Good things come to those who wait

I've just got in the door and I'm supposed to be going to bed for a couple of hours.  But I'm not in the sleeping mood. 

Charlotte Frances was born in the age-old manner at 3.31 this morning - tipping the scales at a not inconsiderable 7lbs 15oz - and her mummy, daddy and brother could not be more proud.  

Jamie hasn't yet had the opportunity to say hello, but I'll be taking him into the LGI later today to do just that.

Then, he and I will have one last boys-only night together before the ladies arrive home in the morning.  

Thanks to the many wonderful people who were kind enough to send us goodwill messages via Facebook over the last few days. They certainly kept our spirits up, and I'll be printing them all off for Charlotte to read in later years.     

Right now, I feel like the luckiest man in the world - but it'll quickly wear off when, like Jamie, she inevitably gives me my first well-deserved slap in the mouth.   

Before going back to sleep.

The last supper?



OK, here's how things are looking.

We had a splashy moment at around 4am today.  But, as the Gillian McKeith lookie-likey midwife has just advised, it wasn't a "goosh" which is apparently a very different phenomenon altogether.

However, because of said splashy moment, it means we can't leave things as they are.  Hell no.

So, whilst full on labour may kick in at any moment, if nothing happens before 4am tomorrow - they're sending in a Chilean miner.

In the meantime we wait or, more precisely in Vanessa's case, scoff down a supersize cheeseburger and fries.

By the way, genuine thanks for all your good wishes (although gifts of alcohol would be preferable).

I'm now off to pace the landing.

The clock is yet to start



Guess what?  Yep, still no baby.  Nothing, nada, bugger all. 

But you'll be relieved to know that I have been keeping myself busy.
 
For example, I left my watch behind when in was back in Norn Iron a few weeks ago and told my mum not to bother sending it across as it was two years old, cost £20 and had had it's day.  Plus, Vanessa was getting me a new one for Christmas. 

But, today, something occurred to me.  If I have no watch, then how do I time the contractions?

Answer: with my recently purchased digital kitchen timer from Asda, that's how! 

So now, it's perched on the mantle piece, alongside my camera and mobile phone charger, just waiting for the opportunity to step forward and play its part.

Here's hoping its battery doesn't fade before I do.  

PS For Vanessa fans out there, I have no reason to think she's anything other than tip-top.  But I still haven't had time to ask.

Don't worry about me

I got a lot of work done today at, well, work.  But other than that, it's been like living in suspended animation.

Armed with my weekly train ticket, I was walking to the office at around 8.45 this morning when it suddenly dawned on me that I could become a father again at any given moment.

Now, I appreciate that this reality should really have reached my inner brain at some point before then.  Yes, I've talked and written about what's about to happen, but I suppose I hadn't really thought about it that thoroughly.

However, it's now hit me right between the eyes (or similar) and I'm ready to go.

Bring him or her on (or, more accurately, out), I say.

(Sorry?  What's that?  Vanessa?  How's Vanessa?  Er, well, I don't know.  Do you want me to ask her?  OK, I'll ask her.  But I'm sure she's fine.  Must be).

Where's Mystic Meg when you need her?



Just five days to go now before the scheduled arrival of Number Two, and I'm the midst of huge dilemma.  In fact, they don't come much bigger.

Should I renew my weekly rail ticket tomorrow or should I just buy a daily return?

I told you it was tricky.

There are lots of reasons to simply bite the bullet, pay the £24.20 and be done with it.

First and foremost, Vanessa is showing no real sign of dispensing with her load at the present time and, as I say, there are still five days to go.

But, there again, there are only three working days left this week and, if the baby does come on time, I'll have paid for a whole two working days I'll never need.

But there again, if no-one appears by Sunday, I'm due to attend a lunch in Keighley then anyway for which I can use my weekly ticket.

But there again, the forecast is for snow from tomorrow night, meaning it's possible that I might not even be able to use the ticket on Thursday, Friday or Sunday - never mind next Monday or Tuesday, when conditions are predicted to be even worse.

But there again, when is the weather forecast ever right?

Oh, it's all very difficult.

After loitering outside the New Pudsey ticket office in a state of mild hysteria, I've eventually went for the pragmatic option i.e. to decide first thing in the morning.

And, who knows, The Bump might well go bump in the night - meaning I'll not need to buy a new train ticket at all.     

But there again, it probably won't.

UPDATE - WED 1012: I went for the weekly so the baby is bound to be with us by teatime today.

William Thompson 1939 - 2010



At the beginning of a week when, if Vanessa's midwife has got it right, we hope to usher a new life into this crazy world, I've just received some terribly sad news about an old friend who has just departed. 

William Thompson was the Ulster Unionist MP for West Tyrone from 1997 - 2001.  It wasn't a seat he was expected to win and, when he did so, he knew that he would almost certainly lose at the next election.

He was therefore determined to make the most it, and he certainly did that.

Tragically, his time in Westminster coincided with the Omagh bomb on 15 August 1998 in which 29 people lost their lives and 220 were injured.

Willie was the local MP and I still vividly recall his live interview on BBC1's Breakfast With Frost the morning after the atrocity in which he showed no bitterness but shed a lot of tears.   

He was strongly opposed to the Good Friday Agreement.  The reasons were many - chief amongst them the fact that so many convicted terrorists were released back on to the streets - but he did so on principle, not for effect.  And if you didn't agree with him, well that was your right and he wouldn't hold it against you.

Indeed, my favourite memory of Willie goes back to the spring of 2000 when Ulster Unionist Leader David Trimble was challenged unsuccessfully for his job by the then Chief Whip Martin Smith.

After the votes had been counted, David phoned me up to ask what I thought we might do to help bring the Parliamentary Party back together.  I suggested he hold a series of private one-to-one meetings with each of the other nine MPs, which he agreed to.

I allocated about 45 minutes in David's diary for each of these, with some individuals using up all of the time available, and others a little bit less.

But Willie's meeting was by far the shortest.  In fact, I don't think it lasted much more than four minutes. 

He arrived in my room, next to David's, grinning from ear. I told him to go on in, whilst I climbed under my desk to wait for the fallout.  But I should have known better.

When he appeared back at my door after his rapid fire get together, a huge smile was again plastered across his face.

"Oh dear," I said, fearing he had decided to resign or do something equally problematic. "How did it go?"

"Let me put it this way," said Willie, still beaming and without a hint of malice.

"If someone from the press phones me up, I will tell them this: 'The Party Leader and I had a frank exchange of views, after which both of us emerged with a very clear understanding of each other's position.'  Is that OK?"

"Yes, Willie - spot on," I replied, through my laughter.

And with that he was off.

A couple of minutes later, David appeared in my room, hands in pockets and sporting the exact same enormous grin as Willie before him.

"Well?"  I asked.

David didn't respond.  He just shook his head, still smiling, and returned next door.

The message? Willie was being Willie - and no-one would ever have a problem with that.

My heart goes out to his wife Violet and his immediate family for their loss.  

Church drama as shy shepherd flocks off



Above you can see the nativity scene at The Grove Methodist Church in Horsforth earlier today. 

Do you notice anything odd about it?

No?

Well, there's a shepherd missing.

And can you guess who that shepherd might be?

Let me give you a clue.

Prior to going AWOL (and despite point blank refusing to wear the customary tea towel on his head), Jamie initially seemed enthused at the prospect of making his debut as a thespian.

But then he managed to break his staff and, looking back, it was probably the beginning of the end.



Sadly, the end itself came only about three seconds after he'd managed to get to the front of the church - prompting the narrator to announce to the amused congregation, "Oh dear, one of the shepherds has gone 'ome!"



Perhaps, next year, they'll just put him in charge of props.  

Let's play (what) Simon says

Until about 20 minutes ago, I believed that American Pie by Don McLean was the number one record in this country on the day I was born.  

But I was mistaken. 

For I've just done some research and discovered that the actual chart topper on Friday 31 March 1972 was Without You by some hairy bloke by the name of Nilsson.

How disappointing. 

I tell you this because the next two nights will almost certainly determine what "hot tune" is number one when White Junior #2 emerges from the Mummy Cave.

Yes, it's X Factor finals weekend and whoever wins show two tomorrow (why do they have to drag it out for so long?  Oh yes, to make more cash) will almost certainly be catapulted to the top of what we used to call the "hit parade" (showing my age, I know) next Sunday - the day said sprogette is due to take a bow.  

I might be wrong, but I have a feeling that the act that sings the song in question is likely to be as familiar to Jamie in 38 years' time as Nilsson is to me.     

Thanks for that, Mr Cowell.

One to ponder

I've got a little poser for you. 

Who do you think was more rude?

The grumpy old goat who - after Vanessa stopped this morning for 1.5 seconds on a poorly marked crossing outside Pudsey Leisure Centre to let me hop out, Jamie screaming all the while from the back seat - proclaimed down the end of his nose:

"You've stopped right on the crossing!"

Or me, who told him to "grow up and f*** off!"

I hope you'll conclude it was me.  

Why doesn't someone really go in style?

The newspapers continue to rave about how excited the nation apparently is by the week-long 50th anniversary celebrations down Coronation Street way, during which several members of the cast are due to meet a gruesome end.  

Now, I like Corrie but, I have to say, I haven't been that impressed with the storyline thus far. 

For one, the £1 million tram-falling-off-the-viaduct stunt looked like something from the original Star Wars movie i.e. a plastic toy and a bit of clever camera work. 

Second, it took an eternity for the police and fire brigade to arrive  - I distinctly remember someone calling 999 on Monday and yet they only rocked up just after 7 o'clock this evening, which is Wednesday. 

And thirdly, it's all just a bit too drawn out for my liking.

However, tomorrow, events are primed to reach their dramatic conclusion with a special hour-long live episode. 

Which brings me to my evil genius point. (OK, scratch the genius).

Few of us in this world will ever have the opportunity to achieve legend status, but tomorrow one or more Coronation Street cast members will be presented with the chance to do just that. 

The theme of the week's episodes is "Four Funerals and a Wedding," meaning we can expect four characters to receive their P45s at some point before 9pm tomorrow night. 

And they're not all going to die instantly, oh no.  You can be absolutely certain that at least one of them is going to be lying under a bit of rock or something and someone will say to them all emotionally, "Are you alright?!"

And, according to the script, they will be expected to whimper back that they love their husband/wife/lover/kids or whoever - and then cark it. 

But what if - WHAT IF -  just for the fun of it, instead of doing their deathly duty, they instead reply "Yep, I'm fine thanks" before getting up and walking away with a big smile on their face? 

They're going to be sacked anyway.  So why not go with a bit of glory in front of 20 million people - and guarantee never having to buy their own drink in the outside world ever again?  It would be hilarious.

However, as I say, it's but a mere evil genius thought.             

Bye, bye Kevin

I lost weight today, although I'm not certain how much. 

How much does a huge molar weigh?

Yes, he's gone; that nasty, horrible, diseased, painful, b****** of a tooth which made the last 10 days of my life somewhat inconvenient.

And he's not given up the fight just yet (it was definitely a male tooth, by the way, probably called Kevin) as my jaw still aches like blazes.  But I suppose that's kind of inevitable when you've got a huge, gaping hole in it.

Plus, Miss Dentist gave me strict instructions not to have hot food or drink for 24 hours, consume alcohol for 48 hours or take up smoking until Thursday at the earliest.

So, thanks for all of that Kev.

On the plus side, Miss Dentist kindly offered me an unexpected three month break from further prodding, before a load more work gets underway next year.

Needless to say, I swiftly agreed - just as her male assistant was wiping the last drops of blood off my chin.

On other matters, Ben and I had a great night at Madness.

I forgot to mention yesterday that Ben actually went to the same school as the band (albeit around 20 years after their departure). 

But is this more impressive than going to the same school as Jimmy Nesbitt at the same time as Jimmy Nesbitt for a whole year?

It is?

OK, fair enough.

Accidents will happen (to me)



Yesterday, I told and even showed you the fun Jamie and I were having on his sledge. 

Well, today, I've only gone and arsed it - literally.  Yes, I put my arse right through his sledge.  Above you can see what was left behind by my behind.  

We must have hit a stone or something as we careered down a hill near Kirkstall Abbey.  To be fair, he did react to the turn of events a little better than I might have imagined, whilst making it crystal clear that I would be expected to get him a new one.  

And obviously I will, particularly given the number of his sweets I've stolen in recent days.  But therein probably lies the reason for what happened in the first place.  So it's back to the gym for me.  Sometime.  Soon.  Ish.  

Meanwhile, tonight marks my last planned hurrah prior to the arrival of White Junior Mark Two, who is due to wipe his or her feet on Vanessa's mat exactly two weeks from now.  

My very own Cockney rebel chum Ben (that's him on the right) and I are off to see Madness at the O2 Academy in Leeds, and it's guaranteed to be a gig that both of us will remember for one very good reason; I can't drink because of my anti-biotics and Ben's decided to drive.

Over to you Suggs et al.

    

    

The White boys hit the white stuff



Jamie's sledge came out this morning for its first proper run-out of the winter.

And we started off well.

So much so, that I thought I might try to catch a subsequent run on video using my phone.

As you can hear (as well as see), the first "take" went well.  

Sadly, the second didn't.   

Hopefully we'll do better tomorrow.

I too have a kidney bean head



My gnasher-themed week continued today with another visit to Miss Dentist.

Sadly, the anti-biotics she gave me on Monday to counter my abscess have proven to be about as useful as a packet of Smarties. 

And the consequences have been a heap of pain and a load more swelling - leaving me with a face shaped very similar to that of my old friend and I'm A Celebrity reject Lembit Opik. 

This morning she prescribed me with a box of tablets the size of Frisbees which she "thinks" might work better. What a pro.

Tragically - and I would be grateful for your deepest sympathy on this one, but appreciate that laughter is more likely -  I can't now drink for a week (I knew it!) and she's intending to pull the tooth on Monday in any case, rather than Thursday (the excitement was getting too much for me).   

I'll bet I get a cold next.  Or one of my ears might fall off. 

Anyway, as long as you're alright.  

Smile or scream?



During my impromptu visit to the dentist earlier in the week, I discovered something that was both fascinating and gruesome in equal measure. 

According to a sign in the surgery - and I checked this out with Miss Dentist later, and it is true - if your child has an 'adult' tooth knocked out, "all is not lost."

The sign went on: "Find the tooth — Hold the tooth by the crown (the part usually visible in the mouth) not by the root (the pointed end)."

And here's the thing: "If the tooth is clean — Hold it by the crown and gently push it back into it's socket, making sure that it is the right way round."

ARRRGGHHHH!!!!!!

Since reading that, I've hardly slept a wink.

Let it snow! (now that I've made it home)



Above is a memorable image of New Pudsey railway station about an hour ago.

Sadly, the scene on board on my train just a few minutes earlier wasn't quite so pretty after, let's say, an "elongated" journey from Keighley via Leeds.



But at least I could then walk home - unlike many of my fellow commuters who tend to drive their cars some distance before parking at New Pudsey. 



And this was our garden after I managed to trudge it back.



I might take Jamie out there later and use him for snowball target practice.

What will they think of next?

We work moved into a new, permanent office in work earlier today, which was kind of exciting.

And the clear highlight for me, perhaps surprisingly, came when I went for my first wee.

Because above you can see something I've never knowingly encountered anywhere before in my almost 39 years on Earth.

Yes folks, it's what can only be described as a "splash guard." 

You may have your own opinion but, for me, life doesn't get much classier than that.

You don't need teeth to smile

We went to see Peter Kay in Sheffield last night.  That was good.   

But I can normally expect my dentist to knock the smile off my face and, this morning, she didn't disappoint.

To be fair, it wasn't her who put the abscess on my tooth (probably).  But I thought she took a degree of sadistic pleasure when telling me what the next steps would have to be now that it was there. 

Essentially, the tooth is going to yanked violently from my contorted face first thing next Thursday morning.  However, before then, I have to take five days' worth of some peculiar anti-biotic I've never seen before.  And it has side effects.

She did mention (with a hint of glee) that it would make me feel sick.  But reading the little insert on the way home, I subsequently discovered that I am also liable to shit myself. 

And there's more.

As soon as my gaping wound heals sufficiently following next week's assault involving actual bodily harm, I'll have to decide what to fill it with, as I already have a gap in that part of my mouth.

"What are the options?" I asked.

"There are two," replied Miss Dentist.  "You could have an implant."

"And how much will that set me back?"

"About two and a half thousand pounds."

"Right.  Well, that's not going to happen.  What's the other option?"

"A denture," she said.

"And can I have that on the NHS?"

"Yes," said Miss Dentist, looking a little disheartened (and much less rich).

"I'll take it!"

And that was that.

As an aside, I also have to have some other work done, including two new crowns.   

But you know, shit happens.

Talking of which, I'd better go - I think my tablets are beginning to kick in...

Dips with everything

The term "think smart" is generally associated with huge corporate entities trying to pretend that what they do is complicated or beyond the power of the rest of us.  In my experience in any case.  

However, on Friday evening and possibly for the first time in the entirety of my parenting existence thus far, I "thought smart."

I'd just arrived in from work and Jamie wasn't eating his pasta.

Vanessa had tried everything but the little so and so had refused to give in. 

I then had a go at reasoning with him, prompting him to remove some pasta from his plate.  And throw at it me.

What to do?

Suddenly it came to me.

Jamie's gorgeous little cousin Katie, who you can see him hooking up with last weekend in the photo above, has taught him lots of things over the last two and a half years. 

But possibly his favourite is the art of dipping his chips in tomato ketchup.  He had never done it previously (mainly because Vanessa hardly ever lets him have chips), but Katie showed him the ropes and now he does it all the time (or, more accurately, about once a fortnight when Vanessa can't be arsed to make him something "healthy"). 

So, back to Friday and his pasta.

And in short, I "thought smart" and suggested that a tomato ketchup dip might serve as a perfect accompaniment to his cheese and ham tortellini (ahem).  He readily agreed and proceeded to finish almost the entire bowl.

Should you be a parent, you can have my piece of "blue sky thinking" for free.  (Or you can send me a cheque).

Two funnies

I read two one-liners in this week's papers that really made me laugh and, being the sharing kind of guy that I am, I wanted to pass them your way.

First, in Thursday's Super Soaraway Sun, was the story of Health Minister Simon Burns (the fat bloke I told you about a few weeks ago who was once rude to me in a lift) and House of Commons Speaker John Bercow.

These two have previous form in that Mr Burns was once picked up by a microphone referring to vertically challenged Mr Bercow as "a sanctimonious, stupid dwarf."      

As fate would have it, Mr Burns recently managed to reverse into Mr Bercow's limo in the Commons car park, prompting the Speaker to march up to the Health Minister's car to announce: "I'm not happy."

To which Mr Burns replied: "Well, which one are you then?" 

I loved that.

My second laugh-out-moment came when I was reading Metro, the free paper familiar to frustrated commuters up and down the country.

And a columnist's guide  - I can't remember his name - to surviving the Ashes.

For him, the key tools to help you stay awake for the all-night television coverage was strong coffee and a banana.

"The coffee to try to keep your brain alive, and a banana to poke yourself in the eye when you think you're about to drift off."

Magnificent.