I've lived to tell the tale

Sometimes you just have to hold your hand up and concede that you might have approached an event with slightly less enthusiasm than was both realistic and fair.

I therefore cut to the chase - the camping weekend wasn't anywhere near as unpleasant as expected. In fact, I'll go further; I enjoyed it. And so did everyone else - including Jamie. Indeed, as it stands, I have no real problem with the concept of going next year either. Vanessa is even talking about just the three of us heading away for a couple of nights in a field next month. (Note to wife: never going to happen).

The weekend got off to a very positive start when we arrived to find our spanking new tent had already been erected by Mike, Judy and others including Dagenham Dave (what's he after?!)

We walked to the beach yesterday morning, straight into a typical British summer scene i.e. it was freezing.

But the sun eventually came out and the mood improved.

Jamie had a go in Dave's "Austin Powers" dingy - maybe next time we'll actually put it in the water.

The journey back to camp was a challenge to say the least (that's me pushing our boy).

And then the sand had to be washed off...

...before the barbecue began.

But seriously, it was great. Thanks to everyone involved, especially Mike who essentially organised the whole thing. (And just to stress that, despite the undoubted success of the past couple of days, I'm still not lying in a random field in August. No way, Pedro).

A poem about camping

Following on from yesterday's posting and as a means of underlining just how much I'm looking forward to the camping weekend about to begin, I've quickly scribbled a short poem.

It's called I Hate Camping and I hope it strikes a chord with those of a like mind.

*****

I HATE CAMPING

by Barry Richard White (Aged 37 1/4)

I hate camping
I really do
It’s always raining
When you need the loo

It’s sometimes windy
And it’s often cold
Which is not much fun
When you’re getting old

I hate camping
Even the thought
Despite the flash tent
That Vanessa bought

Jamie’s coming
Which should make me bright
But so is Dave
And he talks shite

I hate camping
But it must be done
‘Cos Vanessa said so
And her mum

So I’ve packed my clothes
And I’ve packed my beer
For come 5 o’clock
I’ll not be here

I’ll be in my tent
With my wife and son
Soaking wet
And changing his bum

Yes, I hate camping
But it’s once a year
And come Sunday teatime
I’ll be full of cheer

So between now and then
I’ll do my best
To be a happy camper
And have a rest

But I still hate camping

Preparing to camp it up

The Whites are due to set off for North Yorkshire tomorrow on our first annual family camping weekend since becoming a three-piece. And Daddy is a little bit apprehensive.

Don't get me wrong, it's no reflection on anyone else who will be there (except Dagenham Dave, but that goes without saying. Others expected include Vanessa's mum Judy, stepdad Mike, sister Hannah and her boys Oliver and Alexander, brother Jonathan, his wife Helen and their two kids Jack and Holly).

But, despite some of my personal mannerisms, I am not what could be described as a natural camper.

I have tried - tried very hard, in fact. But I just can't see the point.

I mean, where is the logic in working hard to scrape together enough money to put down a deposit on a house and then continue to graft to pay the mortgage if you suddenly decide to live in a tent in a field in the back of beyond? (albeit, only for two nights a year - but still).

It's like going out for a long walk. Why would anyone want to do that? We've got cars and trains and bicycles and buses - so why waste your shoe leather and your free time by ambling to a fixed point at 2mph before turning back? I simply don't understand.

Vanessa and I got off to something of a poor start with our joint camping career some years ago when we turned up in what became known - extremely disrespectfully - as "Moonbase Alpha." Given that tag by Big John of Chesterfield, a family friend, it was a £10 tent from Asda that Vanessa and I could just about squeeze into. It wasn't easy to put up and it was even more difficult to keep up but, despite the jibes, we called it home for that one weekend every 12 months.

In 2007, we changed our approach and shared a bigger tent with Dave, Hannah and Oliver and, yes, it was certainly more comfortable than Moonbase Alpha. But, as sure as night follows day, Dave barely shut up during both night and day. And even when he did stop for a breath, I still knew he was there - which was just as off-putting.

After missing last year's trip in the wake of Jamie's arrival, we are due to unveil the new White family tent tomorrow. Vanessa bought it second hand off a friend of Big John for £100 (you read that right) and I'm yet to see it - it's still in Judy and Mike's garage. But, unless it comes with an inflatable fridge and butler, I fear we're in for something of a disappointment.

Given I haven't yet had sight of this colossus, I therefore also haven't had a chance to practice putting it up - which means people will laugh at me. And it's bound to be raining too. Really, really hard. On my head.

However, despite my obvious misgivings, I have taken the brave and selfless decision to try - between now and tomorrow - to be positive and open-minded about what lies ahead. Really. I'll then give you my verdict here on Sunday once we've managed to swim home (the forecast is for heavy rain).

Did I mention Dagenham Dave was coming along?!

Sorry - I'm thinking positive, POSITIVE..!

Super Soaraway Son

I mentioned that yesterday was a bizarre day and it was. Or, to be more precise, it got off to a very bizarre start.

I dropped Jamie off at nursery as normal on a Tuesday and went to work. But, an hour later, I was home. I had only been at my desk for about 10 minutes when Vanessa rang; the nursery had just been on to her to report that Jamie had a very high temperature and they couldn't rule out the possibility of it being related to Swine Flu.

I told the girls in my office who quickly ushered me out of the door with the instruction that I worked from home for the next couple of days at least - which is what I've done.

But the important news is that Jamie's temperature dropped over the course of yesterday morning and, other than being a bit more tetchy than normal, he's been fine and showing no further signs of the piggy plague since then.

It may well be that his little moment was triggered by the seemingly imminent arrival of four - yes, four - new teeth. Gary, Mark, Howard and Jason have been making their way through his top gum for several weeks and hopefully they'll take their bow very soon.

Meanwhile, I have been productive during my two days of exile from Bradford but, well, it's only natural that I've wavered a little bit every now and then.

During one particularly weak moment yesterday afternoon, I decided to enter Jamie for The Sun's bonny baby competition, imaginatively entitled "Sunbeams" (I hope you can see what they did there).

The competition winner gets a child modelling contract with a top agency in that London, together with £1,000 of Matalan vouchers.

The picture above is Jamie's entry and you can even see how it looks on The Sun website by clicking onto http://sunbeams.thesun.co.uk/ and entering Jamie White.

Voting hasn't opened yet but, when it does, Sun readers will be asked to choose the top 100 babies online, the field will then be whittled down to 30 by a group of "independent judges" including a "model scout" and "The Sun's Royal photographer Arthur Edwards." And then Sun readers will get the chance to pick their overall winner in a (no doubt extortionately priced) phone vote.

Clearly, we are not getting our hopes up for Jamie's ultimate success at this stage, although he has already won a raffle in his own right and how many other one-year-olds you know can say that? (In fact, not even he can say that yet - just "quack.") But, come on, what a laugh!

Needless to say you will be advised (more than once) on when you can start to "Click For Jamie" - I think it's towards the end of August.

But before I go, I have to say there is one aspect of this competition which baffles me.

How is anyone meant to spend £1,000 - that's £100 x 10 - in Matalan?!

I reckon even David Blaine would have trouble pulling off that particular trick.

Out-standing

It's been a very bizarre day thus far and I've absolutely no idea how it's going to end - I'll know more when I collect Jamie from nursery shortly. Full details tomorrow.

In the meantime, we've had another of those baby landmark moments: Jamie can now stand up on his own.

The picture above is not the sharpest I've ever taken as he's currently only able to stay upright for a couple or three seconds at a time. Indeed, I've felt a bit like one of Sir David Attenborough's cameramen over the last few days trying to capture this great moment of natural history. But at least you can be assured I'm not telling fibs.

Now that he is literally up on his own two feet, a huge range of exciting new possibilities suddenly present themselves. These include him getting a summer job to help to pay his way.

All offers will be considered so please feel free to send them through.

Living on the edge

I like to consider myself a particularly modern dad - and with very good reason, in my book.

I wear jeans and trainers a lot. I have a Playstation. And an iPod. I drink beer and fall over sometimes. And I've even been known to stay up past 11.30 at night.

However, today I did something really, really modern: I bought a pair of work shoes on the Interweb.

Last week, I managed to split the upper on the left shoe of one pair, and the sole fell off the right shoe of another. So, clearly, I needed at least one new pair.

However, such is the pace of my hectic, modern dad lifestyle, I simply don't have time at the moment to visit the shops myself so I turned on my PC and went shopping on t'net.

And I'm very pleased with my purchase: a shiny new pair of black Hush Puppies for just £37.50 - that's 25% off!

I mean, how much more modern can a dad get?

Maybe next time I'll really splash out and buy myself one of those brown corduroy jackets with patches on the elbows.

Pudsey Porky

We've all seen countess recreations of that famous American Beauty poster - some good, some awful and some quite amusing.

Yesterday, whilst watching the Ashes on TV and trying to keep Jamie amused, I had an idea.

Yer man was playing in his ball pool and, in a moment of inspiration, I got my camera out and encouraged my subject to get into the part.

Sexy, the result is not.

But maybe just a little bit cute (for such a tubster).

Sport Jamie?

One of several nicknames I had at school (few of them complimentary) was "Sport Barry," given to me by a very nice chap named Ian Dalzell (pictured below) who, ironically, is now a successful golf professional based in the United States. And I continue to be as obsessed with sport now as I was back then.

To illustrate, I didn't manage to update the site yesterday as I had to rush straight from a day's work in Bradford to The Sports Cafe in Leeds to watch the Ashes and then on to Headingley to witness the Leeds Rhinos in action.

Needless to say I had my little personal radio with me so I could keep my ear on the cricket whilst bussing it from Pudsey to Leeds.

And then, this morning, I was up early to see the All Blacks pip Australia in the rugby union Tri-Nations, before a quick dash to Asda with Jamie and back in time for the first ball of the day at Lord's.

I'm only writing this now because the players are having lunch, but I'll be back downstairs by 1.40pm when England are due to continue piling misery on the convicts for another couple of hours. Tea is scheduled from 3.40-4pm so I might stick my head out of the window then to get some air.

And, of course, today is also day three of The Open Golf Championship at Turnberry - another of the great spectacles of the British sporting summer. I haven't watched much of it so far but I know what's going on and will certainly be following the final holes very closely tomorrow afternoon.

Have I ever feared that Jamie might not like sport when he gets a bit older?

Yes I have.

And does it worry me?

Yes, very much so.

But it couldn't really happen, could it? Could it?!

Nah!

Ermm...Quack?

Our son has developed a rather endearing little habit over the last week or so - he says "quack" a lot. Indeed, one could argue that "quack" is his first real word. (Alternatively, one might consider making a case that "quack" is a sound rather than a word, but I've decided against being pedantic with myself on a Thursday evening.)

Jamie's quack habit (I thank you) has not happened by accident and is actually the result of a lot of hard work by his mother - who has been singing the kids' song "Five Little Ducks" to him for months now - and his bath toys which basically comprise a load of ducks.

The first time his new trick really came to my attention was early last Saturday morning in Cardiff when I got up with him, switched on John's telly and that bloke with the large forehead from CBeebies was singing "Five Little Ducks" with some schoolkids. Jamie suddenly became unstoppable and every time Big Head sang the line, "Mother Duck said quack, quack, quack, quack," not only did Jamie quack himself but his little hands opened and closed too - like Mother Duck's mouth. A very proud moment.

All went swimmingly (are you having that one?) until I took him to nursery yesterday morning and, before dropping him off, was asked by one of the girls what he was "into" at the moment. It was not an easy question to answer, given that he's only just turned one. I mean, what can you say? "24" was out of the question, as it's on too late and he's never seen it. He's too young to drink fine wines. And he's not walking yet, never mind running, so football was also not a option.

"Ducks," I therefore announced. "He likes ducks. He can say quack and make his hands move like Mother Duck's mouth. Ducks." And then I left.

I returned some nine hours later to pick him and asked how things had gone.

"You're right about the ducks," said the nursery girl.

"We got a duck book out and he quacked the whole way through it."

Excellent, thought I. Our boy truly has talent.

"Then we got a dinosaur book out - and he quacked the whole way through that too."

"Oh."

In the wake of this, I had a little bit of extra time to kill with Jamie tonight before his bath time so I decided to conduct a quick experiment with a handful of little animal finger puppets which our friends Fran and Matt bought him for his birthday.

I put a lion on my index finger first, made a loud roaring sound and waited for his reaction..."QUACK!"

Then a frog, accompanied by a big Daddy "gribbet"..."QUACK!" went Jamie.

I know, thought I, an elephant - he's seen loads of elephants on TV. He must know what sound they make. But whilst my elephant impression may have sounded a touch lionesque in quality, I think it made little difference..."QUACK!" bellowed Jamie. And on it went.

After seven successive failures, I stuck on the end of "In The Night Garden" so we could hopefully finish the evening on a different note (so to speak). But, at the first sign of Iggle Piggle? "QUACK!"

Jamie's already been through many quirky little phases in his short life thus far, but this one really has the potential to drive me......NUTS. (Come on! Who do you think I am? Cliche Man?!)

Wales - Part III: And finally...

Bit of an odd one this - but I'll proceed nonetheless.

Right, Vanessa, Jamie and I were sitting with John in his smart "single professional man pad slap bang in the centre of Cardiff" (as I described it last week) on Saturday evening waiting for a taxi to take she and me to Cardiff Bay for dinner - John was being a nice Godfather by agreeing to babysit.

One of the many mod cons John has in his aforementioned "single professional man pad etc etc," is live CCTV pictures of the main door to his apartment block beamed straight to his telly. (Nope, I've never seen that before either - channel 7 is what you're after if you ever pop in).

We still had a few minutes to kill before the arrival of our chariot when I suddenly thought it would be "absolutely hilarious" to ask John to take Jamie downstairs to the front door where the two of them could wave at the CCTV camera. Meanwhile, Vanessa and I would put on channel 7 and enjoy surely the single funniest moment of our collective lives. (NB - we had been in the pub for part of the afternoon when, incidentally, the nice picture above was taken).

Whilst John and Jamie were in the lift en route to the front door, I decided to ready the camera to take some pics of the two of them doing their stuff.

I mean, could my little idea get any more amusing?!

Well, at first, it was funny - what do you think?

And here's another one - not bad?

However - and here's the thing - the four or five other shots I took were different to these two photos but very similar to each other (if you follow). And what they showed was basically some grainy images of a man, whose features you could not make out, carrying our baby out of a building and into the night.

Let's just say, when the penny dropped at what I was looking at, I sobered up and felt quite sick - at precisely the same moment. By the time John and Jamie arrived back, both with huge smiles on their faces, I was as white as a sheet.

Still, you live and learn - and I've learnt, for the good of my health, not to try that one again. Bloody hell.

Wales - Part II: Barry goes to Barry

I'm a huge sitcom fan and, with my friend Ben, still hold out hopes of getting my own efforts on screen some day. (We're currently one "memorable scene" away from finishing the draft of our first pilot which we then intend to submit for consideration. Sadly, it's been that way for about three months - but soon, very soon... almost certainly).

One of my favourite sitcoms of recent times is Gavin & Stacey. As fans of the show will know, it has a split setting of Billericay in Essex and Barry Island in Wales - the latter just a short drive away from Cardiff. So obviously, on Saturday, we had to go along for a look.

And what we found was perhaps a little on the "expected" side i.e. it's a bit shit.

Don't get me wrong, I love the seaside ("I do" - as the locals might add) but that's because I was brought up on the Causeway Coast in Northern Ireland which, if it had the weather, would be an even more attractive proposition than the already very attractive proposition it already is. It has the beaches, it has the rugged scenery and, in Portrush, it has some fairly decent rides (or "amusements," as we Ulster folk still like to call them).

In contrast, Barry undoubtedly does have a coastline and it also has views - but sadly not of the standard that made me feel compelled to take photographs of either (which is saying something if you've seen some of the rubbish I often display on this site).

But I did take a shot of Vanessa and John standing beside a "prize every time" stall thingy (Jamie's having a kip behind the umbrella).

I then asked John to take a picture of Vanessa and me on the rather pedestrian Waltzer...

...(not a natural photographer, our John).

I then took a snap of a typical Barry Island menu which seemed to based around something of a theme.

And then we left - having pretty much "done" Barry Island in the space of 40 minutes.

Needless to say I was a little disappointed not to have bumped into Smithy or Nessa or Uncle Bryn or, indeed, anyone from the cast of Gavin & Stacey which is currently filming its third and final series - although clearly not on Barry Island on this particular day.

That said, the journey did give me something of a necessary kick up the whatever to get back together with Ben and see our own little project through to completion, for better or for worse.

So now, in cyberspace, I hereby declare that we will have our script completed before the calendar shows September. It might be awful -but it will be finished.

The Whites go to Wales - Part I

Those kind (and lost) souls amongst you who check this site every day will be aware that I failed to update it yesterday as promised. Sorry about that.

We arrived back just after 4pm and, around half an hour later, I was in bed with what originally appeared to be the early stages of flu. It has since transpired they were probably the middle stages of mild alcohol poisoning.

So, yes, we did have a very pleasant long weekend in that Wales (thanks for asking).

We saw the sights - that's Jamie above outside the Millennium Stadium.

John and I were spectators at the third day of the Ashes cricket...

...together with 15,998 other lucky souls.

We did a bit of collective socialising...

...and Vanessa and I even had a meal out on our own for what seemed like the first night in living memory. (Being in Cardiff where the show is filmed, she even wore her Doctor Who-style cardigan - always thinking).

We also took a couple of hours out on Saturday to go on something of a pilgrimage. Sadly, Jamie slept through the whole trip so he, like you, will have to wait until tomorrow to find out where we went.

Taking our boyo down to Wales

The Whites are off to Wales for The Ashes!

I'm the only one of our number who's actually going to day three of the First Test tomorrow, but Vanessa and Jamie are making the journey too for what will hopefully be a fun weekend of adventure in the Principality.

Jamie's Godfather and my teeniest, tiniest friend John - also coming to the cricket - will be our host in his plush "single professional man" pad slap bang in the centre of Cardiff. He's also been responsible for getting his hands of my ticket but, despite his kindess, I'm still making him buy the first round.

Although John's up here far more often than any of us would wish, I haven't been down to see him since October 2007 and the very weekend Vanessa found out Jamie the Foetus was on his way. A lot has changed since then.

However, one thing I'm assured that hasn't changed is the Welsh nation's continued admiration for the sheep - so Jamie has his packed (I'm sure the locals will laugh and laugh and laugh).

We're due back in Pudsey on Sunday and I'll tell you what happens then.

Whoops

I've genuinely just had something of a shock, now feel like a bad or - at the very least - dangerous daddy and have quickly concluded that the best thing for me to do is simply fess up.

To explain, Vanessa and I took Jamie to Harewood House last Sunday where, as per usual, he had a go on the swings.

He loves the swings and, in particular, likes to be pushed hard. I also, from time to time, like to take pictures of him on there and, in the case of Sunday, you can see examples above and below.

However, the shock I've just received is that I didn't realise Vanessa also took a couple of snaps of me pushing our beloved on Sunday and I've just stumbled across them.

The first one is fairly dull.

But the second could get me arrested.

I'm now off for a stiff brandy and a lie down.

Ginger Jamie

Like, no doubt, zillions of other freak show fans across the planet, I dipped in and out of the "Michael Jackson Memorial Concert" on TV tonight. A pretty classy affair, I'm sure you'll agree (ahem).

What cannot escape my mind is the fact that they held his "funeral service" this morning - at an actual cemetery - then piled him back into a car to drive him to his own do. I cannot help but wonder if he's now in McDonald's, accompanied by the rest of the Jackson clan, with a milkshake parked on his lid. Sorry, I hate to be disrespectful but - come on. Still, each to their own (16 carat gold coffin) I suppose. (Although, how long do you think it'll be before some "smooth criminal" nicks that? I hope you see what I did there).

Meanwhile, I appear to have a ginger son. (Seriously - of all the things that can happen. I've just never been lucky).

We're not really sure how and, certainly, why this has happened. Jamie looks blond both up close and at a distance, but the passport pictures we've just had taken tell a very different - not to mention extremely worrying - story.

We first had shots done last year when he was much smaller (and balder) but we never got round to sending them off with the form. However, we've just made some holiday plans and have suddenly had to get a move on, which meant arranging for some new photos to be taken.

I was there and saw nothing amiss. So you can therefore only imagine my shock (and maybe just a smidgen of horror) when the pictures you see above were handed to me by the smiling assistant.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against the Ginger People. But, well, there is no earthly nor biological reason why Jamie should be ginger and, quite frankly, it would be best if he wasn't.

I fear the explanation for the photos might be some sort of technical fault with the equipment at Jessops in Bradford or, at least, I hope it is. And if there is some other way of explaining it (i.e. one which suggests that he really is ginger) than perhaps it's best I don't hear it.

So, on today of all days, perhaps I can best put it like this. If Michael Jackson was black, then Jamie White is not ****ing ginger!

Him off the telly

I've been privileged to have met a few characters down the years who I'd only previously encountered on TV. And it's normally - although not always - a thrill when it happens. (One such exception was Sue Johnson from Brookside and The Royle Family who was a sectarian cow - but perhaps more of that another time).

However, generally, being on the telly does add a touch of glamour and mystique to an individual, making them much more exciting to be around than someone like, well, me.

I tried to turn this philosophy to my advantage the other day as I continued my mission to make Jamie fall in love with his birthday present from Vanessa and me: Elmo Live.

I wrote here on his big day that the gift was very much my idea with Vanessa being impressed by neither the product nor the price tag. Indeed, as I said, she argued that the talking, singing, dancing, sneezing, burping puppet was really for me. It really was and is a scandalous and, yes, extremely hurtful allegation - not to mention almost entirely false.

I have showcased Elmo to Jamie on numerous occasions over the last two weeks and I think a bond is undoubtedly beginning to develop. But I thought I would give the process just a little bit of a hurry-up last weekend when I taped an episode of Elmo's World on channel whatever it was, placed Jamie's Elmo next to the telly and pressed the play button.

I then pointed at TV Elmo and shouted as if in shock, "look Jamie, Elmo!" before re-aiming my finger at Jamie's Elmo and hollering the same line. (And repeat). At one point his neck was moving so rapidly from side to side - like one of those posh people who had tickets near the net at yesterday's Wimbledon men's final - that I feared it might roll off.

The things you do to get your kids to love you - and your, sorry, their presents.

Yorkshire Ripper

For the first time I can genuinely think of, our son has been a very naughty Jamie - very naughty indeed.

It's only really been in recent weeks that he's begun to show signs of knowing the genuine difference between right and wrong.

Take our DVD player, for example. He has now learnt how to turn it on which is not helpful as it overrides our Sky and so we have to get straight up and turn it back off again.

For this reason, Vanessa and I have taken to yelling "NO!" at him whenever he goes anywhere near it, leading him to immediately stop in his tracks...before continuing his journey to turn it on anyway. Still, it's very much a work in progress.

However, this morning's misdemeanour was much more serious: as you can see above, he ripped a chunk of the border off his bedroom wall.

I'm not a natural decorator and it took me ages to do that last year so I wasn't too pleased, and Vanessa was even less so.

I've since covered up the damage with a big mirror and a pillow - I like to improvise when I can - and I think it can be patched up (badly, if I'm doing it). But that will only be good enough until he tries it again.

Crucially, he clearly knew he had done wrong and was rather sheepish for a good hour afterwards (as his mother and I sought to ignore him) but I hope it's not the beginning of a new wicked streak in his character.

But you cannot leave these things to chance so I've already made clear to him that, next time he steps out of line, I will definitely be getting the police involved.

Like Simon Cowell like son

We're not long back from a very fun afternoon visiting our friends the Sherrards in North Yorkshire. And they're no ordinary family.

They live in Topcliffe barracks where my old school friend Dave serves as a Major in the Royal Artillery. His wife Hayley is one of life's most interesting of people with a glint never far from her eye. And their two boys have clearly been brought up as opposed to dragged up. Huw (top centre) is also my Godson and, whilst I got off to a particularly slow start, I hope I'm slowly becoming better in my role. His very close relationship with his younger brother Niall (nearest the camera) is a joy to behold.

Our afternoon of entertainment was very much the result of a combined effort on their part. At lunch, Dave did the meat element of the barbecue with Hayley providing the trimmings. Beforehand, Huw and Niall invited Jamie onto their trampoline and looked after him wonderfully (they also let me have a couple of goes, for which I was very grateful - and sweaty).

And after lunch, Hayley took Vanessa and Jamie out for a push whilst the boys watched the Lions finally stuff the Springboks in the Third Test. My glass was never empty and for that I have Dave to thank (hic!)

All very pleasant and we're already looking forward to the next time.

However, just a quick footnote on the day. It is apparent that both Dave and Jamie possess a striking similarity to Simon Cowell - albeit for different reasons.

Jamie's likeness is because, like the so-called pop Svengali, he too has a pair of moobs.

And as for Dave. Well, check out that waist band...

Finding the right words

I'll be brief because it's late and he's worn me out.

Vanessa was out tonight and I was planning several hours of "me" time - something of a rarity these days.

I'd got a big steak in, I already had lots of Guinness in and I'd been saving a documentary about Willie John McBride's '74 Lions in South Africa to watch.

Jamie normally goes down around about 7pm - even when I'm doing his bottle.

But occasionally (again, when I'm on duty) he refuses to play ball and reinforcements are called in who answer to the name of "Mummy" (if you can talk, that is).

However, I don't know what it is and it has happened several times before but, when it's only me in the house, occasionally our boy decides there is no way he's going to sleep and he's staying up for some boys' fun time. Tonight was one such occasion.

To cut a long story short - because it is almost tomorrow - I eventually got him down at just after 9.35pm tonight, i.e. more than two and a half hours later than normal. And, to be fair, it was a lot of fun.

He played and he smiled, then he played a bit more and smiled a bit more. And then when I threatened to attempt to put him down for about the fourth occasion of the evening, he poured a bottle of water over himself - forcing me to change his clean-on sleepsuit and fresh nappy.

What finally did the trick was an old song from my not particularly dim but certainly distant past.

To explain, once I had got to around 8.15pm, I decided that I would put the Lions documentary on in any case - Jamie would just have to cope. And the sight of Willie John McBride must, ultimately, have had a subliminal effect on me.

I have tried several songs on Jamie over the last 12 months - most of which I'd rather not talk about - in my quest to get him snoozing. But tonight, from nowhere, The Wild Rover suddenly entered my head.

The Wild Rover is one of the few songs I know from start to finish; the reason being that, along with my teammates, I'd attended choir practice to learn the words in advance of my school 1st XV's rugby tour of Japan in 1989 - a tour captained by Willie John McBride's son Paul.

And, as I say, it worked a treat with Jamie nodding off in the midst of verse two (although I was having such a good time that I decided to sing the whole song through anyway- not even missing a chorus).

So there's the bright spot of tonight - Jamie and I have perhaps found our own song. And as an added bonus, it's not rude.

He'd better look after that bear

I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that Jamie was off to his first teddy bears picnic - a very exciting moment for the young man.

Organised by his nursery, it wasn't to be just any teddy bears picnic held on a random day. Oh no, they're much more professional than that.

Instead, it was to be a special celebratory picnic to mark the occasion of Paddington's birthday. And, as an added extra, there was to be a raffle to win Paddington himself with all proceeds going to help sick and vulnerable babies.

Well, yes, you guessed right - our Jamie won.

Clearly, his mother and I were very pleased for him when we heard the news and he seems to like his new friend. Hopefully his run of luck will now continue for another hundred or so years yet.

But there's since been a twist to the story which has cast Jamie's success in a slightly different light - at least in my eyes.

Although he received his prize a few days ago, it was only formally announced in the July/August issue of Little People News which hit the streets yesterday (I'm sure all copies will have gone by now, so don't waste your time trying to get your hands on one).

And the article reads as follows:

"Paddington Bear Raffle Winners

1st Prize goes to Jamie White in Babies who wins Paddington Bear."

Good stuff so far - but then it adds:

"2nd Prize goes to Sara Jones in Tweenies who wins a bottle of wine."

WHAT?!

OK, call me selfish, but deep inside, a little part of me is absolutely gutted.

Omagh remembered

Saturday 15 August 1998 is a day that I, like so many millions of others across the world, will sadly never, ever forget.

For it was on this date that the Real IRA detonated a massive car bomb in Omagh, Co Tyrone, killing 31 innocent people including unborn twins and 11 children.

Despite knowing the identities of the "men" responsible for the massacre, the police could not gather together sufficient evidence to bring criminal prosecutions. But the matter would not be allowed to let rest there.

Taking as their motto, "From evil to triumph, all that is necessary is for good men to do nothing," families of 10 of the victims decided to pursue the murderers through the civil courts where the burden of proof is lower.

I was working for the Ulster Unionist Party in Westminster at the time and was privileged to become personally involved in their quest for justice which eventually ended just over three weeks ago when Michael McKevitt, Liam Campbell, Colm Murphy and Seamus Daly were found to be responsible for the bombing and ordered to pay £1.6 million in damages. Seamus McKenna was cleared of involvement but, trust me, he did it.

Last night I was honoured to attend the London launch of,"Aftermath - The Omagh Bombing and the Families' Pursuit of Justice," an awe-inspiring book written by my good friend Ruth Dudley Edwards (pictured above).

Also speaking were three very important people whose individual roles were crucial to the success of the campaign.

One was the always impressive Marquis of Salisbury - formerly Robert Cranborne - who put his hand in his pocket and also assisted in countless other ways.

Peter Mandelson who, to his immense credit, persuaded the Labour Government to make a significant contribution from the public purse towards the fighting fund.

And Victor Barker, for me, the most eloquent spokesperson for the Omagh families, who tragically lost his 12-year-old son James in the atrocity.

It was an extraordinarily moving occasion and my signed copy of Ruth's book is something I will cherish forever. I would strongly encourage you to pick one up at your local bookshop if you get the chance.

As a slight but associated aside, exactly seven days after the bombing, the town of Omagh came to a standstill whilst a memorial service was held close to the site of the blast.

During that service, local singer Juliet Turner performed a song entitled "Broken Things" which I remember very vividly. I've just spent some time searching for a link to the footage of this and eventually succeeded.

I challenge you not to have tears in your eyes by the time you've finished listening: http://news.bbc.co.uk/olmedia/155000/video/_156891_julia_turner_vi.ram