Extreme Dad

Long haul flights are fun when...

1.  There are no kids with you. 
2.  Work is paying for business class.
3.  There are no kids with you. 

And that, my friends, is going to be me tomorrow, because I'm flying back to London on my own to catch up with old friends, drink gallons of real beer and paint the town red for a conference.  I'm trying my level best to contain my excitement because I should be feeling sorry to leave the boys for a week.  Oh, and to a much, much lesser extent, guilty for leaving Zoe to cope with the little tykes on her own (she forgot my birthday last year). 

But the thought of being waited on hand and foot for 10 solid hours while not having to worry about Max running screaming up and down the aisles, or Tom throwing up over some lovely stewardess, is just too damn wonderful.  There will be no fight with Max in the airport when it's time to go through immigration and he wants to stay on the Postman Pat ride.  There will be no delaying the flight because Tom, seconds before boarding has mysteriously disappeared, only to reappear from behind the vending machine shortly after missing our takeoff slot.  And there will be no cringing from the hostile stares of other passengers, all praying "Please God, don't let it be me".

Oh yes,I fully intend to make the most of this and I won't pretend that I wish I didn't have to go.  I just hope there aren't any noisy kids on the flight.   People are so inconsiderate, travelling with babies and toddlers.  Little monsters should be put in the hold...

Extreme sucker

Bob the car washing guy has already taken me to be the sucker I really am.  He knows that I'm the one to speak to on Saturdays when he comes round to do the car.  He cottoned on in record time that if he speaks to Zoe, he won't be able to charge 4 times the going rate.  Or use our phone to make international calls.  Or relax in my armchair while I gather together cleaning materials for him (that I had to buy).

Following our little debacle last week, Bob knows that I'm even more easy game than usual, and he clearly intends to get as much mileage out that fact as possible.  So it was no surprise that when Zoe answers the door to him yesterday, he immediately asks to speak to me.   Hanging fire until Zoe is well out of earshot, he proceeds to not only ask for the equivalent of a Doctor's hourly wage to spend 10 minutes hosing my car, but he actually asks me to give him money towards buying a house!

"Don't worry," smirks Bob, "I only need $38,000".

"Wait there," I whisper. "I'll just go and get my wallet.  D'you want cash or a cheque...?"

Waiting for the bullet

In order of priority, I live for:

1. Family
2. Adventure sports and travel
3. The West Wing

Those who know me, know that I am not imbued with the gift of patience.  In a very rare and monumental feat of self control, I've managed to avoid watching any West Wing on TV so I can watch it all on DVD.  In one sitting.  And when it does come out on DVD, West Wing will take pole position in the above list.

Zoe, who (to my utter disdain) does not like the West Wing, has somehow seen the final episode.  And is itching to tell me how it all ends.  My world will come crashing down around me if she does.  It's like waiting for the bullet to hit, and like a torturess, she delights in it.

An Englishman's home is (not) his castle

We have a guy,'Bob', who comes round to wash our car every week.  Now Bob's a nice guy and he charges us pennies for toiling away in the hot sun and removing a week's worth of toddler debris and half of the Caribbean's beaches from the back seats.   The problem is,  Bob bangs on the door every 5 minutes asking for more soap, water, new rags, to use the phone, go to the toilet, read my books, watch my DVDs, borrow my wife and so on, and so on, ad infinitum.  Now, perhaps I'm being uncharitable, but on Sunday, the day after my hikeathon, I simply couldn't be bothered to get up from my armchair every three minutes for an hour to face his requests.  Add to this the fact that I was wearing only my underwear.  As is my wont (because it's damn hot here).  So when Bob knocked politely on the door, I quickly turned  the TV down and ignored him. I then smugly sank back into my armchair thinking he would politely disappear when he was suckered into thinking no-one was at home.    

Mistake number one: I should have realised by now that one of Bob's more admirable traits is perseverance.  He's a firm proponent of Hickson's maxim, "If at first you don't succeed..."   

Mistake number two: I had taught Max how to answer the door last week.

The next farcical ten minutes went something like this:

[Polite knocks quickly escalate to banging]
Max: "Daddy..."
Me: "Ssssshhhhhhhh...."
Max: "DADDY....!"
[Banging stops; Bob's smelt a rat]
[Banging resumes and increases exponentially.  Bob's breached the moat and and has deployed the battering ram]
Max waves bye bye Barney and makes for the front door in slow motion. 
Me: Much flapping of arms and silent mouthing of "NOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Max: The look says it all.  What's your problem Daddy?  We always open the door when someone knocks.

I'm powerless to stop him because I'm crippled from yesterday's stroll.  Max reaches for the door handle and I have two choices:

1.  Stay seated, in my underwear, and face the music (Bob will be able to see me from the front door).
2.  Hide.

I quickly decide on option 2 and crawl into the alcove under the stairs.  The banging stops as the door creaks open.

Bob: "Hello.  Where's Daddy?"
Max: "...." (Oh, now you've lost your voice, you little tyke...?)
Bob: "Hello!  HELLO! HEEEEEEEEEEELOOOOOOOOOO!"

I'm now in a classic Catch 22 situation.  If I reveal myself, Bob will know I've been hiding from him.  If I don't reveal myself, Bob will join the rest of the neighbourhood in thinking we're neglectful parents because we leave our 2 and 1 year olds to fend for themselves.  As I'm trying to come to terms with my predicament and think of a cunning way to extricate myself from it, Max quickly rules out the neglectful parent option. He comes back down the hall and he looks from Bob, to me and back to Bob.  And then the finger of God rises and Max points towards my hiding place.  Rumbled.

Out I crawl.  Bob has a victorious smile on his face.

Me: "I was, er, just looking for Max's  playdoh..."
Bob: "Want your car washed?"
Me: "I'll just get the bucket for you."
 

Gallows humour

This really tickled my sense of humour.  Outrageous.  The haircut, that is...