A big drink and a Giant experience

I'll start where I left off last time, and am delighted to report that Coleraine Inst 1st XV had an impressive 22-9 win over Omagh Academy yesterday and now look forward to Ulster Schools' Cup semi-final against Belfast Inst on Tuesday 3 March.  

A positive outcome will see me - and countless other former CAI pupils - jet back for the final and an inevitable skin full afterwards. 

Which reminds me, my liver continues to recover from almost a week of "hydration" during the annual White family February half-term trip to Norn Iron.

What you can see above is the men's toilet door at Tides restaurant in Portrush where Vanessa and I enjoyed a fine meal on Tuesday evening.

And on Wednesday, we visited my spiritual home, the Railways Arms in Coleraine, where the regulars of "Arsehole Corner" (their name for it, not mine) were joined by a number of irregulars including my nephew Nathan (wearing the hat).  That's my dad in the blue jacket. 

However, lest you think bad of me, we did allow the kids to sample some of the local cultural delights too. And chief amongst them was the Giant's Causeway.

It's a little while since I've been but, given that it's thought to be around 60 million years old, very little had changed.    

That's Jamie and Charlotte's cousin Katie in the pictures with them, who looks after them so well when we visit.

That's the Giant's Boot they're sitting on above. Obviously.

They even had a chance to look in through the roof of the new visitor centre.

In case you're confused, it's built into a hillside and is predominantly covered with grass. (I can tell you're impressed and now want to take your family there at your earliest convenience.  And if not, why not?)  We did take our brood inside too, by the way.

Then, on Thursday, we left.

Charlotte was very sad.  So was I, but my liver was looking forward to starting his own short break.

Maroon blood, Coleraine hearts

The White family annual February half-term trip to Northern Ireland is sadly at an end.

Actually, we came back yesterday but for some reason I didn't quite feel strong enough to open my laptop.

That's Richard above, my old Coleraine Inst XV rugby teammate and now Head Coach of the team. We got together in Portrush and, gents that we are, even allowed our wives to come along (but not interrupt, obviously).

Tomorrow Richard's boys run out at "The Big Sand" on the banks of the Bann for the Quarter-Final of the Ulster Schools' Cup, the world's second oldest rugby competition.  

With CAI set to merge with the girls' High School to become Coleraine Grammer in September, it'll be the last time the famous maroon jerseys grace a home Schools' Cup tie. 

It's precisely 25 years since Richard and I played together on the same pitch at the same stage of the same competition. And I'm gutted not to be there tomorrow. But I've pledged to travel across to Belfast next month for the traditional St Patrick's Day Final should the good guys make it through.

Let's hope fate deals Richard and his boys the hand that the school's proud sporting history so richly deserves.

Kennel fever

When I was growing up back in Coleraine, we had a dog, a chihuahua which went by the name of Roscoe.

He was a fun little fella, although was often beaten up by our cat called Tinker.

Upon release from his kennel, his party trick was to run wildly and aimlessly around the house until he could run no more, before collapsing into a tiny heap.  Then, following a brief period of rest and recuperation, he'd be off again.  A one trick doggy you might say.

Sadly, time catches up with all of us.  And in his latter years, Roscoe's mad dashes became fewer in number and slower in speed.   By the end, when I opened his kennel door, he would simply shake his head and invite me to **** off.

I tell you this because I'm beginning to feel a bit like Roscoe.  Whilst we speak to potential new VANBAR associates clients and before we taking the leap of getting our own premises, Vanessa and I continue to work from our dining room table.  And cabin fever is beginning to set in.

Don't get me wrong, I've become quite fond of our dining room wall - I've lovingly stripped it once painted it twice in recent years.  But the novelty is beginning to wear off and a change of scenario is forever welcome.  So much so that, when I get out of my version of Roscoe's kennel, I get an urge to run around manically with my tongue around my ankles.  If only this wasn't so undignified - and my legs weren't now beginning to go, just like his did.

That said, help is thankfully at hand in the shapely form of February.  After a dull January (I'm sure I wasn't alone), this month has already delivered one fun adventure with the promise of more to come.

The first was Vanessa's birthday weekend in Newcastle which, I must say, was much fun despite my periodic realisation that I'm now married to a 40-year-old.  

It is a situation that will take some getting used to, I willingly concede.  But I'm stuck with it, sorry, her.

To be fair, the old girl stuck the pace pretty well over our three days away.  She even stayed awake once after midnight, albeit briefly.  However, I can now expect to see little of her for the rest of the month as she catches up on sleep.

That's why I have other plans to get me out of the kennel.

40 + 40 = 80

The passage of time has moved on and the young chick is about to become an old hen.

That's right, Vanessa turns 40 tomorrow. 

As I tap this out, we're onboard a train destined for Newcastle; the place where we both studied (the same course), three years apart. 

Now, don't be thinking that this is in some way a kind, thoughtful gesture on my part. Certainly not.  I am an Ulsterman after all.

No, Vanessa's booked it all. My only job is to make up the numbers (just me and her) and settle the bill come Sunday.

Conversation might be on the menu at some point.  But not just yet, on the grounds that she's having her afternoon nap.

Heaven knows how she's going to stay up till 10pm tonight when TV coverage off the Wales v England Six Nations rugby match is due to end.

I'm less concerned about her movements at 2.30 tomorrow when Ireland kick off in Rome. There are loads of shops in Newcastle. 

And I'll be clear by 4.15 if she fancies joining me in O'Neill's just opposite the station.  (My Ireland shirt is ironed and carefully packed).  

We can then look forward to a brief conversation about what a great birthday she's having; just as long as it's finished by 5pm when France and Scotland lock horns.

I might even treat her to a takeaway later in the evening (assuming Ireland win). Then it'll be home on Sunday morning.

For now, I'm off to the buffet car to see what cans they have.  I would get the middle-aged woman of the moment one too, but alcohol can be very expensive on trains.

Happy birthday wife.

White shed dread

I began this year with a short list of limited personal objectives which I thought it only proper to briefly report back on.

Top of the list was to get VANBAR associates firing and progress continues to be made.  More on that another time.

I pledged to get fit through the medium of spin class which, surprisingly, I have stuck to.  However, I was due to go to one tonight - until I hurt my calf muscle walking to Charlotte's swimming lesson.  Really.  Age is such a terrible thing.  I might do some sit-ups before bedtime instead (although I fear I'll put my back out).

I pledged to stay off drink until 24 January.  I missed my target by a mere 15 days.   I got bored.  Plus, I find it really hard to cook anything remotely interesting without a little glass of wine to fuel my effort.  And I was hungry.  That said, school night snifters have been pretty much off the (drinks) menu and will generally remain so.  (Unless I get hungry again.  Or thirsty).

I promised to swear more, and that hadn't been going well until this afternoon when I caught a strange woman chucking bags of rubbish over a fence near our house and shared my observations.   Good for the soul.

But I'll leave you on a real high: our garden shed roof (do you see what I did there?).  I declared that repairing our garden shed roof was a top priority, although I had no expectation of actually being able to pull it off.

Actually, I'll rephrase that.  A storm pulled it off (the roofing felt, that is).  My job was to buy some more and stick/nail it back on.

After finally running out of excuses (I was proud of many of them), on Sunday I was forced to have a go aided by my trusty assistant .

And look.

I know.  Pretty darn sexy, isn't it?!

Vanessa says I have to paint it next        

Fandabbydozy

I walked up and down Guiseley's main street several times earlier today, before visiting Morrisons to process through the aisles and sign autographs for children.

No one spoke to me or even looked at me.  Maybe it was because Vanessa wasn't there and people couldn't put one and one together.

Actually, thinking about it, I'm not sure I'd recognise Mr Krankie if Wee Jimmy Krankie wasn't there too.

Anyhow, VANBAR associates made the papers today and we're pleased about that.

Available for hire, get in while you can.    

Eating is good for your worries

The kids came home to presents tonight, courtesy of Christmas vouchers kindly gifted by their Auntie Gwen.

And what are they, I hear you cry? (I've got very good hearing).  Well I'm glad you asked.

They're "Worry Eaters" and were new to me until Jamie started going on about them last weekend.

Still none the wiser?

OK, let's go with the product description:

"Children have fears and troubles and woes and don't always tell their parents about them. Psychologists and teachers recommend Worry Eaters as a waste bin for problems. The children can write or draw their troubles and feed them into the zip mouth of the Worry Eater. Not that this solves all the problems straight away, but the first step has been taken and you can be sure it will provide an immediate feeling of relief. And when the Worry Eater tells the parents about the problems, they can talk to their children about them. What's more, Worry Eaters are nice and cuddly in both good times and bad and not just for children." 

A good idea or just clever marketing?  Probably a bit of both, but I look forward to finding out how Jamie and Charlotte fare with "Ed" and "Polli" respectively in the coming weeks.  

Needless to say the Daily Mail hates them (making me wanting to love them even more).  

"The Worry Eater toy shows that we've raised a generation of anxious children," someone called Bel Mooney wrote back in August.  I'm feeling ashamed, aren't you?

She continued: "Both parents must be there for their children — to talk to them at meal-times and on the sofa (without the TV on), and to read a story at night. For it’s not a worry doll that will really take away a child’s anxiety — it’s a balanced, stable and secure home life."

There you go folks, simple as that.  I'm just relieved that we're all so blessed in both emerging from and living in such well-rounded, Waltonesque families.    

No worries.

Introducing the 4-7-8 technique

Good morning, dear reader, I hope you slept well last night.  But if you didn't, I believe I can help.

To explain, I stumbled across some odd link on Facebook or Twitter on Monday and clicked onto it because I was bored.  (If you're reading this post after doing the same, no offence is taken and please come back).

The link took me to a page offering advice on how to get to sleep.  So I read it, tutted disapprovingly and moved on.

However, after climbing into the scratcher a few hours later and not feeling especially tired, I decided to try out what I'd "learnt," as follows:

1. Close your eyes (always a good idea when sleep is what you're after);
2. Breath in slowly whilst (inwardly) counting to four;
3. Hold your breath to a count of seven; 
4. Breathe out whilst counting to eight;
5. Snore or repeat.

I don't recall reaching the end of my second attempt.

Same again last night.

Have a go to see what you think. And if it doesn't work, try wine.  

The whole one yard

A bitter blow to my personal credibility and self-respect today when an emergency man was called to deal with my first car accident.

Let me explain.  

Those who know me well will be aware that I am yet to pass my driving test.  Long story, failed the test three times in three months back in 2006 and then didn't get round to it again.  I will, but not before next week.  At the earliest.  

That said, I will overcome one day, if only to get back at those lovely folks who have been ripping the dung out of me for all these years.  (I'm only 42 after all).

Anyhow, back to my car accident.

Last night I went to put the bin out, before encountering a problem in the form of our neighbour's car which was parked in the adjacent driveway alongside ours without leaving enough room for our bin to get through.

No problem, thought I.  I'll simply reverse our car back a bit to create a gap.  So I climbed in, fired her up, clunked the gear into reverse and dropped the car down our drive no more than a yard.  I then turned the engine off, locked the car, wheeled out the bin and returned inside.  Job done.

That was until this morning when Vanessa returned to the car to take Jamie to school.  She turned the key.  Nothing happened.  She tried again.  Nothing happened.  She swore under her breath.  Nothing.  She swore more loudly whilst turning the key.  No luck.

It was time for Plan B.  Walk Jamie to school (again, swearing under her breath).  They made it on time.

On her return, she phoned the emergency man to come and have a look.  15 minutes after his arrival, the emergency man - car now fired up - enquired as to when the car had last been started.  Vanessa told him.

No one told me that one yard journeys were bad for cars and had a tendency to flood the engine.  The proof of the emergency man's statement was evidenced by the fact that I had flooded the engine.  He left smiling.

An hour later, another emergency man arrived.  He didn't leave smiling after being informed that original emergency man had sorted the problem and so he wouldn't be getting a call-out fee.

In the meantime, Vanessa had taken the car out for a spin to nurse the engine back to health.

 
She can take the bin out next week too.

Simply Northern Ireland

My native Northern Ireland and its people are known for many things, some good, some not quite so good.

In the negative column is our dietary habits, which often veer towards the unhealthy (I still maintain the diet of a dog despite spending 20 of the last 24 years living "across the water").

More positively is our sense of humour (i.e. those of us who don't get offended by, I dunno, gay wedding cakes).

It is with the above in mind that I direct your attention to The Ulster Fry, a very recently launched parody website named in honour of our national dish (also known as the Heart Attack on a Plate).

A few days ago, The Ulster Fry produced a most excellent (spoof) piece about the imminent arrival of a Belfast restaurant which was seeking to give "a trendy new makeover to that staple of the Northern Irish dinner table - the humble crisp sandwich."

Going by the name of "Simply Crispy," the alternative eatery would invite diners to choose from a  menu of "gourmet crisp sandwiches" or create their own "from an exciting range of breads, crisps and spreads."

The article continued: "Whether it be the staple Tayto Cheese and Onion on Sunblest sliced pan with Flora, or the more exotic Thai Sweet Chilli on Italian Granary with a splash of balsamic vinegar – the choice is almost limitless."

Owner 'Gavin Spleen' told The Ulster Fry: “Simply Crispy will cater for all tastes, and all pockets.  Hungry carnivores will love our Beef Mini Chips on Medium Ormo, a bargain at £3.50 (crusts off 50p extra), while veggies might like to try Pickled Onion Space Raiders in a Belfast Bap with a Wotsit side-salad for a mere £5.95. Our piece de resistance is the ‘Inner Ring’ – a slice of Nutty Krust lovingly rolled into a thin sausage then inserted delicately through a series of Tayto Onion Rings, garnished with parsley and crushed Pringles.”

All good fun.

But you'll never guess what happened next.

Actually, I'll let The Ulster Fry tell you themselves from a post which appeared on the website earlier today:

"Yep, you guessed it – someone is now opening a cafe selling crisp sandwiches.

"Simply Crispy, the REAL one, is opening next week, in Belfast! A nice young man who owns a cafe in Belfast city centre loved the idea so much, he wanted to partner with us to convert his premises into Simply Crispy, and bring the idea to life. And so, The Ulster Fry, exactly 27 days after we launched our parody news website, have accidentally got involved with a cafe, selling crisps, inside bread. Which is a perfectly sensible sentence really. Rest assured we won’t be involved in making crisp sandwiches – but we will be eating them!

"Simply Crispy is opening on 8 Bedford Street, Belfast on Monday 12th January. They will be serving a selection of crisp sandwich meals with a selection of filling sides, and the prices won’t be as ridiculous as the ones we made up – crusts off will be free if you want it. We’ll need your help to make it a success, so get sharing, get tweeting (#simplycrispy) and, more importantly, get down there and get eating."

Only in Northern Ireland.

In a spin

Despite my best intentions, I didn't make it to yesterday's 7am spin class.

It wasn't a lack of commitment that did for me.  Well, not really.  I decided against setting an alarm to avoid waking everyone else, and the result was that I barely slept myself.  By the time 6am came, I was too weak to get out of bed.  And it looked cold outside.  I'll have another try in the summer.

However, I did go tonight and that was an experience in itself.

I've only been an LA Fitness member for a few months, but I've never known the gym to be so busy.  The car park was like Morrisons or Asda on Christmas Eve.  People were queued out the door to swipe their membership cards.  And inside, more lines formed as sweaty folk waited to break a machine.

I was therefore most relieved to enter the relative tranquillity of the spin room which - surprise, surprise - was packed.  Indeed, one poor man on the stand-by list had to vacate his saddle when a pink-faced lady turned up carrying a towel and a cream bun.

And then off we went.

In truth, I'm not totally unfit at the present time but, in common with most others, I ritually abused myself over the festive period and am feeling the effects.  As such, the last thing I needed was a wee woman with no eyes shouting "Eat, Sleep, Rave, REPEAT!" in my face for half an hour.  (Raving was never my thing).  But I got through it.

Tomorrow is Wednesday, troops.

Keep going.

2015: A year to swear by

A very Happy New Year to you - I hope it's got off to a good start.

Mine hasn't.  Have a look at our garden shed.

Yes, its roof has been defelted (probably not a real word) by the storms and I have a job on my hands.  And it is a job I have neither the appetite, the skills nor the patience to tackle with any degree of confidence.  But I'll have to have a go.  Feel free to light a candle or say a quick prayer for me if you get the chance.

On other matters, I'm sure I'm not alone in entering 2015 with big ideas and plans on my mind.

Making VANBAR associates the PR agency of choice is at the top of my list, and there will be movement on this in the days ahead.

Getting fit in ways other than pounding the roads is also there and, to this end, I've booked onto a 7am spin class tomorrow morning.  Really.  The mind boggles at the thought of who else might be there, but we'll see (if I can get my eyes open at that time).

From tomorrow, I'm off the drink for three weeks.  Really (again).  It would actually be longer, but Vanessa has the first of several events planned to mark her 50th (I think it's her 50th) birthday and I can't drink water at any of those.  I would have started my period of abstinence before now, but the World Darts Championship has been on - it's the Final tonight and you can't watch that with a cuppa.

What else.......oh yes, the final season of Breaking Bad has to be tackled, I need to get to bed earlier and read more books (I know everyone says that).  And to counter balance all my new found worthiness, I plan to swear more.

Let's get it ****ing on!

Dads are boys too

It's that time of the holiday period when the pace has eased a little bit and you have time to properly review what gifts have kindly come your way.

For my part, this includes my brand new drinking cap - which I'll be testing out very shortly - a pair of Guinness bottle top cuff links and a cocktail-making kit.  Spot the theme.

However, I would be lying to you if I didn't admit to taking more than a passing interest in some of Jamie's gifts.  

This includes his "big present" from Father Christmas, a PlayStation Vita which will shortly add a rugby game to its portfolio - compelling me to order an advance copy (for myself) yesterday.  (I can pretend to be the Ulster rugby team and everything, doesn't get better than that).

The other gift which has caught my eye - and which I may or may not have lobbied very hard for inclusion on Jamie's Santa list - is Electronic Battleship.

As a kid, I always fancied having Electronic Battleship on my own Santa list but it never quite worked out.  This meant I never actually got to play the game until last night when I set Jamie's up to "test" it - without telling Jamie.  Who then caught me in the act and forced me to let him join in.  Kids.

Charlotte soon took an active interest too and, before we knew it, all-out war was being waged across our dining room table.

Later, we're having a Boys v Girls house battle with Jamie and I pairing up against Vanessa and Charlotte.

And I'll not be happy until I see Charlotte cry at the demise of the female fleet.  I'm sorry, but war is cruel and she might as well know that now.

So there it was, Merry Christmas

Well, that's Christmas kind of over for another year (although I fully intend to tear the arse out of it for a few days yet).  I trust you and yours have had a memorable time thus far.

Briefly and in chronological order, all seemed to go well here for us Whites.

Jamie and Charlotte were eventually carted off to bed after leaving the obligatory refreshments out for Santa Claus and the reindeer with the shiny nose whose name currently escapes me.  

And thankfully they came, leaving two kiddiewinks particularly pleased with the outcome on Christmas morning.

 
(That's a remote-controlled toilet Jamie is holding, by the way.  "Corners smoothly without leaving skid marks," according to the box).

We then moved on to lunch, featuring special guests Grandma Judy and Granddad Mike.

Following Vanessa's French onion soup starter, it was time for the main event, namely Old Mike the Turkey.

Taking a mere six hours of preparation and cooking, I must confess to having felt a tad smug with my effort.

I'd never done that "shove butter under the skin" lark before, and was apprehensive. My appetite also took a bit of a hit early on when Vanessa passed by whilst I had both hands rammed inside Old Mike.
"Now you know what it's like to be a midwife," she said.  Indeed.

But anyway, that was all good.

Then came Boxing Day when, for the fourth year running, I made the mistake of entering the Chevin Chase.  It's a seven-mile trail race through a country park to the highest point almost 300 metres above sea level, and back down again.  It's muddy, it's cold and it's dangerous (I broke a bone in my foot when I first did it).  It's also traditionally won by one of the Brownlee brothers, reigning Olympic triathlon champion Alistair taking the tape yesterday with younger sibling Jonny not far behind.

Unlike me, who was far behind - in 542nd place.

 
Poetry in motion.

The low point for me was being passed by a man dressed as a tree whilst running through a clump of trees.  Irony in its cruelest form.  

But I just about earned my afternoon in the pub afterwards, which was the plan all along.

Which reminds me, it's now time to treat the kids to a pub lunch.  Selfless, we really are.

Time for another White Christmas

It's 3pm on Christmas Eve and, being partial to the occasional cliché, I'd like to say it's the "calm before the storm."  But it's not for me, and probably isn't for you either.

For years I tried to reach common agreement on a "traditional" White family Christmas Eve tea - and got nowhere. That was until last year when Jamie came up with the ingenious idea of fish and chips "with a twist."

Twelve months ago we sat down to devour a three-fish roast, albeit from Morrisons, accompanied by my (burnt) homemade chips.   And this evening, I'm going to have a go at fish goujons served with another attempt at (hopefully less burnt) homemade chips.  It'll probably be a disaster, but Santa loves a trier

Later, it will be cheesy Christmas telly, snacks out for Father C and Rudolph, and him and her off to bed.  Before we wrap.  And maybe even rap.  (A pretend Eminem has released a naughty version of Jingle Bells which we might have a crack at).

Then tomorrow I cook again.  But enough of all that, you might have your own bird to worry about (if so, I trust you bought her something nice).

I hope you have an excellent night tonight, that your hangover is eased when you discover Santa has been good to you, and you don't fall out with too many cheating in-laws once the Monopoly comes out.

Or put more simply, MERRY CHRISTMAS!

I trust there's cash in his sack

With Charlotte's birthday celebrations finally at an end (she's the one on the throne, obviously), today it was time to get back on with Christmas.

Enter Santa Claus.

Again.

Yes, Christmas has changed a lot since my day.  And one of the most noticeable "progressions" has been the birth of the omni-present Santa. 

Honestly, Jamie and Charlotte must've met the old giffer eight or nine times over the past few weeks.

He's been everywhere. And every time the meets them, he gives himself extra work.

For example, neither Vanessa nor I were aware until this afternoon's encounter at Aireborough Rugby Club (above) that Jamie wanted an Iron Man suit in his big stocking.  And now Father C (or maybe his accompanying elf) will have to knock one up. 

Serves him right. 

I hope he's also happy to pay for it.

Rainbow princess

I suspect I'm not alone in having spent a lifetime wondering what lies at the end of the rainbow.  And today I discovered the answer.  That's right, a car park.

If you look closely at my not very good camera pic above, you'll see the rainbow continue down in front of the trees onto the road outside Asda in Guiseley.

And it was kind of appropriate that I saw such a memorable sight today, Charlotte's birthday.

Four years and a few hours ago, this was her look.

But she's worked very hard on her image since then, and this was how she processed around the house after nursery late this afternoon.

Understated, I know. Inevitably, there were further costume changes.

For example, this was her early morning "opening family presents" attire.

And this was her coffee and mints look not long before bedtime.

Okay, milk and biscuits, but same idea.

It's very nice to have her around.

They wish you a Merry Christmas

A special moment at Guiseley Infant School first thing this morning, when Jesus was born for the eighth time in the past week.  According to headteacher Mrs Bell, two further births are expected over the next 24 hours as reception and year one stage their final performances.

Yes folks, it's the nativity season and I was one of many proud parents in attendance today as year two did their thang for the second and last time.

Jamie was one of the three kings on show - some traditions are thankfully unbreakable - and I've helpfully indicated his regal presence for you above, together with his formal title.

Following his casting a few weeks ago, I asked him a few questions about the nature of the role.

"Do you have any words to say?"

"Er, no."

"Do you get to hand your gift over?"

"Er, no."

"What do you have to do?"  

"Stand there.  I just have to stand there."

"Right, excellent.  Sometimes I find it hard to stand at Christmas time, so that's a tough one.  Good for you.  Do you get to sing?"

"Yes."

"Brilliant.  Sometimes when I'm finding it hard to stand, I like to sing really loudly.  You'll be great."

And he was.  He didn't fall over once and his lips were definitely moving every time Mrs Wotsit struck up the piano.  Just like his classmates, who were all equally wonderful.

I hope Father Christmas is kind and generous to each one of them.

One card trick

Here's a bit of fun.

You'll hopefully be aware that Vanessa I recently set up a PR and communications company, VANBAR associates, which we hope will make 2015 a year to remember.  

Things have been progressing and we expect to be able to announce news of some new business very soon.  

But we've just had another little win.

I went to my first Rugby Business Network meeting in Leeds on Wednesday evening, which you can read more about on our blog, VANBAR VIEWS.

On the way into the room, guests were invited to drop a business card into a champagne cooler as a means of entering a free prize draw.  So I did and thought nothing more of it.

To avoid hanging around waiting for a train on a dull and dirty night, I left shortly before the meeting ended - and presumably missed the winning card being drawn by England rugby coach Stuart Lancaster .

It was therefore with a mix of surprise and childish excitement that I opened an email no more than 20 minutes ago.

And this is what it said:

"Congratulations Barry!!

You have won the business card draw from the Leeds Rugby Business Network Event on Wednesday night!

You have won a meal for two to the value of £50 and a bottle of wine @ the Midtown Grill at the Marriott Hotel, Leeds.

I have sent the voucher to you in the post to your offices

Hope you enjoy it

Have a fab Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Thanks

Sian."        

Well I never.  It can double up as our staff Christmas do.

The Christmas Story by Charlotte White (aged 3 11/12)

With Christmas Eve now just a fortnight away, Charlotte thought you might like a quick refresher on what happened in a stable in Bethlehem around about 2014 years ago.

I hope it helps get you into the festive mood.

Pre-Christmas Gift

You might recall that I took on the Great North Run in September in memory of my sadly departed friends Mags and David who passed away over the last 18 months.

Many of you were incredibly kind in sponsoring my little venture which was in aid of Leukaemia & Lymphoma Research.    

When I crawled over the line, the "running total" (HA - gets me every time) was just over £1,100, and a couple more donations came in shortly afterwards.  But I forgot about the Gift Aid.

I was therefore very pleased to receive the following email this morning:

Dear Barry,

I hope that you are well. We have just received the remaining funds from your JustGiving page which has now expired. All of the sponsorship has been transferred safely and securely.

I just wanted to take a moment to express our thanks and gratitude for your support. I hope that you enjoyed taking part in the Bupa Great North Run 2014. We received an amazing £1445.99 in donations (inc Gift Aid) via your page and this will be invested into future blood cancer research. We cannot thank you enough for your efforts and I hope we’ll have you on the team again soon.

If there is anything else that I can help with then please do let me know.

Kind regards,

Jenny Desborough

Sports Events Coordinator

Leukaemia & Lymphoma Research  

Thanks again if you did put your hand in your pocket.  

'Twas the Whites before Christmas

A year goes fast, and today it was time for the annual Guiseley Infant and Nursery School Christmas Fair.

Having spent four hours at the school yesterday helping to set things up, Vanessa was determined to reap her rewards at the adult tombola.  She failed.

But thankfully another treat lay in store.

On the way out, we called into a converted classroom to see our friend Ruth - a proud servant of Guiseley Baptist Church - who was taking some pics on behalf of the congregation.  And they were pics with a difference.

Ruth doesn't do things by halves.  And so the sight of a full-size stable and manger set shouldn't have been a shock.  Neither should the rows of costumes on offer to families wishing to dress up for their very own Christmas picture.

Needless to say it was an offer we couldn't refuse.

My mother has always said I'd be a star one day.

Let the festive season begin.        

Can cook, does cook

A rare treat this afternoon, when I was one of several proud parents invited along to sample the culinary delights lovingly prepared by the chefs of the Guiseley Infant School Cooking Club.  

For five weeks now, Jamie and pals have been discovering the secrets behind a range of signature dishes including Big Snack Bruschetta (no meat), Sunset Pasta (ditto), Fruit Muffins (clearly) and Apple Crumble (not a sausage).

And whilst I trundled up the path with fatherly pride in my tummy, as a committed carnivore I also felt a bit sick at the prospect of tackling something a little but, er, "drab."    

But I need not have worried. Because today's special offering was nothing less than Cheesy Bacon Jacket Potatoes.  That's right, BACON!  Get in there (i.e. my mouth).

Plus, being from Ireland, potato is obviously a vegetable I was force-fed in the womb so no problems there either.

And I have to say, they really were rather good.  So much so that I queried whether the kids had really had a huge amount of personal involvement in their preparation.  (Yes, bad daddy, I know).  But Jamie quickly put me right after revealing that two fellow mini-cooksters had independently impaled themselves on the cheese grater.

My thoughts are obviously with them, not to mention the school governors who must be praying the parents don't sue.    

Is this Britain's smallest dad?

People keep asking me what's happened to my tiniest pal, Wee John, who hasn't featured on here as often as before.

Well, the short explanation (do you see what I did there?) is that he's been preparing for fatherhood.  

And for those who don't already know, I'm thrilled to report that at 9.35am yesterday, Baby Josephine India made her regal entrance, weighing in at 3.355kg (or 7lbs 3oz to my mother and me).

Mummy Rosie and daughter are doing well.  And, 24 hours on, Daddy still hasn't slept a wink

I'll raise a glass to all of that, although someone seems to have beaten me to it.

Congratulations wee man.