Time Please.

What the crackers is going on with the clocks in our house?

They are all different.

Is this the work of The Ministry?

No.

Its something far more sinister than that. It is the doings of The Lady.

"We're late!" I cry.
"No were not, the clock in the car is six and a half minutes fast." She says smugly.

"I can lie in." I declare.
"No, get up. The alarm clock is ten minutes slow."

"Why don't we just change them all to the correct time?" I say, my hand edging towards a timepiece.
"No, leave them." She snaps, "I like to feel that time is against me when I'm on my way to work and that I can't afford to have a lie in."

Its true, the lady is painfully punctual. Even on her days off, he first thing she does every day is rattle off a list of tasks, household duties and perhaps a few brief leisure activities packed into a detailed timetable. I have virtually a clinical aversion to numbers, sequences and timescales. They just seem so limiting.

For most people, time flows one way, and that's great for them, but rather restrictive in terms of insight. Time, being a dimension, is occurring concurrently, so it is perfectly possible to see into the past and the future, just as it is possible to see from side to side.

And so I spend most afternoons gently time-traveling. Of course I can't actually physically visit places - for a start I haven't got the right shoes - and I can't actually change anything either. I can't get the lottery numbers because I've been in to the future and I know I don't win. I can't tell anyone what's going to happen to them because in the future I become terribly introverted and never call them anymore.

It's not much use really.

Other, less enlightened people, call it day dreaming.

My girlfriend says I spend far too much time doing this.

You see, she changes the clocks so she can monopolise time itself. If she is the only one that understands just exactly where we are at any given point, is it any wonder that I spend my days drifting about?

She just tells me I am lazy.

She then informs me that I am late and hands me a timetable of chores.

The Random Interferer

Do you know who I hate?

Who really gets up my nose?

Women. That's who.

Don't worry. I'm not about to jump whole heartedly into a misogynist diatribe against the whole of the female species. To be honest, I'm under the opinion that compared to ladies men are a bit crap and, for the most part, we are happy to admit it*.

I am just taking about a certain type of woman: The Random Interferer.

Most stay at home dads will know these good for nothing busy-bodies very well. They creep up behind you in public parks and accost you in restaurants with the sole aim of instructing you in the fact that, in their opinion, YOU ARE WRONG! You are a man, so no matter how confident, well informed and sensitive a father you are, they feel that they have the right to interfere with your day, make judgments upon your parenting skills and be openly patronising, weird or downright offensive in the name of womankind.

The other day, I was waking in the park with my daughter and, as babies often do, she started crying. Not random whinges but that specific and definite cry that says "I'm hungry." I checked my watch and yes, we were about ten minutes off her usual lunch-time, so we headed back towards the house. Me, shaking bells, rattles and making little effigies of animals dance and sing in an attempt to keep her distracted, giggly and happy. The sun was shining, the birds were singing it was a lovely day. But then:

Gnome-like in stature with a face that looked like she had spent the last forty years chewing on a cob of shite, the Random Interferer made her move. "Yootryina'gedthababit'sleep?"
"What?"
"Yootryina'gedthababit'sleep?"
"Sorry?"
"Are-you-trying-to-get-that-baby-to-sleep." She placed her hand upon her hip and stretched her neck awkwardly into the position of 'arsey', "Because, you're going totally the wrong way about it, if you ask me!"
"Well I'm actually trying to get the baby home, and I'm fairly sure that I am going the right way," I answered, " I live there you see."
I wanted to add, "And no, I didn't ask you. Next time I want parental advice, my first port of call is unlikely to be a gnome in a tracksuit wandering about a park." but I didn't. I was afraid.

It has happened quite a bit. Its not just random gnomes either. Criticism of my choice of restaurant seat will be freely made by seemingly well educated sticky-beaks. "I hope you don't mind me saying love, but I'm a mother of three and I wouldn't sit in an isle seat on a day when soup is on the menu. I hope you don't mind me saying."

Well, yes I do fucking mind. If I was a stressed, angry mum with a ciggie hanging out of my mouth, kicking my child up the arse in the middle of Netto, you'd steer well bleeding clear of offering 'friendly' advice then. It was the only table available and since none of the waiters are dressed as clowns or show obvious signs of having an inner ear infection I think we can stay reasonably safe from flying broth.

All the time, women I have never met:
"She's tired" - She's just woken up.
"She's thirsty," - She's just had her bottle.
"Where are her shoes?" - She's just taken them off.
"She's in the sun," - she's under a parasol and wearing block so fuck off and leave... oh yeh, she is. I'll move her sorry.

The fact is that women feel free to criticise just because I'm a man. Some of it is down to the fact that women know first hand that men are crap at relationships, household chores, parenting and anything else that distracts us from watching the telly. So, there's a bit of forgiveness there on my part.

Some of it is just due to the fact that generally mothers are a bit more uptight than fathers when it comes to risk.
"My god, he's got the electric drill."
"Oh leave him, it's only a 15 volt."

But for the most part, I feel its because the dominant sex is now starting to colonise the traditionally female area of parenting. It is, I suppose, only to be expected as part of a society that feels it is becoming more equal. Some women, especially those who have not felt the benefits of our supposed equality, feel that the little ground they possess is being taken away from them.

Which is all very well, but men don't go up women and tell them how to do their jobs or assume there's certain tasks that they will be less able to do because of their sex.

Don't they?

Oh dear.

The boot's on the other foot - and I can't abide the taste of shoe-polish.



* Especially if it gets us out of the ironing.

Arthur? Martha? Monkey?

monkey
Originally uploaded by nappyfever.

The baby is imminent. By the looks of the lady, it could come any minute.

People keep on asking, "Do you know what you are having?"

I tell them that we are hoping for a human child.

"Oh, so long as its healthy." they sigh.

Which is a nice sentiment, until you examine it closely. Then it becomes a bit fascist. They might as well say "lets hope you don't have a cripple." The fact is that we will love this baby, girl or boy, healthy or sick, able bodied or disabled. (I nearly finished off this sentence with "black or white". But no, I imagine that would be an issue).

To be honest, I really don't know what to hope for. Another little girl would be lovely. You know, sort of like a matching pair. There's only fifteen months between them, so they could be best friends.* It would be very cute to have two little pink toddlers chubbling about. When they are a bit older we can take them to ballet classes and watch them totter about uncontrollably in little ballet shoes. It would be very, very cute.

But girls grow up in to teenager girls and for a few years: yeuch.

I have worked with teenagers for many years; and some girls, not all, but many go through a hideous transformation at about the age of 13-14yrs. A sweet, unassuming twelve-year old gets possessed by the puberty demon and bang! They challenge constantly; they scream and cry if they don't get what they want; and they weave intricate social wars against each other. Two of these creatures in my house at the same time could prove to be unbearable. Particularly if I'm the only chap.

Then there's the prospect of having a boy. I would love to have a son we could do father and son things like... erm ...ahh... oh. Now, this worries me for a number of reasons.

First of all there's football. I'm ashamed to say that I've never been sporty. I have absolutely no idea of who is in which team and who finished where or won whatever. This is a problem. I'm from Liverpool, you see. One of the first questions anyone wants to know when they first meet you is "What team do you support?". There are two responses: I either lie and feign loyalty to a local team or tell the assembled company that I have no interest in football whatsoever.

If I lie I'm swiftly caught out as soon as anyone starts footy talk and that happens every time two or more men meet in the presence of booze. "We should buy defenders...Milito and Ibanez would be nice. Then again, I think we only need one new CB. I'd like to see another forward, I'm not too sure about the Lord of Frodsham yet. I hope he comes good for all he's been through. What do you think Jake?"
Fixed idiot grin: "Yeah, nice. Lovely. Football's nice and that. Isn't it?"

If I state that I have no interest, I may as well stand on a bar-stool and declare in a clear, loud voice, "Do not trust me at all. I am quite frankly, odd. Furthermore, I would like to bum each and every one of you. Hard"

Talking about football is something most men do. It transcends all social, racial and class barriers. You can walk with Kings and keep the common touch and what's more, be a man, my son.

My dad actively dislikes football and I would hate to pass on that social disability to my own child. The problem is that it's too late for me now. To know football takes a lifetime of study, commitment and passion. You can't just go out and start supporting a team or pretend to like football, not without looking like a prize nob.

The other thing is that male intimacy is quite a funny thing. I never had a particularly intimate relationship with my own dad and, not having any sort of real role-model, I'm not sure if I've got the inherited man-skills. I've always had lots of female friends* and found very blokey company a bit uncomfortable.

And finally, I suppose I am a bit of a pussy. Who wants a house-husband / theatre-director dad who makes a really good sweet-potato curry and knows how to get stains out of silk, when Toby-down-the-road's dad drives a big shiny truck and knows how to kill a man with one blow?

So all-in-all a boy would also be a bit difficult.

So when people ask again "What re you hoping for?"

I will respond "A monkey. A lovely uncomplicated monkey-child."

Just think off all the fun we will have.

So Long as it's healthy...




* There's only ten months between my girlfriend and her sister and they are as thick as thieves. Bloody impatient if you ask me. What did her dad do? Ask the midwife to step aside so he could have another try?

** Female friends are like male friends in that you can drink with them and have a laugh, but they are slightly better because they can dance and have tits.