Talking rhubarb

You'll almost certainly have heard of the Bermuda Triangle. However, unless you come from these parts, the chances are you won't be aware of the Yorkshire Rhubarb Triangle - but it exists.

I know this to be true because, a couple of days ago, Grandma Judy, Vanessa and Jamie had the privilege of going on the official Rhubarb Triangle Tour along with almost 50 other lost souls with nothing much on. I was obviously devastated to have missed it.

As part of the tour, which centred on the E Oldroyd & Sons rhubarb farm in Leeds, patrons had the chance to see rhubarb being grown by candlelight together with the rare treat of hearing a one-hour talk on the history of rhubarb.

And much was learnt. For example, did you know that Yorkshire began to make its rhubarb name in the late 19th century? One reason was the "special sheds" (ooooo!!!) built to allow rhubarb to be grown out of season. Yorkshire soil also apparently proved perfect for "growth of the substantial root systems necessary to produced sufficient yields of high quality sticks worthy of a premium price capable of covering the high production costs associated with this crop." Oh yes.

As rhubarb’s popularity increased so did the numbers producers in this area, totalling well over 200 "at rhubarb’s height in popularity." The quality of the Yorkshire crop became renowned, and demand for it became so huge that eventually producers in other areas of Britain simply could not compete, and eventually stopped altogether - quitters.

And here's the key bit - given that the producers were centralised between Leeds, Wakefield and Bradford, the "centre for the world’s production of forced rhubarb" naturally became known across the globe as "The Rhubarb Triangle." So now you know.

A couple of other interesting rhubarb facts which you'll want to know. First, Jamie's great grandad was a rhubarb grower. I'll bet you didn't see that one coming.

And secondly, rhubarb is good for your digestion. This is a detail which I'm told no-one on Thursday's tour is ever likely to forget because, a millisecond after the tour guide revealed this shocking truth and took a pause for breath, Jamie chose to emit the largest, longest belch in his short history - promoting raucous laughter from everyone in attendance.

Who said rhubarb can't be fun?

Happy news

I had a bit of surreal experience at precisely 4am this morning (and don't worry mother, this isn't going to be rude).

As is the current norm, Jamie was creating havoc and was determined not to let either Vanessa or me get back to sleep until he was ready to do so himself. Little ****.

Anyway, I did what I do on the hour when I can't sleep - generally to Vanessa's understandable displeasure - and reached over to turn on the radio news.

"It's 4am and you're listening to Five Live on the BBC," said the graveyard slot presenter. "And now the news read by Pete Wilson." And off went Pete Wilson with the news.

However, I couldn't now tell you one story he read out because, about three seconds in, I bellowed: "That's Happy!"

Yes, the newsreader was none other than one of my oldest friends and former Coleraine Inst school chum Pete "Happy" Wilson.

We had to sit in alphabetical order in our school, which is why Geoff Walls, Stephen Warwick, Pete Wilson, Richard "The Cat" Wylie and I became good friends.

Somewhat predictably, Pete was given his "Happy" tag because he wasn't always the most animated of schoolboys although did possess cutting lines in sarcasm and self-deprecation, making him rightly very popular.

After university, he got his first news reading job in Manchester on Kiss FM. I remember this very well because, even though you couldn't normally listen to distant radio stations on the Internet in those days, I was still able to access some of his bulletins in a rather ingenious way.

I used to phone him up in the studio just before he read the hourly bulletin. He would then put me on hold - here's the clever bit - and rather than be left listening to "Greensleeves," I was able to hear the live feed from Kiss FM including Happy reading the news! I know it was a bit of sad thing to do but it was a novelty that one of our number had become a very slick newsreader and, as was proven by my excitement again this morning, it clearly still is.

Since his Manchester days, Pete went on to work for the BBC in London, Birmingham and then back to London where he is now obviously working for Five Live.

The boy done good.

Chinese Jamie

As I mentioned a couple of nights ago, our man Jamie's been a bit unsettled in recent times. I'll give you an example of how it's been.

On Tuesday we put him down after 7pm as normal, he stirred on a few occasions, his dummy was replaced and there were no great dramas. However, at some point after 2.30am, he decided to stir on a much larger scale.

This is not entirely unusual, but normally Vanessa or I stick his dummy back in, give him some Calpol if we think he's having teething pains or pick him up for a minute or two and he generally goes back down without too much difficulty. He then tends to stir again at around 5am and is much more difficult to send back to sleep, but that's another story.

However, on Tuesday night, I went in to find him as bright as a button, which is unusual as he's normally a bit fed up and grouchy before we seek to do our stuff. I put his dummy back in but he insisted on repeatedly spitting it back out - and smiling. He clearly wasn't in pain so I didn't give him Calpol. But I did pick him up, rock him, walk about, put him back down, pick him up again etc etc. None of these "tricks" worked - this boy was not for sleeping and, by now, almost three quarters of an hour had elapsed. I then attempted to leave him on his own - only for him to express his displeasure. So Mummy joined the party, tried all of her best moves for 20-odd minutes but fared no better.

By now, whilst he was looking tired, he was more determined than ever to stay awake. Conversely, Vanessa and I were absolutely wrecked and fading fast. In the end there was nothing else for it but to bring him into our bed, defeated yet again.

He eventually went to sleep about 20 minutes after that, only to wake me shortly after 7am by hitting me full whack between my eyes with his rattle.

That was two nights ago and last night wasn't much better.

As for tonight? Goodness only knows.

But, you know what? It's still incredibly good fun (but please don't tell him if you see him).

Daddy cool?

Jamie is a lucky boy because tonight I feel like a bit of a "hip" dad.

Like no doubt many others, Vanessa and I have been watching the Brits and they were good although maybe not as good as I thought they'd be.

But more importantly, I knew all of the acts that performed (other than Estelle) and recognised the names of almost all of the nominees (Seasick Steve being one obvious exception).

This is a clear step forward for me because, over the last number of years, I've often felt completely out of touch with events on stage and generally switched over.

But before I get carried away, perhaps its time to reflect. Who stole the show? Yes, Duffy (pictured as gratuitously as I could find at this time of night) who - whilst young, cool and sexy - sings songs that could have easily fitted into the musical interlude of The Two Ronnies.

Who else did well? Elbow - ditto, and some of their number are well older than me.

And Coldplay - shortlisted in four categories - who, whilst all of their band members are younger than me, play music which sits very comfortably on Wake Up to Wogan.

Who else won? Iron Maiden, whose average age is about 93.

And who else performed? U2, who were getting big when I was in second year at Coleraine Inst. Take That, who all have about three kids each and wives who bake. And the Pet Shop Boys who give the impression that daytime TV plays a big part in their lives.

Let me put it this way, should these great rock stars of our age be staying in the same hotel, the maids won't have much tidying up to do in the morning.

So maybe the proper conclusion is that I haven't actually become hip - our musicians have become dull - allowing me to feel much more part of the scene (man). Yep, I think that's about right.

Before I go and in order to raise my spirits, I need to tell you this - Jamie and Vanessa are off to a rhubarb farm tomorrow. (Needless to say I've asked Mummy to pack our camera).

A masterly retort

I had a rare and unexpected treat this evening - Vanessa let me watch two and a half hours of live cricket on Sky Sports.

But rather than celebrate, I'll now almost certainly not sleep tonight. She clearly wants something doing. I do hope I find out what it is soon because I can't be expected to go to work every day yet not sleep for possibly weeks on end. It's all rather worrying.

Whilst I'm up, I might as well quickly mention a brief but very funny cricketing story mentioned on commentary this evening which I'd never previously heard.

It concerned the great West Indian batsman Sir Vivian Richards (pictured) who even the most passionate cricket hater has surely heard of. He was playing for his adopted English county Somerset in a game at Taunton and was, uncharacteristically for him, having some trouble getting bat on ball.

The bowler - Greg Thomas of Glamorgan - was feeling very pleased with his efforts and thought he'd try and rub it in after Richards missed again with another attempt at a shot.

Referring to the ball, Thomas shouted up the pitch to Sir Viv, "It's red, it's round and it weighs about five ounces."

Richards gave him a look but said nothing in response. Thomas smiled back, returned to his mark and ran in again to bowl the next ball - which Sir Viv savagely clubbed out of the ground and into a nearby river for six runs.

Richards stood still for a couple of seconds before sauntering slowly down the pitch towards Thomas. And without looking up, he whispered to the poor bowler, "You know what it looks like boy - go find it."

Fantastic.

Right, well I'm off to put the kettle on as my big sister's on the telly in 20 minutes.

Bath toys

I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that Jamie was now so huge that we had to abandon his baby bath in favour of a special chair - bought for him by Granny White - in the big bath.

It's certainly proven to be a popular move. For now, as soon as he sees the towel come out, his face lights up and he can't get into the water quick enough.

Given that he has a bit more room to literally play with, the obvious next move was to fill some of it up with a few choice bath toys. And I am delighted to report that they have been an instant success.

Indeed, I never thought that a couple of tug boats and a family of rubber duckies could make one little man so happy.

And, if you don't believe me...

Thumbs up from Nessie

I'm delighted to report that my much-hyped Valentine's Night cooking experiment seemed to go down well with t'wife. Indeed, the only person I almost killed was myself after drinking a little too much - I was nervous, alright?!

I started with mussels in white wine which was an experience. They call them "live mussels" But it was only last night that I discovered the reason for this - they are actually alive. Sometimes I'm very slow on the old uptake. Anyway, the book told me to tap the open ones and chuck any that didn't quickly close. I only had to bin two as the others, when I rapped on their walls, quickly shut up shop. It made me queasy but, hey ho, I ate them nonetheless.

The main event was Thai-spiced pork chops, oh yes. It was supposed to be Chinese-spiced pork chops but, in an inspired move, I used Thai seven-spice powder instead of the Chinese five-spice powder it said in the book but it seemed to work. I even did a bit of pak choi for Vanessa which I'd never heard of prior to Friday evening but now I know it's a Chinese vegetable.

I finished with lemon "posset" which seems to be a posh word for mousse. And again, it seemed to work although Vanessa did leave a bit saying it was "too much for a lady." It might've been but I was a little unsure why this fact would be relevant to her.

So, happy enough with my efforts. Perhaps I'll have another go when Jamie graduates or something like that.

Doing the necessary

Thanks to my trusty new friend, the Best Ever Three & Four Ingredient Cookbook, I've got my menu sorted out for tonight and, with Jamie's assistance, I've also got the supplies.

It could've been very different though for, when I went to Asda, the centrepiece of my starter was nowhere to be seen. But a bit of polite asking led to the discovery of what I was after "out the back" and we now live to have a go at making the dish tonight.

Jamie himself was very good during my morning of baby sitting duty although, at one point, I had to "improvise" somewhat to keep our plans on track.

I'd already sorted him out with breakfast, dressed him, fed myself, written my shopping list and got the pram ready. All that was left to do was put his coat on, load him in and take off. But I suddenly realised I had forgotten to clean my teeth (not a regular occurrence I assure you). And then I thought, "while I'm in the bathroom, I might as well have a widdle."

The easiest solution would have been to put Jamie in his pram for a few minutes whilst I did the necessary, but I knew he wouldn't like that. So I took him upstairs to lay him down in his cot briefly. However, as soon as his bum hit the mattress, it all kicked off leaving me with no alternative but to take him into the bathroom with me.

Cleaning my teeth with the brush in one hand and Jamie under my other arm wasn't a major problem. But when it came to doing my number one, well, I just didn't feel comfortable with the same arrangement.

So, I stuck him in the washing basket. Whilst he looks bemused but not necessarily upset in the picture, I can assure you that the annoyance levels did increase significantly very shortly afterwards

Still, sometimes a dad's got to do what a dad's got to do - quite literally.

A journey into the unknown

Jamie and I have a bit of a problem.

Well, OK, it's actually my problem but I've decided to share it with him - even though there's absolutely nothing he can do to help. Indeed, if he decides to be restless when we're at the shops tomorrow, he's only going to make matters worse.

For some time now - I'm talking years - I've promised and promised and promised that one day I'll cook Vanessa a meal from scratch. Please don't think that I never "do" meals for I do, all the time. In fact, I "do" breakfast every morning, plus dinner most weekend nights and even the odd lunch. But putting cereal in a bowl or grilling a steak or roasting a chicken in the oven isn't proper, creative cooking. Is it? It's arguable both ways I suppose.

No, what I'm talking about is getting several ingredients - like in Ready, Steady, Cook with big Ainsley Harriott - putting them all together in some wonderful fashion and, crucially, not killing the individuals tasked to eat it. I think you've got me.

A few weeks ago I designated Valentine's night - i.e. tomorrow - as the night when I finally have a go. And with little more than 24 hours to go, I've bought nothing, haven't looked at a recipe and basically have no idea whatsoever where I'm going with this.

Vanessa's due to get her hair done tomorrow morning so Jamie and I are off to the shops to get what we decide we need. But as I say, having not yet looked at a recipe, we've no clue what that might be.

I'm due to get him ready for bed shortly before settling down this evening with a Tiger beer and a selection of cookery books. And, in the morning, I'll tell Jamie what I think we need, get his views and then we'll go seek prey like our hunter-gathering forebears. Sort of.

I'll bet they never had to choose - sorry, make - a salad.

Jamie and his Amazing Technicolor Slumbersac

Jamie's got a new sleeping bag or, to give it its proper trade name, Slumbersac.

And it is a Slumbersac of many colours. Such a stunning Slumbersac of many colours.

How Jamie loves his Slumbersac of many colours.

It is red and yellow and green and brown and scarlet and black and ochre and peach and ruby and olive and violet and fawn and lilac and gold and chocolate and mauve and cream and crimson and silver and rose and azure and lemon and russet and grey and purple and white and pink and orange and red and yellow and green and brown and blue.

Actually, it's mostly blue if truth be told. Together with a fair bit of yellow, some green and a spot of red.

And it's got a big picture of Igglepiggle from In The Night Garden on it. Have a look for yourself.

Oh, and it should last him until he's 18 months old.

That's about it, really. Whilst you're taking all of that exciting news in - I'll be off to bed.

A new perspective

Well that's a relief - Ben likes my script.

Clearly there's a long way to go yet - and Ben's a friend so is hardly going to savage my efforts - but we might just but be on to something. Just might.

Back on planet Earth, the Whites have had their new windows put in (and I don't mean smashed - perhaps "installed" is a more accurate description).

And they do look good, very good in fact.

He hasn't said as much yet - principally because he still can't talk - but I can sense Jamie sees an opportunity in the wake of their arrival. I say this because I'm sure he's already worked out that his bedroom window (pictured above) will now also double up as our sole fire escape.

Now, I wouldn't suggest for one second that this excellently-so-far-reared young man would be anything other than charitable in choosing who he lets into his room should the house be on fire, but I simply fear that he may consider using his newly elevated status as a bargaining chip at some point in the future. For example, 1) when he has teeth and 2) when he knows Daddy is going out for chocolate Time will tell.

We've - well, I - have had a good night tonight watching Northern Ireland beat Brazil, sorry, San Marino 3-0 in a World Cup qualifier. It's our best result away from home in 40-odd years. (And we don't mention the fact that San Marino is officially the joint worst football team in the world, tied with Guam).

A final ditty before we all go off to bed. I'm a big fan of Chris Evans on Radio 2 and, if you're not, you should be, particularly on a Friday for his All-Request Show - 5 until 7, check it out.

As you may have read in this morning's newspapers, yesterday the Ginger One became a father to a little boy called Noah. Good for him. Towards the end of last night's show when he was talking all about it, a listener phoned in with a terrific little story which incorporated a very sound piece for advice for any new parent.

The caller - a father - was talking about the moment he and his wife were very nervously preparing to leave the hospital with their first born child.

"Don't worry too much," said the reassuring midwife to the couple in reference to their new baby. "They're very hard to break."

Seven and a half months and quite a few accidents on, I'm happy to confirm the accuracy of that wise woman's words.

Putting his foot in it

In recent days, Jamie has demonstrated a brand new talent - the ability to suck his own big toe.

It is clearly a gift passed down from his father as I've been putting my foot in my mouth for years, albeit metaphorically. But I'm still very proud.

On other matters, I'm a little on tenterhooks at the moment as - shock of shocks - I finally managed to finish the first draft of the script which I hope will begin the journey of my partner Ben and myself to the status of sitcom writing legends.

It was back in the summer of 2007 when, after several sit downs to map out the plot and the main characters, I went off to knock together a rough draft of what we intend to be the pilot episode. And then I didn't quite get round to finishing it off (well, I've been a bit busy!)

However, the magic moment did finally arrive last Friday morning when, stranded in the White holiday hut, I did a quick 40 minutes of tidying up (including changing some names to protect the guilty). The script has now gone across to Ben for his verdict and for him to hopefully sprinkle it with comedy dust before we meet to decide what to do next.

As I said to him, if even 20% of the draft I sent over makes it into the final version, I'll be very surprised and perhaps even a little disappointed.

But let's not be negative - we're finally underway.

Another fine mess

Being pretty much confined to a wood-enclosed space for four days, the only course of action was to make the best of it.

So, from my point of view, I made sure I did more than my fair share of Jamie duties which included giving him his tea. As his sheer physical enormity clearly demonstrates, not much misses his mouth when it comes to meal time. But there's always an exception which proves the rule. And unfortunately, I was the poor individual tasked with getting the savoury mince into his mouth on Friday evening when he simply didn't fancy it. The scene pictured above was the result.

Given this outcome, the only logical next step was to give him a bath - even though it wasn't his scheduled bath night (which is normally every other night). On the upside, it provided the opportunity to try him out in his new special bath seat which Granny White bought him some time ago. I'm delighted to say that it immediately proved to be an inspired purchase and many happy dips now lie ahead.

However, as I wrote yesterday, we were able to escape our hut on a small number of occasions and one such moment came earlier on Friday when we managed to make it round the corner to the local pub.

It was a decent enough place but something other than the Guinness made it stick in my mind - one of the best toilet signs I've seen. Magnificent.

Back from seclusion

Vanessa, Jamie and I have just returned from our four days in a hut.

As the picture shows, it was indeed a fine hut we stayed in - one of the best. But a hut nonetheless.

In addition to simply having a bit of time "away," the primary purpose of our visit - to a field just outside Richmond in North Yorkshire - was to celebrate Vanessa's birthday. And we were able to do just that with a nice pub lunch yesterday and some posh food and champagne in our hut last night.

Vanessa even had a little cake - although Jamie seemed much more interested in the candle.

However, getting out and about yesterday was something of a luxury for, with the exception of a quick sprint to Tesco in Catterick on Thursday afternoon and a swifty in our local round the corner on Friday, we were essentially snowed in for the rest of the time. Indeed, our trip into Richmond yesterday involved a three-mile round trip buggy push along narrow country roads. But it was well worth it.

I'll tell and show you more tomorrow but, with the weekend almost at an end, it's sadly time to iron a shirt for Monday morning...BOO!

Hitting the hut

With apologies to those very nice people who for some reason take the time out to read this rubbish every day, the Whites are just about to disappear for another short break.

To be fair, the Northern Ireland trip felt more like a state visit than a holiday, given the amount we packed into four short days.

But between now and Sunday, the pace of our lives will hopefully be a lot slower.

It's Vanessa's birthday on Saturday so we're setting off in the next few minutes en route to a hut, sorry, "cabin" in the middle of a remote field near Richmond, North Yorkshire where we intend to do as little as we can until it's time to come back.

We have done this before and it's been great - lying about, watching DVDs, reading books and gorging ourselves. But, of course, that was in days prior to the arrival of young James Richard.

However, we'll give it a go, see what happens and then I'll tell you how it went when we get back on Sunday afternoon.

In the meantime, I'll leave you with something just a little bit different - a poem.

My mum e-mailed this to me from her computer class the other day and I thought it would be nice to share it.

I hope it makes you feel warm too.

It's called Circle of Friends.

CIRCLE OF FRIENDS

“I am a beautiful old person -if you don’t believe me, just read this.”

Eleanor Roosevelt.

Many people will walk in and out of your life
But only true friends will leave footprints in your heart.
To handle yourself, use your head;
To handle others, use your heart.
Anger is only one letter short of danger.
If someone betrays you once it is his fault;
If someone betrays you twice, it is your fault.
Great minds discuss ideas;
Average minds discuss events;
Small minds discuss people.
He who loses money, loses much;
He who loses a friend, loses much more;
He who loses faith, loses all.
Beautiful young people are accidents of nature,
But beautiful old people are works of art.
Learn from the mistakes of others,
You can’t live long enough to make them all yourself.
Friends, you and me---
You brought another friend…
And then there were three…
We started our group…
Our circle of friends….
And like that circle….
There is no beginning or end….
Yesterday is history
Tomorrow is a gift.

A toothless plot

I had the misfortune at school to study the Samuel Beckett play, Waiting for Godot, which - if you haven't seen it and to save you the pain of ever having to see it - basically involves two blokes sitting on stage all night waiting for someone who never turns up.

It was part of my 'A' Level English literature syllabus and I remember one night piling into a minibus with my classmates, travelling the whole way to the Lyric Theatre in Belfast to watch it, hating Act I, getting ice cream, falling asleep at the beginning of Act II and not waking up again until the very end. That's how exhilarating this play is.

Anyway, I'm reminded of it because waiting for Jamie's first tooth to come through reminds me of some of the emotions I experienced whilst watching Waiting for Godot; I'm getting frustrated, I'm increasingly tired and I'm now not even sure that it's going to make an appearance.

Quite a few babies we know of who are much younger than Jamie have multiple gnashers and yet he still doesn't even have one.

"Ah," say some people we talk to about the situation, "but that means several are likely to come through at the same time - that's what happens, you see. You'll go to bed one night and bang, the next morning, you'll go to get him and he'll have a mouth full of them."

Every time I hear this, I can't help but conjure up an image of Dr Teeth from The Muppets (pictured) lying in Jamie's cot. (Coincidentally, Dr Teeth is actually my third favourite Muppet after Beaker and the Swedish Chef).

But, as for now, we wait, we sleep and we wait a bit more.

Oh, and whilst we are waiting, I might as well tell you a short but very relevant joke.

Question: What's the shortest play in the world?

Answer: F*** Godot.

I love that one.

Snowman

In common with much of the rest of Britain, today Pudsey disappeared under a thick blanket of snow.

And if the overnight forecast is to be believed, local residents will be waking up tomorrow under several winter duvets' worth.

Whilst Jamie had seen a bit of snow in his short life so far, he hadn't previously experienced proper snow.

So, doing her motherly duty, this afternoon Vanessa put him into his giant snow suit - so called because he'll need to grow into a giant before it actually fits him - and set him in the garden.

And, from what she told me, he simply sat there for a few minutes, took it in as best he could and even flickered an odd smile.

Then he got bored, started crying and had to come back in.

Perhaps tomorrow I'll ask Vanessa to make things a bit more interesting and find out if he can ski.

On your marks...

Until recently, Jamie has been quite a vocal young man without really making a lot of sense. Or, to put it another way, there's been plenty of sound coming out of his mouth but nothing you could really package up and describe as a "word." But that may have just changed. And the "word" I'm talking about is "dadda."

My mum first noticed this last week but she, like me, is clearly biased. He said it a lot yesterday, something I pointed out several times to Vanessa who generally responded with a roll of her eyes.

But, as I was changing his nappy shortly before 7 o'clock this morning, he looked me right in the eye, said it once and then shut up again. I'll keep you posted on this one.

Given that our son is clearly making rapid progress on the speaking side of his repertoire, I thought I would take advantage of a quiet day at home by seeing if I could teach him to crawl.

Up until now, he has rolled over and spun around but he hasn't yet made anything like definitive forward progress. And, after a couple of hours this afternoon of me demonstrating to him what to do by crawling myself, then grabbing Jamie's legs and simulating what to do, then crawling again myself and so on, all he has achieved thus far is two carpet burns to his forehead. But we'll keep at it.

I'll leave you with something completely different. Last night Vanessa and I watched the film Along Came Polly starring Ben Stiller and Jennifer Aniston. As you'll already know if you've seen it, the film is pretty terrible although Ben Stiller - who I love - still manages to raise the odd laugh along the way.

But there is a scene in it - very similar to a scene from one of my favourite-ever films, Dumb and Dumber - which made me think and even led to me having a conversation with my wife (I know).

Ben Stiller's character is on the loo with a "tummy upset" after having a violent reaction to spicy food. Without getting too coarse - and apologies if I fail in this objective - he runs out of toilet paper and has to improvise, if you know what I'm saying.

To cut a long story short, he ends up using a hand towel which he then tries to flush down the toilet, blocks the system and floods the house - I told you it wasn't exactly Oscar standard. However, I turned to Vanessa and asked what she would've done in that situation and her answer was magnificent - she would've used her own pants, before putting them into her handbag (who needs to talk about the recession when there are so many other subjects to choose from).

Sadly my answer was less impressive which, to be honest, was inexcusable given the fact that I'd spent many years thinking about what I would do after watching Dumber and Dumber: I would've washed the problem area using a running tap and, should no towel be available, resigned myself to half an hour with a wet rump. But having heard Vanessa's flash of inspiration, I now feel the need to reconsider my plan.

Anyway, as I say, something for you to ponder should fate choose to place you in such a situation at some point in the future.

Let's fly the flag together!

I was on Facebook a little while ago and received a message from my good friend and possible future Prime Minister Rodney McCune.

In addition to all his other pursuits such as being a hard-nosed barrister and a hairy-backed swimmer, Rodney is the driving force behind the Westminster Unionist Association (WUA) which now has its own Facebook group of the same name (feel free to join!)

He contacted me today to ask if I wished to comment on any of the discussion topics currently being debated on Facebook by WUA members and the following one jumped out at me: "No GB Football Team for the Olympics - good or bad?"

For those who don't know the background to this, the Football Associations of Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland are against their players being part of a Great Britain team at the London 2012 Olympics because of a fear that FIFA - football's world governing body - will then force them to play as a single GB team thereafter rather than as four individual home nations, England obviously being the other one.

Personally, I think the three Celtic associations are being joyless and ridiculously narrow-minded in their approach. And so, to answer Rodney's request, here is what I put (and I hope you share my sentiment):

"Bad. The Irish, Scottish and Welsh FAs should stop being so paranoid and embrace the flag.

"It's a one-off and FIFA have said there's no threat to their independence so where's the problem?

"The Olympics are about the athletes, not the administrators or politicians. Let the players play!

"I'm certainly available to go into goal should the call come (as long as it's not from "Sir" Clive Woodward who can go f*** himself)."

NB: Former England rugby union head coach and all-round big-head Sir Clive Woodward was recently appointed as the Great Britain Olympic Team's "performance supremo" and is likely to have a big hand in the preparation of the football squad for 2012. I'm not a huge fan of Sir Clive Woodward.

Keep your pennies - but I'll have the pound

I've just arrived home from work on the train.

Like I'm sure almost everyone - unless you work on a Saturday or perhaps don't work at all - the Friday evening journey home is always the best because, well, it's the weekend. Pretty obvious, that one.

However, on today's Friday evening journey home, I had an extra special bonus: I found a pound, just sitting there on the seat beside me. And I did what I'm sure everyone else would do - I trousered it.

But my decision to actually pick up the coin and put it in my pocket was a much more significant moment than you probably realise since it was the first coin that I'd found and picked up in more than 10 years. I'll quickly explain.

In September 1998, Vanessa and I travelled to the United States on our first proper overseas holiday together. The plan was to fly to New York, spend a night, then train it up to Boston, then down to Washington, then across to Atlanta, then down to New Orleans (I think there's a song about that), then over to Daytona Beach and finally on to Philadelphia before ending up back in New York for our last night. And all started well - New York was great and so was Boston.

We were then due to board the service to Washington but, shortly before we got on, I found a US penny on the ground. Again, doing what people do, I picked it up and put it in my pocket - it brings you luck apparently. But sadly not in our case.

Somewhere in New Jersey, whilst both Vanessa and I were sleeping, some nice person decided to nick my bum bag (or "fanny pack," as they call it Stateside - tee hee) which - naively on my part - was filled with everything of value we had on the trip.

I speak of cash, travellers' cheques, our passports, credit and cash cards, train tickets, flight tickets and our camera. Well done Mr (or Ms) Thief.

To cut a very long story short, what happened next could have been much worse. First, when we got to the police point in Washington train station, Officer Brenda F Reveira (I'll never forget her) and her team organised a whip round to fund our $15 taxi ride to the British Embassy. It was one of the most generous and decent acts I have experienced. I then had a personal contact at the embassy who was able to lend me $500 whilst we sorted everything out. And the Ulster Unionist Party, my employers at the time and who had an office in the city, took us out for a slap up meal. So, as I say, we were very lucky.

But since that day more than a decade ago until this very evening, I refused to pick up another lost coin, whether it was lying on a road or even a train seat. Counting it up, I reckon I'm at least £2.37 down by now.

Hopefully my decision to claim that pound tonight will herald the beginning of a nice weekend and the start of a new, positive run of luck.

UPDATE - 1839: Vanessa has just announced that, earlier today, the bus driver overcharged her by £1 - so she's claimed mine. My new run of luck didn't last long.

So that was that

I've just finished watching Piers Morgan on Dubai on ITV1 - how does he get these jobs?! Smug ****.

Anyhow, enough bitterness and jealously and instead a few final reflections on the Norn Iron trip before I move on to something else tomorrow - such as Guinness (I've been on the wagon since coming back).

As I write this, almost 200 passengers and crew remain stranded on an Irish Sea ferry more than 24 hours after they boarded it.

Thankfully the Whites - who travelled to Belfast from Liverpool rather than from Stranraer - had no such dramas. Indeed, we had a great time, as the above photographic evidence confirms. We went on the overnight sailing both ways and, for £250 return including our car, we had excellent three-course dinners, decent breakfasts and a more than acceptable cabin thrown in. Only the wine was chargeable and, at £4 a carafe, it was cheap (and strong) at the price.

Two more quick ones. On Monday I described my mum's faux pas - offering to babysit Jamie whilst the rest of us were at his own christening several miles away - as the line of the weekend.

Well, there was a runner-up and this time it was intentional.

My sister Gwen - Sebastian and Katie's mum - babysat Jamie on Saturday evening whilst Vanessa and I went out for some food with my own mother and her partner Derek. Gwen only lives a two minute walk away from my dad's where we were staying and the plan was to pick Jamie up - literally - on our return, carry him across the road and put him into his travel cot. Easy enough.

We were discussing this with her before we set off and Gwen asked if we intended to give him a bottle when we got back. However, we've done well recently in getting him out his habit of taking an 11 o'clock bottle so I said that we didn't plan to. But Gwen, a mother of some renown, looked horrified - which worried me.

"Do you think we should?" I enquired in an alarmed tone. Gwen's face had "YES!" written all over it. "Really? Why?" I said, feeling like I was about to learn something.

"Let me put it this way," said my sister calmly. "If someone lifted me from my sleep in the middle of the night, carried me down the road and the tried to put me into a strange bed without as much as a cup of tea...well...I'd be pretty p***ed off." So, yes, Jamie did get his (small) bottle.

And finally, I wrote on Tuesday about going to visit Anne Crory. My mum's crazy cousin Jinard - I've never quite worked out what she is to me other than mad - lives in the same block of apartments as Anne and on the way out we went to see if Jinard was also in. When we got to her front door, we were greeted by the sight below. I like it when these things are explained properly.

But all good trips must come to an end and, on Monday, it did - having clearly taken its toll on some of our number.

Goodnight.

And it was all going swimmingly

Another one of the high points of our trip back to Northern Ireland last week was that we all got to go swimming in Coleraine Leisure Centre with Jamie's cousins Sebastian and Katie.

For Jamie, it was only actually the second time he'd ever been in a pool.

The first time, in Donegal last September, was a bit of a disaster. It was in an adult pool, it was cold and he really didn't have a lot of fun.

But on Saturday morning, it was an altogether more positive experience. We all went into the children's pool, it was warm and, most impressively, Jamie made a real effort to get into the spirit of the occasion.

The rest of us simply took it turns to put our hands under his chest whilst he let his arms and legs go at 16 to the dozen. After this success, Vanessa and I certainly don't intend to make him wait so long for his next dip.

Although Jamie was obviously too small to use them, Daddy was most excited at the prospect of trying out the two big water slides on offer.

I'm a bit of a sucker for a big water slide and have even been known, whilst on holiday, to elbow the odd child out of the way to get to the front of the line quicker.

Sebastian and I had several goes, taking it in turns to go on the "Black Hole" which was a lot faster than slide number two.

But after a while and although it was his turn to go on the "Black Hole," I thought it would be incredibly amusing to race Sebastian to the top of the stairs and try to get there before him.

That was until a particularly grumpy (and obese - sorry, I'm bitter) lifeguard shouted at me for running. Yes, in front of all the kids and the public gallery. Having no other option, I was forced to slow down to a walking pace, whimper an apology for my misdemeanour and quietly make my way up the steps with my head bowed.

Despite it being one of the most undignified and personally humiliating moments I can remember, Sebastian loved it and will no doubt wish to talk about the incident many times in the future. But surely that's what silly uncles - and daddies -are for.

An audience with St Anne

Other than Bono and Gordon Brown - both self-proclaimed and who therefore don't count - there aren't too many living saints walking our planet at the present time. But there is one.

The person I speak of is Anne Crory who, now in her 80s, was my mum's health visitor for the first two years of my life.

I wasn't a very well baby. Indeed, I spent the first couple of months cooped up in a special unit in the Royal Belfast Hospital for Sick Children and wasn't expected to make it out at all. And, when I did, I wasn't expected to last too long.

But thanks to a nice English professor who flew over to test out his new wonder drugs on me, several highly skilled doctors, my mother's perseverance and a wonderful lady called Nurse Crory, I made it through.

She was regular visitor to our house for those first two years, even whilst I was in hospital. And the support she gave to my mother and I was priceless. Indeed, such was her level of inspiration that, shortly after I got better, my mum decided to follow her into the nursing profession herself and spent a career there.

The two of them have kept in touch throughout the last almost 37 years. And when my mum mentioned last week that it might be a nice idea to call in to see the great lady once again, there was no question of me not doing it.

And not only did I get to see her again, but I got to introduce her to my son.

I have to say, it was an incredibly proud moment for me, in particular when, after giving Jamie the once over, she felt the need to offer her professional verdict: "That is definitely a happy baby!" Wonderful.

My mum has rightly never let me forget what Nurse Crory did for the two of us. And, after last Friday morning, I can now look forward to telling Jamie that he too was fortunate to receive her saintly blessing.

A special date in the diary

You always need something to look forward to and, after this weekend, Jamie can look forward to a big day in his honour almost exactly four months from now.

For, at 10.30am on Sunday 24 May in St Mary's Church (pictured left), Macosquin, Northern Ireland, James Richard White will be christened.

It was Vanessa's idea to go back across the Irish Sea for the ceremony - to balance up the fact that we were married in Leeds -and I jumped at the suggestion.

However, I was a little fearful that the village church which I attended until I was 10 - before moving into the metropolis they call Coleraine - might not agree to the request. But, after our meeting with the very impressive minister there yesterday, he was only too willing to accommodate us and I think we'll now have an excellent day. In fact, I know we will.

It will be organised into three distinct stages. The first will be the actual christening itself (fairly obvious that one).

Stage two will be when hopefully all our guests will join us at The Loft - the newly-opened extension to The Railway Arms, my local bar in Coleraine - where sandwiches, christening cake and strong liquor will be served (by Seamus).

This will take us through until late afternoon when everyone is then invited to the home of our friends Sean and Melanie (pictured below) for a barbecue, disco and karaoke - it isn't expected to be a civilised affair.

So, should be good.

As for the weekend we've just returned from this morning, it was terrific fun although extremely hectic. Most importantly, Jamie seemed to love every second of the attention he received and his hosts seemed to enjoy every second of him being there.

None more so that his cousins Sebastian and Katie (who he's pictured with at the top and bottom of this posting). Sebastian has already accepted Jamie's invitation to become one of his two Godfathers at the ceremony which should guarantee some memorable scenes on the day.

As for the line of the weekend just gone, the title must surely go to my mother who, during a conversation about the christening, kindly offered to babysit Jamie whilst we were all at the church.

She then paused before adding: "Actually, maybe not - he'll probably be needed." Indeed.

All at sea

Weather permitting - and gale force winds are predicted a few hours from now - Vanessa, Jamie and I will shortly be climbing on to a boat to make the overnight journey to Belfast.

We're due to return on Monday when I look forward to reporting back on what happened.

Oh, and we might have some news.

Be good until then.

One small dribble for Jamie...

I've always been envious of my big sister Jacquie.

There are many reasons for this. But one is that, back in 1969, my mum bounced Jacquie on her knee on front of the telly as Neil Armstrong became the first man to set foot on the Moon.

I had to work today but, before leaving this morning, I got Vanessa to agree to bounce Jamie on her knee in front of our telly as Barack Obama took the oath to become the 44th President of the United States.

I made it home shortly before 7.30pm. Jamie was still up to play with Auntie Vicky who had come over for tea.

And for the next hour - along with Vanessa - we watched the end of the Inauguration Luncheon and the beginnings of the Inauguration Parade.

Later, whilst Vanessa was driving Vicky home and Jamie had gone to bed, I kept watching (I'm a little sad that way).

Goodness know what the next four or eight years, under President Obama, will bring for America and the world.

But, even if the Obama years prove to be a massive anti-climax, today is guaranteed to remain as one of those days in history where you'll always remember where you were and what you were doing.

Jamie was on his mummy's knee.

Shattered dreams

We really are getting quite old, you know.

Not much more than five years ago, Vanessa and I were living carefree lives in London. And then we decided to move North.

Within weeks, we'd bought a car. A year later, we bought a house. And, twelve months after that, we got married.

You may also be aware that, seven months ago, we became parents - I'm sure I've mentioned it here somewhere.

But tonight, we took the ultimate step. And, whilst we haven't signed up to anything yet, I fear the moment may only be days away.

You get sucked in, you see. You say to yourself, over and over, "no, we're not ready...we're too young...we really don't need to do this...it's much too serious...it would confirm that we're now officially dull...no, no, we can't!"

But sadly folks, tonight, this very night, at our own instigation, without any pressure from anyone, with nobody else to blame - we got measured up for double glazing. And I think we might just go for it.

I don't remember feeling so depressed.

Celebrating diversity

Last night Jamie met his first lesbian couple (not pictured).

Our former neighbours Jo (above left) and Mark were having a party to which the Whites were invited. Unfortunately it was due to begin at 7pm which, as it happens, is also Jamie's bedtime.

So, in a compromise arrangement, we arrived after six to have a drink with the two of them and also their friends Helen (above right) and Clive from Donegal who we've met several times before .

We ended up staying a little longer than planned as, unlike most parties I've been to, most guests arrived either early or on time and, crucially, because Jamie had a chance to hold court.

And how he enjoyed himself. He smiled at everyone who took an interest, laughed from time to time and, for his main performance, blew raspberries at the lesbians - who loved it (almost as much as they no doubt love each other).

Perhaps next week, as we continue Jamie's crash course to modern Britain, we'll introduce him to someone from Wales.

There's no welcome on the mat

"Be careful what you wish for," is a phrase you sometimes hear. And I was reminded of it this evening when I came home from work.

Above you can see our street with the light on the left coming from our front door. And in the middle you can see our drainpipe.

About five or maybe six weeks ago, some nice local person let their family pet do a series of wotsits on the pavement at the foot of our drainpipe.

My first urge was simply to get a brush and sweep it up. But then I thought, if I leave it, I wonder how long it will take Leeds City Council to clear it away?

As a proud former road sweeper myself - six summers, man and boy - I thought it would be a week at most, that being in my experience the normal frequency for sweeping a main thoroughfare.

But a week came and went, then two, then three and so on. And, as of this morning, the shite remained on the floor (sorry if that shocked you but I call it as I see it).

I know this because I remember walking to my train after and thinking, I've had enough of this, I'm going to contact my councillor to see how often they sweep our street.

However, tonight, I came home and, not only had the Council removed the doggy do - but they had taken away our entire pavement.

Indeed, they even left us a new "doormat" - which you can see - in yellow plastic.

No doubt there will be a wonderful reason for doing all of this but, at the moment, I don't know what it is. Still, at least it looks a bit cleaner.

And we regress

Look at him, out like a light. If only.

Following his achievement in sleeping through the night on Christmas Eve, we thought Jamie had cracked this old sleeping lark (naive, I know).

But, during and since his illness, his sleeping pattern has gone out of the window.

His morning and afternoon naps are hit and miss. And at night, he tends to stir between 1 and 2am, then perhaps at 4 and finally at around 5.30 when we generally feed him and drag him into our bed 'cos we're knackered.

He's not in great distress and there are no tears. He just doesn't want to go down.

Anyway, today Vanessa discovered that this phenomenon has a name. Jamie is suffering from sleep regression.

Apparently it tends to strike at around four months but is also common at six months and normally indicates a growth spurt - as if he wasn't big enough already - mixed up with a bit more teething.

This particular "stage" shouldn't last any more than another couple of weeks which is just as well for, the way things are going, I don't think either Vanessa or I will last much longer than that either.

Still, at least we know he's alright......zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz......

Famous Jamies

Picking the name of your baby isn't easy - particularly if a boy pops out.

From our point of view, we didn't want to choose anything that might lead to him having a hard time at school (so speaks Barry White, by the way, so talk to me). Equally we didn't want it to be too dull.

And, six and a bit months in, we are still very happy with our choice. Yes, there is no shortage of little Jamies running around but I still think we found something of a gap in the market.

Or to put it another way, I don't think there are that many famous Jamies knocking about. Yes, we all know about Jamie Oliver. And any man who has seen the film Trading Places will be well aware of the existence of Jamie Lee Curtis (yes, a girl). But how many others can you name?

As it's late and I'm nice, I thought I'd save you the trouble of having to think to hard by providing a list of "famous Jamies" I found on'tinternet. And, as you'll see, there really aren't a lot, there are loads I certainly have never heard of and, crucially, there is no-one called Jamie White

So, if we do nothing else for the boy, at least Vanessa and I have given him a chance to make a name for himself.

* Jamie Bell, English pianist, singer, and songwriter, BAFTA-winning English actor
* Jamie Cook, guitarist for British indie band Arctic Monkeys
* Jamie Cope, English snooker player
* Jamie Carragher, English footballer for Liverpool Football Club
* Jamie Cullum, English pianist, singer, and songwriter
* Jamie Lee Curtis, American actress
* Jamie DeWolf, American slam poet
* Jamie Dornan, Northern Irish model, actor and musician
* Jamie Durie, Australian landscaper and television personality
* Jamie Farr, American actor
* Jamie Foxx, American actor
* Jamie Gold, American television producer and poker player
* Jamie Guzman, Dominican blogger and architect
* Jamie Harris, professional footballer
* Jamie Hewlett, comic book artist and co-creator of the band Gorillaz
* Jamie Hyneman, host of the show MythBusters
* Jamie Kane, a fictional UK pop star of an alternate reality game of the same name
* Jamie Kennedy, American comedian and actor
* Jamie Kennedy, Canadian chef
* Jamie King, British television actor
* Jamie Langenbrunner, American ice hockey player and captain of New Jersey Devils
* Jamie Lidell, English musician and soul singer
* Jamie Korab, Canadian curler
* Jamie McCrimmon, fictional character in Doctor Who played by Frazer Hines
* Jamie Johnston, Canadian actor
* Jamie McGonnigal, American voice actor
* Jamie Madrox, a fictional Marvel superhero, also known as Multiple Man
* Jamie Moyer, MLB starting pitcher for the Philadelphia Phillies
* Jamie Murray,Scottish tennis player,Wimbledon Doubles 2007 Champion
* Jamie O'Brien, American surfer
* Jamie O'Neal, Australian country singer
* Jamie O'Neill, Irish novelist
* Jamie Oliver, TV chef
* Jamie Redknapp, English footballer for the Liverpool football club
* Jamie Reid, American backstroke swimmer
* Jamie Rose, American actress
* Jamie Salé, Canadian figure skater
* Jamie-Lynn Sigler, American actress
* Jamie Smith, cartoonist
* Jamie Lynn Spears, American Actress
* Jamie Spencer, Irish Jockey
* Jamie Stevens, German pop singer and songwriter
* Jamie Theakston, English television and radio presenter
* Jamie Thomas, skateboarder
* Jamie T, English musician
* Jamie Walker, MLB relief pitcher for the Baltimore Orioles

Bananas

I learnt three new things today.

The first was after I told a couple of work colleagues about how hard it often was to get Jamie off to sleep, particularly after he'd woken up in the night.

"I used to put my daughter in the car and drive her around until she nodded off," said one of them. "I remember taking her out once at 2am."

"My sister does that with one of her kids," said my other friend. A common approach then and most bizarre.

But not as bizarre as the next discovery I made. I was talking to a local businessman who, for an entire lifetime, has presided over a very successful paint firm.

We were discussing the Prince Charles "Sooty" controversy which broke today, off the back of the Prince Harry row which was in the Sunday papers.

"We used to sell a paint called 'nigger brown,'" said the man who, I can assure you, doesn't have a racist bone in his body. "It seems almost unbelievable these days, and understandably so, but a lot has changed since then."

And as an aside, a little research this evening unearthed the following related passage on Wikipedia:

"Historically, British people would often describe a dark shade of brown as 'nigger brown,' but this and all other uses of the word 'nigger' have long since been considered offensive in Britain."

The things you learn.

The final little piece of knowledge gleaned today was that it's not a good idea to feed Jamie bananas immediately before he is due to go to bed.

Coming back to the catalyst for my first discovery, he has been waking up a lot in the last couple of nights and it's been driving us barmy. So tonight, as well as his milk, we gave him some mashed banana.

And now, at shortly after 9pm - more than two hours past his bedtime - Vanessa is still trying to get him down. The above picture, taken only minutes ago, shows just how "sleepy" he is.

I wonder what I'll find out tomorrow.

Let's...play...darts!

I've been fairly industrious today once again with accomplishments to this point including going for a run, making breakfast, booking a family trip back to Northern Ireland and setting the ball rolling to sort out accommodation for Wee John and myself for our rugby weekend in Edinburgh in March.

The Whites have also been to the supermarket which was notable for one thing - Jamie had his first go at riding in one of the sit-up trolleys as opposed to those with the baby seat. He looked much happier and I would love to show you proof but I forgot my camera (it was bound to happen some time).

But back to Wee John, it was almost exactly a week ago that he headed off back to Wales after a few difficult days helping me look after the patients.

Most of our plans had to be abandoned but one did survive, albeit only very briefly: we had a game of darts.

John and I share a lot of interests, many of them both trivial and silly (it comes with being a boy) and one of these is watching darts on TV. Like most people of our age, we well remember "The Craft Cockney" Eric Bristow, Jocky Wilson, John Lowe and the other darts legends gracing our screens in the 1980s and early 1990s. Like snooker, darts was a big deal - evidenced, for example, by the success of Bullseye every Sunday teatime on ITV.

The sport then appeared to die away. That was until Sky Sports got their hands on it. The breakaway Professional Darts Corporation was formed to include most of the top players, lots of new televised tournaments were scheduled and the hype machine was put into overdrive.

Player nicknames are now mandatory as are personalised theme tunes as they walk to the stage, the matches are now held in huge indoor arenas and shouting and cheering are encouraged rather than frowned upon. In short, it's all got very silly and a whole lot of fun - making it very attractive to John and I.

I'm sorry to report that John "Quick Flight" Fulton defeated Barry "He's Sh*te" White by three legs to two. The picture above shows Quick Flight admiring my double 12 to win leg four.

I intend to do a lot of practicing before his next visit when I confidently predict he will take a hell of a beating - I'm planning to put the dart board up even higher.

Back in the new routine

I made a small number of mental New Year's resolutions last week - shortly after the above pic was taken (by me) - and then had to quickly park one or two of them whilst the White family illnesses ran their course. But this morning I had the chance to get one underway.

It's quite simple really, I want to make better use of my spare time. I'm a bit of a faffer, see. Rather than get on with doing the things I need to do and get them out of the way, I often p*ss about and either not do what I intended to do or take a whole day to do something which should have taken half an hour.

Anyway, after a sensible night last night, Jamie kicked off at around 2.30 this morning and again at 6.30. I managed to get a fair bit of sleep in between the tantrums but Vanessa got very little.

So, after he stirred the second time, I offered to take him downstairs for his breakfast and a bit of playing whilst Mrs W had some down time.

Following a quick change of nappy, I served him a feast of porridge, pear puree and milk topped off with some anti-biotics (let's call that a "special"). Then we mixed some telly - including cricket, Fantasy Island and The Green Green Grass (which was surprisingly good) - with time in his walker before we headed into the kitchen so I could make breakfast for Vanessa and me.

Vanessa arrived down bang on 9.30 and, just as we finished eating, Jamie decided to have a sleep - giving me about an hour and a half to work on my sitcom.

With Vanessa back in charge, I headed off to the gym for a much-needed workout before returning in time for lunch.

All of this detail might seem a bit dull but the key point is that I can't remember cramming so much into a single Saturday morning in my adult life.

The three of us were then supposed to go to the birthday party I mentioned last night but instead we decided to take a well-wrapped up Jamie out for a push instead. Hopefully no offence will be taken by the party host.

As for now, Jamie's bathtime isn't far away and, should we get him down without too much difficulty, we have a whole night ahead of us. Marvellous.

I'm now determined to be equally industrious tomorrow. And I probably will be. No, no - I will be!