The holiday adventures of a trainee gigolo

If there was one thing the female infant visitors to Murcia were not short of during our visit, it was attention from Jamie. And he really does have some work to do on his act - not that he was wholly unsuccessful.

The scene captured above, when he fell to his knees in front of a random passing dolly bird, did not bode well for him after she simply walked past.

But then he spotted the fair Emily and waddled up for a closer look.

After a swift and, one might say, cold rejection, he tried the old "fall to the knees and look sad/desperate" trick again.

And then he completely threw in the self-respect towel and had to be rescued by his Mummy.

But a little later, he decided to show some maturity by seeking Emily's advice on how he might win over someone else.

At first he didn't like what he heard.

So Emily decided to get tough and tell him to act like the young man he is.

Sensing no other option, he listened some more. And Emily was so impressed by whatever it was he gurgled next that she decided to point Jamie in the direction of her fellow baby Geordie lass, named Eva.

Thankfully Eva proved to be a much more willing proposition and soon wanted to take him to meet her Mam.

A suggestion Jamie was very open to - even excited about.

This all happened on Friday night. And, after dinner on Saturday, he sealed the deal.

Sadly Eva was due to leave just a few hours later and Jamie was forced into a tearful goodbye.

However, as his experiences with Emily had taught him, the only way to deal with heartache is to get back on that horse.

So, on Sunday evening, he ran into Jenna...

...who left on Monday.

Back in that Yorkshire

Yes, after seven very memorable days, we've just arrived back in a grey and windy Pudsey - but with smiles upon our faces.

It is obviously never easy to come back from holiday but the task is not as daunting when you've had a good time.

Jamie certainly seemed to have a ball and, like any parents, if your son is happy (and not breaking things) then mum and dad feel good about matters too.

I've got work in the morning so, between now and then, the plan is to pick up a Chinese (our first since the food poisoning incident but I'm going somewhere else) and try to avoid unpacking (until at least October on my part). And I might go to bed at some point too.

Then tomorrow night I'll tell and show you what happened when Jamie found love.

But before I dash, I'll leave you with a photo of undoubtedly the most surreal moment of the trip.

Suggested captions are welcome.

There´s one everywhere you go

Just over a day to go now on the Whites´first foreign holiday - just as we were getting settled into it.

And I have to say, Jamie has been something of a revelation. He´s only been walking a relatively short while and still hasn´t quite perfected the art. But we´ve let him off the leash a lot on this trip and his response has at times been absolutely hilarious.

To cut to the quick, he´s essentially become a social prostitute - I can´t think of a better way to put it.

He´s run up to almost everybody he sees - generally falling over en route - to say "hiya," to smile, to shout, to show them his toy car or, in the case of a little Geordie girl called Eva, for a kiss. Because, yes, he´s has had his first holiday romance. I´ll say no more about that now as you really need to see the pictures and I can´t upload them from here but, trust me, they are worth waiting a couple of days for.

However, my absolute favourite moment of the jaunt thus far was on Saturday evening when he met what I can only describe as "Spanish Jamie."

A little boy was being carried down the main street past all the restaurants where everyone was having dinner. Jamie had finished his and, as has been his wont, was running around entertaining himself and as many others as he could manage (the people here have been very good).

He spotted this aforementioned mini-amigo looking over his mum´s shoulder and began to shout at him. Jamie wasn´t coming out with words of any particular description, just sounds. And then the little Spanish boy reacted, shouting loudly back at him in his own tongue.

So Jamie took off down the street, arms in the air, bellowing at his new foreign chum - who bellowed back just as loudly at our boy. The whole thing went on for about a minute, the Spanish boy continuing to be on the move and Jamie continuing to run after him like Freddie Flintoff appealing for a catch. Diners from both sides of the street stopped what they were doing to watch the show unfold. And I had tears in my eyes because I was laughing so much.

In the end Vanessa had to go after him as I couldn´t physically move.

It reminded me of an episode of Rab C Nesbitt when Rab went to Spain and stumbled across his Spanish counterpart. If you haven´t seen it or even if you have and want to see it again, click on to this link and start watching at two minutes 30 seconds: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P3Mahftz_P0 It still cracks me up.

We´ve spent this morning out and about on bikes - Jamie riding on a seat on the back of my two-wheeled version of a jalopy. There will be more of that this afternoon, a last supper tonight and the packing for home starts in the morning.

Delays permitting I´ll try to put some pics up on our arrival home tomorrow night.

But as for now, we´re off to make the best of what´s left (including two bottles of wine and five beers).

He wuz McRobbed

Well, I can´t say I´m not disappointed.

Sadly and despite the support of many loyal readers of this rubbish and more than 30 votes from his father who cheated, Jamie failed to make the top 100 in The Sun´s bonny baby competition.

The finalists have just been posted online and, after scrolling through the pictures twice (just in case), I´m sorry to confirm that our little man´s mug is absent.

I must admit I was preparing for the worst - I am a White after all. But you really should see some of the mingdogs who made it through. I´m naming no names but one male contestant has a head like a Weetabix. Another is even fatter than Jamie himself - imagine that.

Rather less surprising is the high proportion of Scottish children in the final. This is the country which, through sheer blinkered prejudice and the lack of anything better to do, secured victory for Leon Jackson on The X Factor and Michelle McManus on Pop Idol. I´m afraid both those jokes turned out to be on you, my Jocko friends! (Sorry, I´ve got plenty of Scottish mates so no offence intended - unless you voted for Baby Hamish McSporran from Inverness, or whatever his ****ing name was!)

Anyway, there we are.

I´ll bring you up to date on our holiday next time. But first, I´d better go and give Jamie the bad news.

NB: Q - Why was Jesus not born in Scotland?

A - Because God couldn´t find three wise man and a virgin.

Not that I´m bitter.

Fun, rain and pain in Spain

Vanessa and I are going to need a holiday after this...erm...holiday.

The two of us are fortunate to have been on several beach-type holidays over the years. And we´ve often wondered how hard it would be with a young child in tow. Well, a young child is one thing but a young Jamie is quite another - and it´s very, very hard.

For example, I brought two books with me to last the seven days. And how far have I got? I´ve read precisely half a page (and not much even happened in those three paragraphs, which was particularly disappointing).

Don´t get me wrong, our boy´s been good - when he´s not been teething, that is. For, yes, more little pearlers are on their way and this time they include some of the big jobs at the back. We didn´t get him down until past midnight last night, more than five hours after his bedtime. Thankfully, he´s a lot brighter today so we - and he - have got to be happy about that.

He was well-behaved on the flight too, largely thanks to the two big Northern blokes behind us who were only too happy to give him high fives whenever he chose. But, save for 40 minutes of sleep, he didn´t stay motionless for more than three seconds at a time (as Vanessa and I took it in turns to have him on our knees).

At the beach and in the cafes, he´s spent all his "free time" (i.e. when he´s not tied to his pram or a high chair) running around and flirting with what appears to be the cast of Cocoon (there are a lot of very "mature" people staying/preparing to die here).

On other matters, we landed in the middle of a lightning storm which was accompanied by the first rain Murcia has had since March (the Whites are in town so it was kind off inevitable) and, boy, did it chuck it down.

We had a lot of wind on Wednesday and Thursday too and the beach pretty much cleared en masse yesterday afternoon when the sand began to whip up.

Our "baby-equipped" apartment is excellent, but for the fact that, on arrival, it wasn´t baby-equipped - I would´ve thought a travel cot and a highchair would be key to the description (especially since we ordered both in advance) and we had neither. However, the cot arrived on day two and the highchair appeared about an hour ago. Better very late than not at all though.

Oh, and I fell off a swing this morning. At least I can now say from personal experience that that foam stuff they put down these days to prevent injuries works, even when you´re a daddy. (Jamie cried rather than laughed whenever it happened, which I was quite touched about. There again, I was holding him at the time).

They have an Irish bar here (there´s a shock), its two Euros a pint, the weather´s looking good now and I don´t have work on Monday (or Tuesday), so things are looking up (a bit like me as I lay on the ground, staring at the sky after falling off my swing).

PS A prize to anyone who spotted the "deliberate" mistake in my last post i.e. Spain is only one hour ahead of UK time and not two as I said. I blame Vanessa as it was her fault).

The rain in Spain will land mainly on the Whites

The passports are packed, so is the baby (I think) and we're almost ready for our flight into the unknown. (Well, Murcia, but you know what I mean).

A week on sun loungers is exactly what Vanessa and I need at this moment in time. But there are two problems of significance. First, the forecast for where we're going is poor, at least initially. And second, I'm not sure Jamie is really up for lying on his back for seven days.

However, on the plus side, there is the huge bonus of the two-hour time difference. For example, our man's 7.15-ish bedtime suddenly becomes 9.15-ish - giving us some scope to go out for leisurely dinners. And his normal 5 o'clock in the morning waking up time here translates into 7 o'clock in Spain, which is almost civil. (There's a bound to be a line in there about the Spanish Civil War, but I'll refrain). Still, I'm sure it will not work out quite like that.

We're due back next Tuesday evening. But if the weather is half as bad as we're led to believe, I may try to track down an Internet cafe to let you know how we're getting on.

Now then, one more time: "Dos cervezas, por favor." And there was me thinking my GCSE Spanish was a complete waste of time.

PS Jamie has asked me to remind you that online voting in The Sun's bonny baby competition closes at midday tomorrow (Wednesday). Click on to http://sunbeams.thesun.co.uk/and follow the instructions if you want to give him your support. He'll find out if you don't.

Barnaby set to be bumped

Meet Barnaby Bear.

Barnaby is the resident bear at the Little People Nursery in Stanningley which Jamie attends. He is also a very privileged bear in that he gets to go on holiday with all of Jamie's nursery friends - and Jamie - according to the house rules.

But I fear Barnaby Bear is in for something of a disappointment tomorrow lunchtime. Vanessa and I are taking our boy on his first foreign holiday when we go for a cheapie week in Spain. It'll also be Jamie's first time on a plane so, obviously, we're all very excited (if also a little apprehensive about how White Junior will cope with being cooped up for two-plus hours, but anyway). And Barnaby Bear is, apparently, very excited too.

He came home with Jamie from nursery tonight all set for his latest trip. And then I arrived in from work.

Now, perhaps I'm being a little harsh and maybe even a touch snooty but, in my lowly view, Barnaby Bear is a bit shit (and he may even have some stuck to his fur).

Have a look. He's got paint stains on both cheeks. He's not as sky blue as he once was. And, crucially, he's almost certainly carrying every germ every child has ever brought into the Little People Nursery. Indeed, I'm sure I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of kids in there who haven't sneezed on him - or worse.

I've promised to sleep on the matter and we can talk about it again in the morning. But, as it stands, I think Barnaby Bear will be spending a quiet seven days in sunny...Pudsey. Probably in our garden.

Weekend winds down

Coldplay were typically excellent in Manchester last night although, to be a little harsh, neither Vanessa nor I enjoyed it quite as much as when we saw them back in December at the Sheffield Arena.

But this wasn't so surprising. The first gig was at the start of their "Viva La Vida" world tour and, after 150-odd dates since, they could be excused for being a little less vibrant. Also, last night was an outdoor gig in front of 55,000 people as opposed to I think 12,500 nine months ago, so clearly it wasn't as intimate.

Plus:

1. We were standing up and are quite middle-aged now
   
2. We were stone cold sober (did I mention Friday night?)
   
3. They didn't play Speed of Sound
4. U2 were unbelievable a few weeks ago

Still, we were very lucky to be there at all and remain huge fans.

The kindness of Wee John and Karen, in coming up from Cardiff to babysit, was the only reason we were able to go at all and we're obviously extremely grateful to them for that.

Jamie was, according to them, as good as gold last night which was a relief (not to mention a surprise). We all had lunch together today before John and Karen departed (late, thanks to some very well thought out roadworks in Leeds).

White Junior particularly enjoyed his kiddie meal - his second lunch of the day - having had his "normal" lunch before leaving the house. And he had lots of fussy women around him too.

Almost the perfect experience for our boy, although also very tiring.

Most importantly of all, neither Karen nor Wee John mentioned "the toilet incident" at any point today. I reckon they've already forgotten about what happened and I'll never hear of it again. And if you believe that, you'll believe absolutely anything. Anything at all.

Babysitters? Check!

Miraculously, everyone arrived on time last night (Wee John and Karen were actually early) and all went swimmingly. Too swimmingly. Indeed, you could have managed a decent backstroke in the amount of alcohol we drunk.

But we soldier on and, in a few hours from now, Vanessa and I will head to Manchester to see Coldplay in concert. Can't wait.

Meanwhile, Jamie is having a whale of a time. John and Karen have already showered him with gifts and attention - although the food on their plates is, as always, of greatest interest to him - and tonight they will undoubtedly have their hands full on the babysitting front. Still, they did volunteer (ho! ho!)

UPDATE 1602: Oh dear. Prior to last night, I'd only met Karen once - whilst we were in Cardiff for the cricket. It was therefore something of an embarrassment when, over lunch today, she let slip - well, John announced gleefully - that she'd seen me at around 3 o'clock this morning during an aborted visit to the loo.

I was asleep. On the loo. With my trousers around my ankles.

Are second impressions more important than first impressions? (assuming her first impression of me was reasonably positive). I can only hope not. Equally, I can also only hope that, one day, I will live this down. But, as it stands, that seems unlikely.

The weekend starts here(ish)

Crowns, according to my dentist, are supposed to last a minimum of 10 years. It was therefore with some regret that my new left front crown, “installed” less than two weeks ago, began to come loose on the train journey home from that appointment. I’m heading into Leeds again shortly to get a lick more cement on it. Hopefully it will last at least a few hours rather than minutes this time.

After that particular job is done, I am due to meet Wee John and his new lady Karen – we like Karen – at Leeds train station to begin a weekend of varied entertainments. A visit to the pub is first on the agenda.

Vanessa and I booked tickets some time ago for a little outdoor event in Manchester tomorrow night and believed we were well covered on the babysitting front. Sadly, we weren’t and John and Karen have very kindly agreed to come up from Cardiff (yes, the Welsh one, more than 200 miles away) to help us out.

Meanwhile, later tonight, John’s fellow Godparent Vicky is equally kindly popping in with her friend to look after Jamie for a couple of hours whilst Vanessa, John, Karen and me nip round the corner for some food.

The ultimate success of this evening depends largely on:

1 John and Karen’s train being on time and
2 Vicky’s friend’s train being on time

So it’s bound to be a disaster.

VOTE FOR ME!!! (please)

After many weeks of growing tension, excitement and anticipation, online voting for this year's Sunbeams bonny baby competition has finally opened.

Promoted by everyone's favourite family newspaper The Sun (what?!), more than 30,000 eager kiddies have submitted their pics (kids are very good with cameras and stuff these days) and that number now has to be whittled down to a mere 100 by the great British public.

I've spent considerable time deciding where my vote will go and, after much soul-searching, have chosen to support the claims of a young man from Pudsey, West Yorkshire by the name of Jamie White.

Should you wish to join me in recognising the fact that big babies are people too, then you can by following these instructions:

• Click on to http://sunbeams.thesun.co.uk/


• Type Jamie White into the box and press search


• Click on to the picture of the large, smiley child that appears in the top left hand corner


• Scroll down to the red box which reads VOTE FOR JAMIE WHITE


• Click on to it


• Pat yourself on the back


• Get back to work

Voting closes at midday next Wednesday (16 September), so you haven't got long.

Between now and then, Jamie and I would encourage you - to use that famous Ulster phrase - to "vote early and vote often" (particularly if you know how to delete cookies on your PC).

Needless to say I will remind you about this again before next week. And then I'll let you know how he gets on.

I reckon, with a bit of luck and some help from Simon Cowell, he could become the new SuBo.

Guess who's back

I've been snarling and gnashing my teeth a little over the past few mornings after pretty much all the major children's telly channels decided to rejig their schedules to coincide with the kids' return to school. A terrible business.

Although this morning proved to be a welcome exception, Jamie still tends to wake at around 5.30 and neither his mother nor I generally feel like rising at that time. The well-rehearsed drill then normally involves one of us giving him his milk, trying to persuade him to go back down before surrendering on the stroke of 6 and sticking him in his playpen in front of the TV.

First up is - or was - Tikkabilla, followed by Teletubbies at 6.30, Peppa Pig at 7, Bert and Ernie at 7.15, Roary The Racing Car at 7.30 and Numberjacks at 7.45. It's then time for him to have breakfast or go to nursery or whatever. Sadly, most of the shows are now on at new times (thankfully Roary is unmoved) although the Teletubbies appear to have been pensioned off with immediate effect (even Terry Wogan was given three months to clear his desk and prepare for obscurity).

However, in the midst of the upheaval, there has been one very positive change - Postman Pat has been given a new 7.45 slot on CBeebies. This is an excellent development on a number of levels. First, I like Postman Pat and could easily sit down and watch an entire series on my own with a pot of coffee and a box of Jaffa cakes. Second, rather helpfully, is that Jamie also seems to like it (although the presence of a duck in this morning's show may have given him something of a false impression). And third and perhaps most importantly of all, I know all the words to the theme tune.

Other than the National Anthem, I can only remember all the words to two songs, The Wild Rover and The Sash, neither of which are really appropriate for either polite company or young 'uns. But Postman Pat clearly is.

So, whilst I continue my personal crusade to discover if Abba were right and it really is possible for a baby to sing before he or she can talk, I can now belt out the Postman Pat theme song at least once each and every morning in the hope that Jamie eventually joins is.

There really are so many ways to put your time in when you're a parent .

Cuts

Tonight that (genuinely) nice man Alistair Darling ignored pressure from that much less nice pair Gordon Brown and Ed Balls by conceding that money does not grow on trees - even under a Labour Government - and admitting that public spending will have to be cut significantly if our country is to pay back its colossal national debt this side of the next millennium.

Meanwhile, there has been an equally dramatic cut in the White household. Yes, the moment finally arrived. Jamie has had his first haircut.

With Vanessa in charge of the scissors, he was caught unawares during a pre-bedtime episode of Peppa Pig. She only got about an inch off the back, but it is a smart job and he now looks like a boy from all angles rather than just most angles.

It is merely the first effort and there are a number of other parts of his head - the front and both sides immediately spring to mind - which still need to be attacked.

But, unlike Brown and Balls, at least we were prepared to acknowledge there was a problem, before having the courage to begin doing something about it. So there.

Talking to Terry

I began writing this blog for a number of reasons, most of which are not immediately apparent (given that it is rubbish).

However, one clear intention was to chart Jamie's first little period on Earth including, where appropriate, occasional references to events of the day.

We do live in interesting times, as the saying goes. But, despite goings on in Afghanistan and Libya and all sorts of other places at the moment, there can only be one story on this particular date. I speak, of course, of Sir Terry Wogan's decision to give up his Radio 2 breakfast show (it's big news for me, alright?!)

He began in 1972, the year I was born. And, save for an 11-year gap to present his TV chat show, has been there ever since.

I spent my infant years believing that Terry lived in our radiogram (which looked very much like the one on the right). And when he told me to shut up and eat my "Wheetiebangs," I always obeyed.

I had the great pleasure of spending almost half an hour in his company about 10 years ago whilst attending a BBC reception in Westminster. Celebrities, of course, fall into several categories when you meet them, including a rather large one entitled "big disappointment" (that's as polite as I can put it). But thankfully, he was everything you would want him to be: charming, funny and kindly. However, there was one brief moment when his demeanour - and choice of language - went downhill, and it will always remain my personal memory of him.

I had brought a piece of white card with me in the hope that I'd get to meet him and he'd give me an autograph for my mother. So, towards the end of our conversation, I decided to pounce. "No problem," he said, and signed with a minimum of fuss.

But then I pushed my luck. Prior to the reception, I asked my mum if she had any message for him - and she did. Well, it was more of a question. And here was how I put it to the great man.

"Terry," I began, "my mother sent you a letter with a request for a song for my sister's sixth birthday. That was 27 years ago but, as of this morning, you still hadn't played it. What will I tell my mum?"

Mr W (as he still was) suddenly looked a little agitated and, after about a second, shot back with this immortal line.

"Tell her to f*** off!"

He then explained a little heatedly that he didn't do requests and, even if he did, he couldn't play them all anyway - which was why he didn't do them. Fair point. And then, quite frankly, he seemed bored with me (goodness knows why it took him so long) and started talking to someone more interesting.

But, you know, I'm not one for bearing grudges.

Terry Wogan is a legend and will always be a legend.

I look forward to telling Jamie all about him in the years ahead.

Blue is the colour (I think)

I went for a five mile run this morning - half the distance of the Bradford City Run in six weeks' time - and am pleased to report that my dodgy leg remains attached to the rest of me. So, I'll keep at it.

Meanwhile, I'm leaving shortly to begin my new hobby as number one supporter of Leeds Carnegie Rugby Union Football Club.

One of my great gripes since moving to Yorkshire is the lack of top class sport I get to see. I'm a proud member of Yorkshire County Cricket Club but they only seem to play at Headingley about twice a year these days, and normally on a Thursday when I'm tasked to earn a living.

Yes, the Leeds Rhinos are the best rugby league side in the country but, try as I have done on countless occasions, it's just not a game that excites me.

Leeds United's difficulties are well-documented and, even if they do finally get promoted this season, I still don't find Elland Road the most pleasant place to watch a match.

I would go and watch some ice hockey if Leeds had a team but they don't and even when the new superduper arena is built, there are no plans to have one (which seems like a waste to me).

However, all is not lost for today at 3pm, Leeds Carnegie take their latest bow in the Guinness Premiership. They have been here before but been relegated after one or, at most, two seasons. But this year there appear to be several teams no better nor worse than them so it could get interesting.

My good friend John McIlroy - originally from Belfast but now living in Horsforth - has agreed to be my game buddy for the entire season but is in Scotland today, plus I'm away for the next home match. But, by game three at Headingley, we'll be proper regulars.

Indeed, by then, I may even be the proud owner of a Leeds Carnegie shirt - I think it's blue.

Learning from Rooney

Proudly wearing his England football shirt - ironically bought for him in Northern Ireland by his Granny White - Jamie sat down with me little more than 40 minutes ago to watch the country of his birth take on Slovenia at Wembley.

And he seemed to be enjoying what he saw.

I was too until that prince of morals Wayne Rooney, who claimed during the week that he'd never dived in his entire career, threw himself down to win a penalty for the home side.

One of the reasons I hate cheats in sport is because youngsters quickly feel the need to copy them.

I rest my case.

Doctor, doctor...DOCTOR!

30-plus-somethings from my side of the Irish Sea will no doubt remember the series of 1980s TV ads aimed at dissuading hypochondriacs from bothering busy GPs with unnecessary prescription requests.

Here's a link to one in case you're a UTV nostalgic or simply a curious non-Northern Irelander: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H898Vr7Koss

As the son of a nurse, I was rightly brought up to respect the medical profession and their time and have normally had to have something hanging off before I go for a visit. But I've been around long enough to spot a fairly useless doctor when I see one.

Two in particular spring to mind. The first was in Belfast in 1995 after I ruptured a quadricep playing rugby, leaving me with a gaping hole on the front of my left thigh.

After showing him the problem, he literally phoned a friend - right in front of me - before saying there was nothing he could do.

"But I want to get it fixed!" I pleaded. "Can't the muscle be sewn back together?"

"Yes it can," he replied, before adding coldly, "but you're hardly Linford Christie."

I never played rugby again.

And then there was the young lady I saw today. I've had her before (metaphorically, you understand) several times and let's just say she's consistent.

I last popped in (now, now) about three months ago when my physio told me I needed a knee operation and instructed me to visit my GP and ask to go on the waiting list. After explaining why I was there, my whizz of a doctor said an operation "might not work" so I might as well not bother. And that was that.

Today, I went seeking help with a chronic sinusitis condition which has plagued me for years and, most recently, left me unable to sleep for the last couple of nights (once the food poisoning had passed - it's been a ball). I've been with her three times (still metaphorically) in the last 18 months with this ailment and each time she hasn't bothered to examine me - just asked me what it was, allowed me to suggest anti-biotics and then handed me my prescription.

Anyway, this morning I said I was keen to try to get the problem fixed permanently and asked if there were options available. Choosing a slight variation on the Belfast doctor's approach, she didn't phone a friend but instead got a medical textbook out and began to read it.

After a couple of minutes' silence, she commented: "Yes, there are things that can be done but they might not work so it's hardly worth it." And that was that.

All hail the caring profession? Hmmm....most of the time, but not always (unless you've got the dosh to go private).

(Bird) love not rage

The joint combination of working in Bradford - unquestionably the most bizarre place I've ever plied any form of trade - and being the father of a young son with a bird fixation continues to make my current existence anything but dull.

Take today for example.

I was back behind my desk for the first time in almost a fortnight and, yes, it was good to return to something resembling a normal routine. But what was the highlight? Well, I'll come straight to it.

Whilst waiting for the kettle to boil (yes, I do work for a council but no jokes allowed), I took the opportunity to have a quick peak out of a City Hall window.

And what did I see? Yes, you've guessed it - four geese slowly but determinedly traversing a busy road at the pedestrian crossing, almost getting to the other side before one of them changes its mind and turns around, leaving the other three to follow him (or her) back in exactly the opposite direction - still on the pedestrian crossing - to the precise spot on the footpath where they began. And then they all waddled off towards the courthouse.

The good motorists of Bradford queued patiently and politely for what must have been more than a minute before proceeding once the geese were clear. No horns, no shouts - I didn't even see any laughs.

Only in Bradford - and if only Jamie could have been there.

Which reminds me, do you like his new watering can?

Waterboys

I went for a run on Monday evening, arriving back home around the time when Jamie normally has his bath.

But rather than waste water, I had a brainwave; why not share his? And, as you can see, I did just that. (As an aside, I did keep a little pair of black shorts on as he still gets amused by the sight of his own "boy bit" and...erm...well...you know what I'm saying).

Anyway, after getting him down for the night, Vanessa and I decided to mark the end of our week and a day off work with a Chinese takeaway.

Sadly, something like two and a half hours later, I reproduced my share of it into a basin (charming). And, at around 3.30am, Vanessa did the very same down the loo. No more Chinese food for us for a while then.

Both of us were forced into bed for all of yesterday and I, having eaten a much larger helping of our culinary treat than Mrs W, also spent today there - until about half an hour ago.

Like most people - especially men - I hate being ill so I am looking forward to getting back to some sort of routine tomorrow.

But hey ho, nobody's died (unless other patrons of the Oriental Express in Stanningley were less fortunate than ourselves).

Sand in the City

As someone who grew up on the Causeway Coast in Northern Ireland, I'm used to having silver sands and the deep blue sea close at hand.

As someone growing up in Leeds which, I'm told, is the furthest of any English town or city from the coast - 70 miles either way, apparently - Jamie is not.

So when some bright spark decides to import a beach to Leeds (albeit without the sea element which is kind of understandable), it is an offer our little man was only too willing to take up.

Located at The Light shopping centre (the one with the "award winning car park" - don't ask), the organisers promised to bring, "a real taste of summer to the city by installing a beach complete with eight tonnes of real sand, beach huts, deckchairs and a funky beach bar." And they kind of delivered.

I think "eight tonnes of sand" was a bit of an over-estimation, the sole "beach hut" wasn't up to much and I saw no sign of the "beach bar."

But, you know, beggars can't be choosers and I'm glad we went.

Maybe next year they'll arrange for some decent shops to be in the centre too.

Running against the tide

I feel old today.

I developed sciatica in my right leg about 10 months ago and can I get rid of it? Well, no, I can't - despite several visits to the physio and more stretching exercises than Mad Lizzy got through in her entire TV-am career.

The problem forced me to withdraw from this year's London Marathon but I am entitled to run next year. After that, I'll have to put my name back into the ballot with no guarantee of getting in for another five years - by which time I'll be 43 (and if you think that sounds ancient, it's because it is).

So, what to do? Retire gracefully? Not really my style. Go and seek more physio at £30 for about half an hour with no guarantee of success? I'd rather not, thank you, although it might have to happen eventually.

So I've decided to go for option three i.e. tough it out.

There's a new 10-mile race in Bradford in October which is essentially a practice event for next year's inaugural Bradford Marathon (which I'd also quite like to enter). It's only seven weeks away which should be just about enough time for me to try to get moderately fit, certainly fit enough to get around - albeit very, very slowly.

I went for a four mile run on Thursday and again yesterday and my leg is sore although, on the positive side, still attached to my body.

Jamie didn't get to witness me running the London Marathon in 2008 as Vanessa's womb was simply too thick for him to see out of. It would therefore be nice if he could be in Bradford to watch me struggle over the line on 18 October.

So, tomorrow morning, for better or for worse, the running shoes are being laced back on. Sure life would be dull if you didn't take a chance once in a while.

Extended agony

As arguably the world's least patient man and unquestionably the planet's worst DIY man (there really can be no argument about that one), I have been putting off installing Jamie's baby safety gates for as long as I possibly could. But this afternoon I decided to bite the bullet - and got absolutely nowhere.

Kindly bequeathed to us by Jamie's Auntie Helen and Uncle Jonathan (to whom we wish a speedy recovery after illness), the two state-of-the-art Lindam gates have been sitting in our living room for months (against the wall - not on the sofa). There was obviously no great problem with this whilst our son couldn't walk. But now he can almost run, never mind shuffle, and can even make it the whole way up the stairs on his own.

So today was to be the day when I played the very unlikely role of hero by putting up his gates. However, after a solid hour of measuring, head scratching and imaginative swearing, I had to reluctantly conclude that the gates were too narrow for our staircase. Excellent.

Fortunately, after almost two hours of t'Internet research, I can happily report that all is not lost. As they are such good gates (I'm an expert now, see), I discovered that you can buy tailor-made extensions which will easily cover the 10cm breach that currently exists between them and our wall.

My order has been placed and, at some point towards the end of next week, I should be getting a call from reception at Bradford City Hall to say my purchases have arrived.

And, once home, the fun will begin once again. (Needless to say I'm already dreading that moment).

Pie and peas? Not for me

There were many things that I didn't know about Yorkshire before moving here almost exactly six years ago; some good and some very, very bad.

One of the worst was pie and peas.

As Wikipedia explains,"pie and peas is a traditional meal in the north of England, consisting of an individual raised pork pie made with hot water crust pastry and served with mushy peas and mint sauce. Pie and pea shops and stalls used to be a common feature on Northern streets and markets but these days it is more usually sold in sandwich shops and 'Chippies.' Some people prefer meat and potato or steak pies, but this is not traditional."

Ever the traditionalist, Vanessa went for the pork pie and peas option for lunch in Temple Newsam yesterday - you can see a picture of her actual dish above. And doesn't it look appetising? No, you're right, it doesn't. Not even remotely.

Indeed, it looked so bad that I almost enjoyed the second most awful burger I've ever eaten in my life (just behind a quarter-pounder I had at Ballymena Showgrounds during the Boxing Day derby some years ago, which was burnt on one side and raw on the other. My Coleraine scarf might have had something to do with this).

But there is a second reason why even the sight of pie and peas makes me queasy. Just weeks after we moved up here, Vanessa's mum Judy and stepdad Mike invited us to a "do" in Horsforth Church Hall at which both "entertainment and refreshment" would be provided. I decided I could cope with that, particularly as Vanessa promised we could leave after an hour to go to The Black Bull.

However, on turning up, I discovered (it quickly transpired that Vanessa already knew) that the "entertainment" was line dancing - with all attendees expected to participate. As the world's worst dancer, this was not good.

I briefly protested to Judy who helpfully suggested that I take my place at the back of the room where no-one could see me. A fair compromise, I thought.

All was going swimmingly for the first three bars of the first number until the bloke with the stage microphone, wearing his biggest and best cowboy hat, boomed, "Turn around!"

And everyone did, thereby leaving me at the "front" of the room. Matters were made even worse by the fact that I appeared to be the tallest person in said room by at least a foot (age makes you shrink, you see).

At was at this point that the stage fright kicked in. Filled with panic, my mind went blank, my feet went AWOL and, within no more than a minute, I had stormed off into a corner in a girlie strop.

Vanessa comforted me briefly, full smirk upon her face, before returning to the fray for the next half hour.

And then the refreshments were wheeled out: Kaliber (i.e. that "beer with all the alcohol taken out") and...yes, you've guessed it...pie and peas.

I hate pie and peas.

A question of fact

It's a few days now since the last of my parent-type guests departed and I've had some time to reflect. And something in particular has been playing on my mind.

Our little man Jamie can't talk yet ("quack," according to the Collins English Dictionary, is a sound rather than a word) but, when he does, I would imagine there will be a barrage of questions coming my way. But will I have the right answers for him?

And it is important that I do as there are several "facts" passed on to me by my own father which, in later life, I discovered to be less than perhaps strictly accurate.

For example, I remember watching a football match in a big field once which was surrounded by other fields. And I asked my dad why they put nets on the goalposts. His answer was that they were to stop the goalkeepers from having to go and find the ball in one of the other fields if a goal was scored. I followed up with the observation that they had nets at Wembley too but he ignored that remark and shouted at the referee instead.

He also told me never to suck a lemon as it would poison me and never to look at car headlights on full beam as I would go blind. Permanently. Oh, and I wasn't allowed to go to the North West 200 motorbike races because I would probably get killed. (I have braved the latter countless times in my adult years and, as you may have noticed, have survived to write this rubbish).

However, leaving all of the above aside - for which no offence is obviously intended towards my father - he did come up with an absolute blinding new fact when he was here for the cricket a couple of weeks ago. And, having now had a moment to check it out, I can confirm he was correct (although, ironically, I really wish he wasn't).

Did you know that if you leave a piece of fresh liver on a plate in the fridge next to a glass of milk and return a few hours later, the liver will have physically moved towards the milk? (I really shouldn't be thinking or writing about this on an empty stomach).

But it gets even more gruesome. If the liver is fresh enough and you leave it long enough, it is actually possible for the liver to wrap itself around the glass (BLLEUUGHHH!!!)

According to some info I found on Yahoo (I never like to leave you with just half a story), "the liver is really a gland rather than an organ and, without its bile ducts, it craves moisture," hence its desire to wrap itself around the glass which contains the milk.

I'm not sure I'm going to bother with breakfast now. Still, it could be worse, it could be bedtime.

PS Let me know if you decide to try the experiment yourself because I'll tell you one more fact - I sure as hell won't be.

Talking cocks

Both Vanessa and I have taken the rest of this week off on leave and, whilst we have no plans to go anywhere special, I have been making serious plans for what to make in the kitchen.

Armed with my trusty "Three & Four Ingredient Cookbook," tonight's main course will be Teriyaki Salmon (the salmon is currently marinading in the fridge, don't you know).

And last night I had a go at Spatchcock Poussins with Herb Butter. They were a little bit dull, if truth be told. In fact, they just tasted like slightly overdone roast chicken (just because I cook doesn't mean I'm actually any good at it).

But a couple of quick points about this particular dish.

First, as the picture above vividly demonstrates, being spatchcocked must surely be the most undignified way for any living thing to become a meal. Seriously, how ungainly do those poor former little chickens look?

And second, a bit of trivia about the origins of that quaint term "spatchcock." And I quote, straight from the pages of the "Three & Four Ingredient Cookbook" itself:

"Spatchcock is said to be a distortion of an 18th century Irish expression 'dispatch cock' for providing an unexpected guest with a quick and simple meal. A young chicken was prepared without frills or fuss by being split, flattened and fried or grilled."

For the record, my two cocks were dispatched after a thorough grilling at high heat.

And whilst we're on the subject of cocks, I see that so-called "man of peace" Senator Ted Kennedy has passed into the next dimension.

This is the same Senator Ted Kennedy who was an unashamed IRA apologist during the dark years of the Troubles when hundreds of innocent men and women were being butchered by his republican friends on the streets of Northern Ireland.

This is the same Senator Ted Kennedy who told Ulster Protestants like me to "go back to Britain" if we couldn't accept a united Ireland.

This is the same Senator Ted Kennedy who, whilst spending decades lecturing all and sundry about what was right and what was wrong about Northern Ireland, didn't actually set foot in the country until 1998, the year of the Good Friday Agreement itself.

Senator Ted Kennedy won't be missed by me or, indeed, anyone else who dislikes individuals who cosy up to terrorists for personal political gain.

Losing one's crown

Yes, teeth.

As I've now mentioned more than once, I broke my left front crown more than three weeks ago after getting a bit over-excited with a piece of Dairy Milk. I finally got the permanent replacement in yesterday. But on Thursday, whilst having a McDonald's prior to the U2 concert in Sheffield, my temporary crown fell out

The timing of this little mishap could not have been worse. I was about to join 51,999 other keen souls, all dolled up and smiling like children's telly presenters. And there was me, looking not unlike my hero Shane MacGowan (before he got his own new teeth) and trying desperately not to smile (at least until it got darker).

I tried to ram the temporary crown back in at one point, but it was just too wobbly and I eventually gave up after almost swallowing it during a very poor rendition of "Thunday, Bloody Thunday" (as it sounded the way I was thinging it).

I then bought some temporary tooth thement, sorry, cement at Boots on Friday lunchtime for £7 and the fix lasted exactly seven hours (yes, that's £1 an hour) before the crown fell out once again whilst we were having tea at the caravan park.

Like the night before, I was initially very self-conscious about the huge hole in my face - until I had a proper look around. And then it dawned on me. Almost every other man in the bar/restaurant had many more teeth missing than me, as did a large number of the women. A significant proportion also had loads of bad tattoos. And a minimum of three stomachs. And boy did they like their sportswear.

Yes folks, the Whites had just booked themselves into a real-life chav theme park.

My missing tooth suddenly seemed more like a badge of honour than a cause for shame, and it felt like this for the rest of our stay. (Thankfully they didn't have a tattoo parlour on site otherwise I might've got carried away by the moment and had a spider's web etched on my face).

And you didn't have to wander too far to find some complimentary attractions.

For example, Rockin' Roy was topping the bill in nearby Bridlington.

And right next to our real-life chav theme park was what appeared to be a real-life pikey park.

Anyway, my tooth's fixed now.