hobson's Choice: Dealing with a broken banana
• When Negotiations Fail: Duck and Cover

(I guess my sense of humour failure didn't last that long after all!)