Is it Thursday yet?

I'm not saying I've had a dull evening but, after the failure of Dallas to float my boat, the bizarre sight of peas and carrots boiling separately in the same pot was the clear highlight.

Thankfully, tomorrow is not far away.

Daddy will do

I'm now fairly certain that Charlotte knows who I am.

In fact, it was all but confirmed yesterday morning when she awoke from her slumber, rose up in her cot and shouted "Daddy!" in the direction of our room.

I was thrilled (although Vanessa was even more thrilled as it meant she didn't have to get up). 

Charlotte's warm greeting contrasted sharply with what Jamie used to cry out of a morning when he was younger.

He had developed a habit of waking up much too early, particularly at weekends. So Vanessa bought him an alarm clock which went "cock-a-doodle-doo," set it to go off at 6.30am and told him he wasn't allowed to get up until he heard that sound.

But Jamie had a cunning plan.  When he woke up and rather than wait for the alarm, he thought a cockerel impersonation would do just as well.  The only problem was, "cock-a-doodle-doo" is something of an oratorical challenge for a two-year-old.

Instead, we had regular shouts of "Cock! Cock! Cock!" emanating from Jamie's room.

This presented Vanessa with an open goal.

"He's calling for you," she would spout, smugly.

As I say, I much prefer Charlotte's approach.     

I might have to buy a cabinet

I had a big lump in my throat earlier today when Jamie won the trophy for most improved player at micro rugby. 

This was only his second week and, in truth, his achievement might have had more to do with his performance last Sunday rather than this morning (if you know what I'm saying).

And there are clearly many parts of his game that require work.  For example, he really needs to stop running like a cross between Phoebe from Friends and Benny Hill.

But, you know, he's enjoying himself, getting fit and making his daddy very proud. Let's hope it's not the only piece of silverware lifted by someone in an Ulster Rugby shirt this season.

Pope snubs sinner

News reaches me that arch-Catholic and general irritation Wee John was yesterday turned away from the Vatican for wearing shorts.

Credit to His Holiness who clearly knows an idiot when his security people see one. 

Plus, can you imagine how long that particular confession would take?

I'll name that name in one: Sh*t

Sadly, I'm someone with many pet hates.  And close of the top of the list are houses with names. 

I'm sorry if your house falls into this category, but I just think it's a teeny bit naff. 

Elvis lived at Gracelands, yes. But he was the King of Pop so kind of earned the right to christen his pad. Michael Jackson lived at Neverland, but he was clinically bonkers (official medical term).

But, for example, if you live at number 63 Credibility Street (made up address), I see no reason why you would wish to name your house Serenity - even if the wooden plaque was going for half-price at B&Q (because no-one else wanted it).

However, there's much, much worse.

I was travelling through Leeds on a bus earlier today and spotted the house you can see above - complete with plaque.

Can anyone please tell me why the owner has chosen to name their very own home Chestnuts?  I mean, seriously.   

If I was that house, quite frankly, I'd be embarrassed.

Willy woes

Jamie had his first stand up wee yesterday, something of a landmark event for a young man. 

"I didn't even hold my willy," he informed me shortly afterwards.

"Oh, and why not?" I asked.

"Because it's bigger than yours."

Cricket balls

I've been a touch inconsistent in updating this rubbish over the last week as a result of illness and injury. 

I mentioned last week that I'd been stuffing myself with drugs to treat an abscess on a tooth, and I still am.  (I've also got a heavy man cold - poor me). In fact, the latest course of anti-biotics could be - and possibly are - used to put horses to sleep.  What's more, I'm not allowed to drink whilst taking them (yes, I might spill it - boom, boom).

The glee with which my dentist delivered this news to me suggested that (1) other options were available and (2) she wasn't allowing me to explore them.  She's even sicker than I am.

On the upside (1) they are working and (2) I will be non-teetotal again by Saturday night (after cleverly revising the gaps between doses).

So that's the illness aspect of my current physical status dealt with.  Now for the injuries - and I'll try to keep this short.

I went along to support a charity cricket event on Sunday. What I didn't go along to do was play in it.  But, two pints after my arrival, I was on the field ready to make a mouth of myself.  And I didn't disappoint. 

It was a six-a-side game, five overs each, with each player (other than the wicket-keeper) expected to bowl one over apiece. 

I volunteered myself to bat last in our innings and, after only three wickets fell, I didn't have to strap the pads on at all.  I love it when a plan comes together. 

Then it was my team's turn to bowl.  Again, I bravely offered to bowl last.  And again my selfless offer was accepted.  But then events began to go downhill.

With four overs bowled and one to go, I was tossed the ball.  Our opponents needed ten runs to win.  It was my job to stop them scoring them. 

With upwards of 100 people watching, I strode up to bowl my first competitive ball since 1986 - straight down the leg side for a wide.  The crowd groaned.  Nine runs to win, six balls to go.

My next ball, thankfully on the stumps, went for four. My next two deliveries were better, no runs scored. Three balls to go, five runs to win for our opponents.

The next went for four once again.  One run required for victory, two balls to go.

It was at this point that the arse truly fell out of proceedings (as they say in Coleraine).

My next ball was on the wicket but hit very hard a couple of yards to my left by the batsman .  I made a split second/foolish decision to dive and - incredibly - stopped the ball.

I also cracked a rib, strained my knee and damaged a back muscle.

I wasn't aware of these specifics at the time; all I knew was that it ****ing hurt.  But, as the crowd cheered,  my pride took over and I picked myself and prepared to bowl the final ball.  One run was needed to win. 

But I got carried away.  With the crowd still cheering, I took an extra long run-up before unleashing the leather bound missile towards the batsman - straight over his head for a wide, a run and a defeat for my team. Some of the spectators' cheers even turned to boos.

I downed my third pint of the afternoon within seconds of coming off the field.  At least I could drink back then.

Off to learn stuff

Today has been one of those days that you think about as a parent for years and wonder what it will feel like when it comes - the day when your first child starts school.

Yes, today was Jamie's big day. 

The feeling for Vanessa and me was obviously one of immense pride - exactly the same as every other parent who turned up with their sprogs in tow, no doubt.

After several minutes of collective reassurance and the odd tear, us mums and dads were finally shooed out of the classroom to allow the kids to await the arrival of their teacher.

And my warped mind bizarrely transported me to that famous scene at the beginning of An Officer and a Gentleman where Gunnery Sergeant Foley questions the species/sexual preferences of his new charges.

I would imagine Mrs Buckton adopted a more welcoming approach.

What I did last weekend

I was planning a relatively industrious weekend this weekend, but my increasingly bulbous face is proving to be something of a drag on this ambition.  

But I couldn't be much less productive than I was last weekend which I set aside to decorate Charlotte's room.  

To be fair, it wasn't entirely my fault as Vanessa chose the paint, not me.  

Indeed, it was only when I got it out of the garage that I realised it was the exact same colour used the last time the room was painted.  

If you don't believe me, here is the main wall before (left) and after (right) I slaved over it.      

And yes, I appreciate the "after" appears marginally darker, but that is only because the paint was still wet and the photo was taken late in the day just as the sun was heading off for the evening. 

So that was good. 

It's bye from him - and drugs for me

Something of a red letter day today as Jamie arrived at nursery for the last ever time.  For some, this would be a sad moment - but have you seen the cost of nursery fees these days?  Bugger that, I've never been more thrilled. 

But that's where the good news stops as I currently have a face like a chewed bap. 

My age-old tooth abscess problems have resurfaced and my mouth is killing me.  Following a dental visit yesterday afternoon, I'm now on anti-biotics, ibuprofen, codeine and paracetamol - with a dash of clove oil thrown in.  And some whiskey tonight.  And maybe some Guinness.  And some wine. 

It's always wise to take your medicine, especially on a Friday.

Funny lines come in threes

My last two posts have centred on "Jamie quips" and I beg your indulgence for just one more.

Vanessa and I are making a big effort at present to "encourage" (i.e. force) Jamie to brush up on his manners in advance of starting school next week.

He doesn't get presented with his breakfast until he says "please," and I don't let go of it until he says "thank you."   That kind of thing.  He is also "strongly encouraged" (i.e. "do it or we'll hang you upside down") to apologise when he does something wrong.  And, to be fair, he is getting there.

However, yesterday, he possibly over-stretched himself in the quest to be polite.

He and I were en route to the local playing fields for our planned rugby kickabout. A middle-aged couple were walking towards us.

Just as they got to within a couple of yards, Jamie stopped in front of them and looked up into their eyes.

They also halted and gazed down in his direction.

"Urrmmm....pardon me," said White Junior. "I've just trumped." 

My immediate reaction was to laugh out loud; the couple's response was to shuffle off blank-faced. 

Next up on Jamie's learning curve will be the concept that some things are better left unsaid.

I don't think he's taking this seriously

Having booked today off on leave, I took the opportunity to force Jamie to try out his new boots in advance of his Micro Rugby debut on Sunday morning.

But it was soon clear that I'll have to work even harder if his love for the sport is to reach the levels I require.

This is best illustrated by the photo I took of him sitting on his rugby ball.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm waiting for it to hatch." 

Reservoir Pup

Jamie and Charlotte went to a party yesterday afternoon, from which they returned with a fluffy sheep each - a pink one for her, and a marginally less girlie white one for him. 

This morning I asked Jamie - a little half heartedly, I admit - why they had been given different colours.

And I could tell by the look on his face that he knew as well as I did that it was a stupid question, deserving of a stupid answer.  Which promptly arrived.

"I got a white one because my name is Jamie White," he announced, dismissively.

"Charlotte got a pink one because her name is Charlotte Pink."

No-one likes a smart arse.

It's all about me

I've long made clear on this blog that brainwashing one's children is, in my view, an entirely acceptable activity - particularly when it relates to one's personal sporting convenience.

I'm a sports addict, you see.  And if I'm going to maintain my sport watching at their current levels, I need to be ahead of the game - and selling the merits of as many games as possible to my children.

As the eldest, Jamie is first in line and a very important deadline is rapidly approaching.  Micro rugby starts a mere nine days from now and it very much suits my purposes if I can persuade him to enrol.

If he can be transformed into a rugby enthusiast, I can go to see him play for many years to come.  Plus, he'll let me watch rugby on telly whenever I want. (As things stand, I'm not confident of getting away with the All Blacks v Australia first thing tomorrow morning - especially as it clashes with some new episodes of Ben 10 on Cartoon Network).

I've been trying for weeks to get him to agree to sign up, with little success.  But today I played my trump card; I arrived home with his first pair of boots.

And the good news is that he's thrilled.

But not as thrilled as I'll be if he enrols next week - and returns to play again the week after.   And the week after that.

Needless to say he will be made to wear his Ulster Rugby shirt. 

A point of clarification

For those of you who have asked, the floppy-haired bloke featured here on Wednesday is definitely my friend Ben McKenna (left) and not comedian Michael McIntyre (right).

Whilst fellow-Londoner Ben may bear a passing resemblance to Mr McIntyre, he is not in fact him.

The pyjama game

Above you can see Jamie and Charlotte in their pyjamas just after getting up this morning.

And here they are just before I carted them off to nursery almost two hours later - still in pyjamas (albeit clean ones).

The reason for the casual attire was that their nursery are holding a pyjama party today to raise funds for the Yorkshire Children's Heart Surgery Fund, a fine charity. 

However, you might well think it would take me less than an hour apiece to change two children out of one set of pyjamas into another.  But there were mitigating factors, including a particularly strong programme line-up on CBeebies and Charlotte's active bowel.

Thankfully, tomorrow is Vanessa's turn to take them to nursery.

I might have to buy a scarf

Welcome to Nethermoor Park, home of Conference North table-toppers Guiseley AFC, where I hope to spend quite a bit of time in the coming months. 

One of the things I miss most about living outside Northern Ireland is the opportunity to watch my team, Coleraine, play football on a regular basis.  But that's how it is.

However, rather than complain, I need to find a substitute. 

So last night my good friends Ben (below left), Other John and I went along to see Guiseley strut their stuff.

Ben volunteered to sample the catering at half-time, and was impressed.

John and I were equally thrilled at the bar prices - £2.80 a pint.  You can't argue with that.

The football was pretty slick too.  Below you can see Guiseley's fifth goal fly in courtesy of a penalty.

They won 7-1 in the end, following an opening day 4-1 away victory on Saturday. 

Indeed, the only problem I foresee is the fact that they're so good - I'm not used to supporting winning teams in any sport. 

But I suppose I'll just have to try and get used to it.

Where is Jamie today?

Jamie was asked to bring some pics from a recent holiday into nursery this morning for a "Show and Tell."

But can you guess where he is from the picture above?  No?  Obviously not a Beatles fan then.

What about now?

Still no idea? OK, one last clue.

You remain none the wiser?

Right, I give up too.

Corn in the gob

I came home from work tonight to find Jamie and Charlotte being presented with a corn on the cob each for tea.

But Jamie was just too slow and, like many ladies I know, no-one comes between Charlotte and her food.  Particularly when it's not her food.

Maybe he'll be swifter off the mark tomorrow. 

Feeling blue

I'm going to get my hair cut tomorrow; not because it's particularly long, but because it's particularly blue.

You see, I'm not one of those people who spends a large part of the day looking in the mirror. So it appears I was the last to notice how grey my hair has turned recently.  Indeed, over the past few weeks, I've lost count of the number of folk who have taken such delight in pointing it out.

Initially I filed their comments in my "mistaken" folder.  However, a couple of days ago, I was flicking through some holiday snaps and made a horrible discovery.

No, my hair is not going grey, not one little bit.  It's actually going blue.

If this made me look more like Superman, I might be content. But I'm not sure this is the case.  And how bad might things get?

What if I end up resembling Katy Perry?

OK, not likely - I could never get my eyebrows to look like hers. 

Mrs Slocombe from Are You Being Served?  That could happen.

Sonic the Hedgehog?

Or, given my fondness for biscuits, maybe even the Cookie Monster?

My mum has tried to convince me to consider using some kind of "product" on my hair, but that's not really me.  So, when I visit the barber, I might just have it all off.  Although I might not.

Spot the difference

Jamie was sent to tidy his room for the first time ever today after a friend came to play. 

A mere 10 minutes later, he bounded back downstairs all pleased with his efforts. 

I'm not entirely sure why.

A big up for the wee country

The picture of Jamie and Charlotte you can see above was not taken in Menorca, where we were a few weeks ago, but in Portrush on the North Coast of Northern Ireland last Friday morning.

Earlier that day, we woke up in nearby Portstewart to be greeted by this sight.

The night before, this was the view I had as I belted down the town's Promenade in search of my next pint.

And on Saturday, I excitedly followed the well-worn path to my favourite sporting venue bar none, the Coleraine Showgrounds, to see my beloved Bannsiders stuff the current all-Ireland cup holders, Crusaders, in the opening game of the Irish Premiership season.

If you haven't been to the North Coast of my wee country, perhaps you should get yourself over there very soon indeed.  You'll not be disappointed.

The dental magicians

Meet Robert and Rhonda, the Paul Daniels and Debbie McGee of Northern Ireland dentistry (although they are married to other people, and neither are married to Paul Daniels or Debbie McGee).

These fine individuals began looking after my teeth when I was in my early teens.  I'm not a normal patient, you see (I like to think of myself as "special"). A blood problem diagnosed whilst I was still in the womb led to the administration of a drug which, my mother was warned, would mean dental problems in later years.  And the prophecy came true.

An avalanche of abscesses (poetic pus, if you will) led to the weakening of my gums, countless root fillings, lots of crowns and, in time, some extractions.  And Robert, ably assisted by dental nurse Rhonda, was responsible for almost all of the heavy lifting. 

Indeed, I understand that I retain the record for the most number of appointments in Robert's surgery in a single calendar year - 26.  In time I might even be worthy of a blue plaque.

After leaving university, I moved to Belfast, then London and finally Leeds and had to seek treatment at other practices.  But the quality of care was nothing close to what I had in Coleraine.  It was conveyor belt dentistry, but I put up with it, constantly reminded by others that I was lucky to have an NHS dentist at all (don't get me started).

However, just over three months ago, the game changed.  I was told by my dentist in Leeds that the root of my front left tooth had fractured and the whole lot would have to come out to be replaced by a denture.  The consequences of this were not explained in any way, and no alternatives were offered.  So, after having impressions done, I turned up, had my front tooth yanked - and the dentist presented me with this.

Lovely, isn't it? 

If you haven't seen one of these - and I hadn't - you will note the pink piece of material.  That was to sit on the roof of my mouth.  And therein lay the problem.

I am the first to acknowledge that I can sometimes be difficult to understand, particularly when I'm off on one.  And the insertion of a lump of plastic was not going to help matters. 

I left the surgery in shock and arrived home in tatters.  A mixture of sorrow, anger and panic.  The next couple of weeks did not improve my mood, nor my ability to talk.  And then I went back to Northern Ireland for the North West 200 motorbike races. 

Shortly after arriving home, my mum advised that my stepdad Derek had spoken to Rhonda - who lives across the road - and Robert would be very happy to see me the following day. A quick fire glance enabled both he and Rhonda to advise that a bridge - at a very reasonable cost - was the solution and the denture could go, although I would have to wait three months for the wound to heal. I was sent off to make two appointments in August.  

The new bridge was cemented in on Monday afternoon and, at 5pm, my former denture hosted its own farewell party in the Railway Arms.   

To say I am grateful to Robert and Rhonda is a huge understatement, but I'll say it anyway.  I also look forward to travelling back to Coleraine for more treatment in the months ahead.  

I love it when a story has a happy ending - and I'm not too embarrassed to raise a smile.