Stuck in the middle not loo

I'm feeling all battered and bruised.

"And why is that Barry?"

It was very kind of you to ask.

We spent the weekend at an activity centre close to Barnard Castle in County Durham. There were more than 30 in all, a gaggle of parents and just as many kids.

A similar group of us had been there for New Year but the weather precluded any outdoor adventures, other than walking to the pub (which was every bit as fun).

This time was different.

On Saturday, Vanessa, Charlotte and others indulged in a spot of crate stacking.

Whilst Jamie, me and most of the rest rubbered up for a gorge walk before jumping off a mile high cliff (or so it seemed).

Then on Sunday, Vanessa and Charlotte clambered up ropes.

That's a grimace, not a smile.

As Jamie, yours truly and other rafters built one before paddling it away.

But none of the above posed the greatest challenge of all.  No, it was the triple-decker bed that caused me most problems - not to mention physical harm.

To cut to the chase, I attempted to lower myself down from the top bunk for an early morning wee.  And my leg got wedged.  I'm not sure how, but it did.  And I could not extricate myself.  So I dangled.  And dangled.  Then I dangled a bit more.

I was eventually rescued by a fellow daddy who was woken from his slumber "after sensing that there was a distressed animal in the room."   I'll be forever grateful.

Unfortunately I'll not be allowed to forget what happened for a little while yet.  That's because both of my legs and one of my arms are black with bruising.

Next time I plan to sleep on the floor. And perhaps not drink quite so much red wine.

Look back in anger

Yesterday was the 17th anniversary of 9/11, and I saw lots of people posting on social media about what they were up to on the god awful day.

As I wrote last week, it is my my new plan to make more of an effort to document what I thought or did in times gone by.

Which brings me to 11 September 2001.

Vanessa and I were in Thailand. We’d been to Bangkok.  We’d been to Chiangmai. Later we went Ko Samet. (No, not Ko Samui. Great place Ko Samet, it’s a grower).

But when the bad stuff happened, we were in Pattaya. Awful place. Full of rich, sweaty, American men drooling over young Thai girls who they’d paid to be their “friends.” Don’t go there.

But we were there and couldn’t wait to get away. We went for a walk to kill tine as we pondered where to park ourselves for a long lunch. And I heard a familiar tune. The Sash. Really. And even better, it was coming from an Irish pub. O’Shaunessy’s if I recall, although I stand to be corrected by the local ladyboys.  (For those not in the know, The Sash is not normally on the playlist of an average Irish bar).

So we went in for one pint, just so I could write about it on my blog 17 years and one day later. 

As we took our seats, we noticed that there were a lot of uniformed American sailors amongst us. They were on shore leave. Many of them were looking very serious.

A bar man appeared behind us and pulled down a big screen. The BBC World channel was projected onto it. A plane had flown into one of the Twin Towers in New York.

Halfway through my first pint, a second plane hit the second Tower.

I turned to Vanessa and said: “Osama bin Laden.”

I don’t know much about this crazy world but, back then at least, I knew my terrorists.

We stayed for quite a while as the shock sank in. We even had tea. I went for the burger.

Then we walked back to our hotel and I cranked into “mode.” 

I texted my boss, David Trimble, then First Minister of Northern Ireland. I suggested that he fax (it was 2001) President George W. Bush and tell him that our people stood with his people in defiance of the terrorists. That’s what he did. And then we went to sleep. 

The White House said a public thank you the following day. And then we went to Ko Samet to resume our holiday.

I’ve still not heard The Sash in another Irish pub.

"Ask not what your classmates can do for you..."

Three years ago, I was proud to announce that Jamie had been elected to School Council.  I was worried how he might deal with rejection in the event of an unsuccessful bid but, in the end, the boy stormed home.

And guess what?  We appear to have another budding politician in the family.

Yes, meet Councillor Charlotte White.

Unlike Jamie, Vanessa and I had no advance warning of her lofty ambitions.  She just put her name forward, made a speech and won the secret ballot of her classmates.  She expects to receive the seals of office (i.e. a pin on badge) next week.  (Unfortunately she won't get squash and biscuits, which Jamie enjoyed, because of austerity).

Jamie turned up at his first meeting armed with a big idea.  He had heard about the Daily Mile - whereby pupils get out of the classroom for fifteen minutes to walk or jog at their own pace and keep fit - and thought that St Oswald's Primary School should adopt this.  So he proposed this at School Council, backed by paperwork.  Sadly the then head teacher didn't take it on board.  Maybe the new one might.

But Charlotte is already confident of how to avoid such crushing disappointment.  That's right, she doesn't have an ideas. To use a phrase modern politicians are fond of, she is entering her new role with "an open mind."  Although, as a backstop, she has said that "maybe Mummy will have some ideas." 

I'm sure you, like me, wish her well in her representative endeavours.

Not dreaming of a White Christmas

I received a Facebook notification earlier which flagged up enticing deals on Christmas jumpers.

I do have one - I got mine the year after they were funny - but fancy another. Plus, a wardrobe is there to be refreshed and Christmas can never come too soon.

There are four in our family and everyone must be properly clothed.

So, bursting with enthusiasm, I asked Vanessa: “Does Jamie’s Christmas jumper still fit him?!”

Not bothering to glance in my direction, she replied flatly: “Dunno. He hasn’t had it on for a while.”

I have no idea why I even bother.

There was nothing bland about Rachael

I'm certainly not alone today in feeling cut-up at the news that someone I never met has died.

BBC Radio 5 Live presenter Rachael Bland was taken away by cancer early this morning, aged just 40. 

As an avid 5 Live devotee, I'd listened to her for years.  She was diagnosed with cancer in 2016 and, in May of this year, was told that it was terminal.

Last month, she said was writing a memoir for her two-year-son Freddie as "a love letter to my beautiful little boy."

I heard her talk about this on her podcast, "You, Me and the Big C," which she presented with two other heroic and inspirational cancer sufferers.  And this got me thinking.

In common with countless others, I'd exchanged tweets with Rachael in the past to encourage her in her fight, and she always responded.  Her words about documenting her life for Freddie to read when she was gone really got to me.     

I decided to start this blog more than a decade ago as a means of recording Jamie's early times and Vanessa's and my attempts to be parents.  I wrote something almost every day for the first few years, during which we were joined by Charlotte, but then my updates began to tail off in terms of frequency.

Just over a fortnight ago, I tweeted Rachael to tell her that I was going to change my ways and follow her lead by making a greater effort.

And, again, she tweeted back.

I read her final tweet on Monday afternoon, just after landing at Leeds Bradford Airport.

Rachael Bland became a role model for many people, particularly - and most importantly - those dealing with cancer.  She won't be forgotten.

Last of the first

It was back to porridge for these two this morning as I took the last obligatory "first day of term" photo before Jamie goes to big school next September.

And this was them on their first day at Guiseley Primary in 2015. 

Whilst Jamie has grown a lot since then, its worth pointing out that he is not wearing the same trousers.   

I hope both of them, their classmates and their teachers have a great year.

Back in time for tea

You join me 32,000 feet in the air as we fly from Barcelona back to Leeds after 10 days of fun and adventure. But we almost messed it up, right at the very end.

You would hardly think it possible to get lost between the departure gate and the plane, yet somehow we managed it. The result was that we found ourselves back at passport control and couldn’t get to where we were supposed to be. It genuinely looked like we were going to miss our flight, even after they presumably delayed it to take our luggage off. So there was only one thing for it. Yes, get the police involved. We begged, grovelled and squirmed in front of a bemused young officer until he kindly agreed to use his special pass to guide us through a succession of glass doors and onto the plane. Needless to say we’re very grateful, and more than a little embarrassed. But it was 15 minutes I would not want to relive.

Other than that little piece of drama, our 48 hours in Barcelona turned out great. 

We visited La Boqueria (big scary market)...

...we stood and gazed at La Sagrada Familia (big scary church that’s still not built)...

...we went to Park Guell (home to a big scary lizard)...

...Jamie had his caricature done on Las Rambla...

...and so did Charlotte...

...and, two nights in a row, I had a paella that looked like Wayne Rooney...

...served by a very nice man. (Yes, there are hundreds possibly thousands of restaurants in Barcelona and we went to the same one twice).

And that, my friends, is that. Happily, none of us seem to have that depressed feeling you often get at the end of a holiday as we did everything we wanted to do and we’re all in need of a proper sleep. Plus, Coleraine are playing football live on Sky Sports tonight and I wasn’t confident that many bars in Barcelona were planning to show it. C’mon the Bannsiders!

Merci bien et au revoir

Bonjour one last time from French France - Perpignan to be precise. From here we go back to Barcelona for two more nights before arriving in Leeds on Monday. (The kids aren’t due in school until Tuesday so no tutting please).

This my first extended stay in France and, although we only saw a small part, I’ve been mightily impressed. The locals have so much style and poise that I feel inadequate. I imagine that’s exactly how they like it.

A lot was packed into our last few days.

We hired bikes...

...we raced go-karts...

...I still can’t believe the chubby kid beat me (his father even pointed and laughed as I left the scene of the crime)...

...I got to sing some Irish pub songs and Jamie was invited to hold a mandolin...

...we attended a foam party..,

...I tried Aquaspin (which was a lot less sweaty)...

...we saw a lion talk in fluent French during a production of “Simba”...

...did a bit of outdoor cooking...

...and last night we joined in with what was possibly the best tribute act I’ve ever heard in “Feel Collins.”

My only gripe was that he came on stage wearing a jacket when all Phil Collins fans know that one is not required.

But he did take it off before saying bonjour to the kids afterwards.

Looking out of the window, I’ve just noticed that we’ve re-entered Spain and our trip to France must now be consigned to the memories box.

I’m already looking forward to our inevitable return, but we’ll deal with Barcelona first