Our Dad by the Little Darlings

Our Dad

By Eve

Our dad always liked being the joker of the house and called himself the Minister of Fun. He liked having competitions with my mum to see who could get best marks for our homework. Once he drew a bailey castle for Kate, and got a credit. Another time me made a leaf cell model for Kate, and my mum made one for me, but mum’s didn’t look as good as dad’s. I told her that hers looked better but my dad knew that his was the best because mum didn’t get any credits for hers. When Kate showed dad the credits he laughed and showed off. We thought this was very entertaining and mum did as well. Please don’t tell Mr Housecroft, by the way.

When we were little one Christmas he said he invented a new drink, champagne and orange juice, and was truly gutted when my mum told him that it was already invented and was called bucks fizz. He also said he was the actual painter of Van Goff’s sunflowers, and that he won a trophy from the Olympics in the 100 meter sprint. He showed us a silver cup that he said he’d won. The next day Jack took the trophy in to “show and tell” at school, and said my dad won this in the Olympics. Dad laughed and laughed when Jack told us, so did mum. He got pretend frustrated when we got older and knew that he was joking about the famous things he’d done, like writing President Obama’s speeches.

By Kate

I liked it when dad took us on a walk that he called the “cow poo walk” because we had to go past a stinky farm. On holiday this summer he did karaoke and sang Sweet Caroline which was sooooo embarrassing!  But it wasn’t as bad as when mum and dad did a duet of Delilah at Uncle Nick’s wedding. That was really bad. One thing about music that we all agreed on is that Justin Beiber is total rubbish. There are loads of things that we will miss about our dad, but when we think and talk about him he still makes us laugh.

By Jack

I remember when I was four I fell and broke my leg, and my dad didn’t think I’d done anything bad and told me to stop being a mincer and run it off. When my mum rang him from the hospital and told him that my leg was broken, he said “oops”! He always made bad things seem like good things. Our dad didn’t want anybody to be sad, he wanted people to be happy.

Frank Goddard

“To my right/left – the names of…”

Just a simple little ice-breaker that people used to play years ago, to pass the time at parties.

Unless you were playing it with Frank.

Under what I can only describe as Frank’s benign dictatorship, that trivial little word game would disappear in a flurry of bizarre rules from off the top of his head which, even if you heard them above the chaos that followed , you didn’t stand a snowflake’s chance of obeying.

But that didn’t matter – because you had the rare delight of laughing until your face hurt. And he could keep this going for hours. I don’t know if Frank invented the Mr Chairman – Mr Speaker variation, but he was without a doubt the absolute, undisputed master of it.

This was Frank’s gift. It didn’t matter what the social occasion was – a Saturday night on the tiles, a quiet Sunday pub lunch followed by a stroll on the moors, or a Christian youth group’s weekend retreat – if Frank was going to be there, that was all the guarantee you needed that it was going to be fun. Some people have to put a lot of effort into trying to makes themselves popular. It doesn’t work like that. You’ve either got that sheer force of personality – like Frank – or you haven’t.

Of course, it’s nice to be liked by everyone, but it does carry the risk of developing a shallow ego. Frank avoided that trap. The personal tributes which have flowed in following his untimely death are a catalogue of practical acts of kindness and generosity which he didn’t shout about, he just got on and did what was necessary where a bit of help was required. I recall when I was shutting myself away in the depths of depression and I was hard work to be around, Frank didn’t waste his breath on well-intentioned but meaningless advice to pull myself together, snap out of it, look on the bright side. Frank’s therapy – practical and effective – was to just turn up on the doorstep and tell me: “Get your coat on, you’re going out.”

I’ve enjoyed Frank’s friendship for 31 years, and the hole he leaves by his early departure is huge – but it’s comforting to know that he passed so much of his good-natured spirit onto Eve, Kate and Jack. Not only are they effortlessly funny, witty and bright, but I also want to thank them for their kindness and generosity – in the midst of their grief – in making sure that I should be among the first to hear the sad news about their much-loved dad. For as long as they live, I know the very best of Frank will live too.

“To my right/left – the names of…” a better friend that anyone could ever hope for. Goodbye Frank.

Nick Williams

Possibly a resurrection

Following considerable and relentless encouragement from a friend to start writing again, I have put fingertip to key once again. Actually Luke just asked why I don’t write anymore, and I said that I don’t have the time. This led me to think about what is keeping me so busy. I’m working much longer hours having swapped my part-time work and part-time child care with spouse, who now knows first-hand that, actually, I could have done a lot more housework over the last eight years than I claimed was humanly possible. This is, however, unspoken. If he accuses me of previously being a lazy arse, I can point the finger back firmly, and probably quite pointedly, in his direction about the continued scruffy state of the house since he took over the reins. Fortunately becoming part-time child carer, mixing with the yummy mummies at the school gate and making the lunch boxes has not lead to an increase in his desire to purchase shoes. That remains firmly my department.

When I’m not working, or supervising homework which generally amounts to not being able to answer the twins’ questions about algebra and feeling stupid, or chasing boychild around the house, and then forging his handwriting, what am I doing?. Sometimes I pay him to do homework; my rationale being that I am teaching the crucial message that there is no such thing as a free lunch. In prison psychological psychobabble is the term “permission giving”, for example, starting a row so one can justify storming off to the pub with your mates. If I had more self-awareness I would recognise that I am a master in the art of giving myself permission to behave badly. Frequently. But I don’t that all important self-awareness fortunately.

So on weekdays, those activities probably account for on average nine hours a day. The rest of the time, I seem to spend in my hobbies of trying to make smart arse comments on Faceache, watching and often screaming at the TV, smoking and drinking wine, not necessarily in that order. Tonight I am undertaking an experiment – an hour’s less online poker or property porn TV (actually Kristy is on in the background) and alternately see what I can muster for the old blog.

There have been so many issues on the TV of late, particularly so called news programmes that I’m struggling to choose from at this late stage in my post. Probably the most pertinent today is the Police Commissioner (what a load of fucking nonsense) elections. At a time of austerity cuts, we, the people of England and Wales (and possibly Scotland and Northern Ireland, but I really couldn’t be less interested in the detail and can’t now be bothered to research it) will have a say in how our police forces are managed, for an up-front cost of between £80 and £100k in salaries per constabulary per annum. I could bang on about the ethics of politicising the police force but I’ll leave that to serious bloggers. I could equally harp on about this being a further example of the Condems cynically suggesting that we, the people of England and Wales (and possibly et al), actually have any influence in the way our towns and cities are policed, but I don’t think the Government has pulled the wool over the eyes of any more than the 5% that are expected to vote, and let’s face it, more people read the Sun and Daily Mail.

I am proud, however, to report that I used both my franchise and my spare time wisely in casting my vote (or not, as it happened). I spent the best part of ten minutes pencilling a rendition of an erect penis and hairy testicles on my ballot paper. Childish? Certainly. A waste of time? Almost certainly. Satisfying? Probably more so than the cheeky bottle of Chardonnay Viogner that I’m about to start supping until bedtime.

Perspective Taking, or Possibly Not

Wine o’clock on Friday has arrived not a moment too soon this week. It’s been so packed full of fuckwittery that I’m struggling to get my fractious thoughts out on the page before the warm process of unfucking my brain by irresponsible drinking overcomes me. I’ve become pretty much immune to probation officers refraining from returning my calls, clients getting pissy that I’ve mislaid my magic wand and crystal ball, and the Ministry of Justice computer system saying no, in triplicate. I’m also doing my regular, end of the month, call dodging from British Gas who want me to settle my account. I have to report that my new tactic of pretending not to be me when they ring, and putting on a bad Eastern European au pair’s accent is working well so far. Winding up Indian call centre staff isn’t big or cleaver, but it allows my some respite from my straightened circumstances with a bit of a childish giggle.

What’s really got my dander well and truly elevated this week is all the nonsense in the news about the public sector workers’ strike and related issues. It seems that no one can agree to disagree, there are no shades of grey, and everyone has an opinion and is bloody well right. End of.

At the outset of the announcement that there was to be a strike I was firmly, and strangely for me, with the Government. I’m in a strange position with employment. I’m self-employed and work in the private sector: I get no sick pay, holiday pay, pension contributions or other fringe benefits. However, my income is derived from the Government as a solicitor in the criminal justice system. There has been talk in the past by politicians red, blue and orange (or is it yellow?) of nationalising criminal defence solicitors into a quasi-US public defence service and I believe there was a pilot project. Then a public servant with more than the usual quotient of
brain cells worked out that that would turn us into public servants with all the fringe benefits that accompany it, and that was the end of that.

I read around the issues, and I can understand why public service workers wish to protect their pensions, and morally the Government should not be entitled to change the arrangements. I’ve read that they contracted for those benefits, and they should therefore be written in stone. What I object to is this: since I qualified as a solicitor governments of both parties have continually imposed contracts on criminal defence solicitors, reduced remuneration rates, and most recently made us undertake certain cases for no payment at all. Forget about even a pretend, fairyland consultation period. I wonder how many teachers would get out of bed in the morning if they were told that they would only get paid for teaching the first lesson in the afternoon. I can hear you cry that none of this makes the current dispute over pensions right. I agree.

The source of my not inconsiderable wrath is this – teachers, nurses, fire fighters, police officers et al should receive what they contracted for (I have different views about probation officers and minions at the Parole Board and Ministry of Justice, but it’s probably best not to go there) and so do those of us that work in the private sector of the criminal justice system. The difference seems to be that the public service pundits and unionist that I’ve heard speak this week talk about entitlement, whereas we have to deal with the economic reality that if we refuse to accept the terms imposed on us we won’t have a job to go to.

And yes, with the “support” of our “union” we are intending to strike over the removal of a fee for representing a defendant who elects trial in the Crown Court and then pleads guilty on the first opportunity after the case has been committed. I’m underwhelmed by the coverage this has received in the media. Some solicitors don’t even want to discuss striking because they know from bitter experience that it is futile, and because we know we just have to get on with it, make the best of what we do have. I’m not an economist so I have to accept that the current pension arrangements are unsustainable, and I believe that some unionists have acknowledged this. I also wholeheartedly accept that the Government has been duplicitous in their dealings with the unions involved. Welcome to my world.

I’m not attempting to illicit sympathy: I am, after all, a member of one of the most hated professions, probably comingsecond only to bankers and, I hope, estate agents. I choose to remain this field because I still give a shit about justice. Perhaps the hallowed public service workers can gain some perspective too.

Microcosmotastic

I had a run in with my father this morning which I'm still reeling from, hence the following rant. He's known to the Little Darlings as Grumpy, strangely enough. The fact that he thinks that I don't discipline Boychild severely enough was nothing new, but today he proclaimed that I am raising a criminal. I should spend more meaningful time with him (ie, not be a working mother which is evil) and take him to more pro-social activities. I should also beat him for his transgressions. Apparently the golf lessons, tennis club and football practice don't count. I accept that I let him give up horse riding even though he was pretty good at it when Spouse called him a gayer for taking part in a girly activity once too often. In any event my badmother credentials are now official since my perfect brother and his second wife (who incidentally thinks that Jordon is a positive role model) agree that Boychild is "out of control".

Having had an hour or so to seethe and reflect while cruelly not spending time with my son as I washed, stretched back into shape, and put away newly laundered clothes, it seems to me germane that these allegations come following a week of parent bashing by the Government and other, probably childless, pundits.

Boychild has sensed some negative grandparental rumblings for a while, and he has fulfilled their proficy in ways that would impress the most eminent sociologists. He belches "Arch-Bishop" at will since it annoys Grandma, and refuses to sit still during Sunday lunch because it pisses Grumpy off. In short, he's very good at not doing as he's told, needs to learn to be seen and not heard, and would probably benefit from doing as I say and not as I do. A strikingly similar message was sent out by Mr Cameron in the Commons this week.

I feel sure that I have little, if anything to add to the debate about the causes of the breakdown of our communities. I've certainly read a number of extremely well crafted pieces in the media. What I'm struggling to express is that my sulky raction to the criticisms of my parenting abilities was to say fuck you, if it's not good enough for you, leave us alone innit, and I suspect that a similar response, in kind, will come from the inner cities.

The Secret Diary of Jojo's Mole Aged 43 and 3/4

Today will be remembered, by me at least, as badmother's first brush with the plastic surgeon's knife. Not that you can brush with a knife because that would be silly and painful, very messy and undoubtedly against the law unless you do it to yourself. But then you would probably be sectioned so equally inadvisable. I digress.

A few weeks ago a mole that I've never been fond of started growing, and as I said to the plastic surgeon, was itchy and hurty. Having been inundated with medical advice not to ignore such symptoms I saw my GP. I made the mistake of making an appointment last thing on a Friday when the said doctor's mind was clearly concentrated on the golf course rather than the patient, so she took a quick peek at the offending blemish, said there was nothing wrong with it and if I wanted my itchy hurty mole removed I would have to pay privately. I didn't resent having to pay for the procedure as much as her insinuation that I was trying to get free plastic surgery on the NHS. I tried to put this into perspective and accept that I probably give more love and better advice to clients when I'm not it a tit-twist about having to be at the office. In fact I have been known to get a bit shouty, but don't tell the SRA.

It turned out that the mole removal procedure was covered by a medical insurance policy I have courtesy of spouse's firm since the plastic surgeon was prepared to attest that it was itchy and hurty and needed to be removed. I have to pay an excess of £150 but have no idea whether this will affect my no claims bonus. A visit to the dentist costs about this and I decided that if I had an itchy huty tooth I would probably cough up, so I booked an appointment for this afternoon. On receiving notification that my insurance company would settle the bill the surgeon offered to remove all three moles on my face. Bargain. I like a bargain and who could refuse a BOGToF deal - buy one get two free? It turned out to be cheaper and less painful than a trip to the dentist, and I wholeheartedly recommend anyone with an itchy and hurty mole to go under the knife.

I'm now saving up for the boob job. I intend to turn myself into the closest human approximation to "Trigger's broom". For those of you that didn't watch Only Fools and Horses when it seemed to be funny, Trigger claimed to have owned the same broom for thirty years during which time it only had seventeen new handles and fifteen new heads.

I appreciate that some people find the concept of plastic surgery to be wrong. I blow a raspberry in your general direction. If you don't like something on TV then switch off, and if you don't like cosmetic surgery, shut the fuck up and don't have any.

Polly Perfect and the SamCamGlam Clan

I've allowed myself to become embroiled in a dispute at the school gate. It isn't pretty. Over the course of this year a clique of mothers of a certain type has emerged. Before this I considered myself to be a friend of one of the said clique who, like me, was not adverse to a spot of irresponsible drinking, smoking and the liberal use of expletives. Then Polly Perfect got her jewel encrusted, regularly professionally manicured, nails into her. Polly changes her BMW sports cars and Chelsea Tractors about as frequently as I buy new shoes. I have wondered whether she tells her spouse when he returns from work in the Gulf States "what, this old car - I've had it for ages - you never notice me - sob" as I do to spouse when his eyes turn skyward and accuses me of buying new footwear.

In any event, I've been sufficiently irritated about giving a shit that Polly Perfect clearly doesn't consider me yummy mummy material, that I've only very recently shared my feelings with another reject. It turns out she feels exactly the same way so I consider my churlishness to be vindicated and I'm prepared to share it with you.

Polly decided recently that her charitable act of the year would be to invite some of the slummy mummies to an end of term meal at a smart restaurant in town. She probably considered the mothers that actually have to work for a fucking living don't ordinarily get to visit such establishments and would kneel down and worship at the shrine of scrummy yummy mummyness. However, she has standards to maintain, and clearly undertook a vetting procedure. The slummy mummies that have professional occupations passed, and the blue collar workers remained in exile. The clear injustice was exacerbated by the claim that the reason that only certain individuals were chosen was because Polly wanted the evening to be "more intimate". I found this as lame as a duck, and not just a metaphorical lame duck either; a duck that that's just stepped on a roadside bomb in Afghanistan.

This afternoon, with the back of another slummy mummy invitee, we rebelled and said we didn't wanna play. Instead of going out for posh nosh we're spending the said evening crawling pubs, smoking like a boy-racers first set of low profile tyres, and maybe taking in a curry before taking it out again in the back of a taxi. What really fucked me off though was that when we informed Polly Perfect that we wouldn't be joining them, she beamed her smile spa'd super straight gnashers at me. I overcame the breathtaking urge to remove them. Plastic Poo-tangs.

I've just shared the debarcle with spouse. He said: "mothers-care, fathers-don't-give-a-fuck."

I would like to acknowledge the assistance of my buddy Sam for the slummy mummy label which I wholeheartedly embrace, and Anna for Plastic Poo-tangs, cause that's what they are. xxx