Talking To Chickens And Painting Balconies, The Corona Virus Lockdown Continues…

Tags

animals, Chickens, Coping, Corona, France, fun, funny, Humour, outdoors, Relationships, Virus

It’s important to try to reach out and remain social in these dark times. With that in mind let me introduce my new friends from next-door: Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy and Dave.

 

 

This is actually Dave 2. Dave 1 was much smaller, black and full of beans. Despite his diminutive stature he would eyeball me and puff out his chest every time our paths crossed. However since Dave 2 arrived Dave 1 has vanished.

 

As we have the time I also took the opportunity to repaint our little ‘balcony’ and protective guardrail, in a nice shade of white.

 

This is a yearly ritual, and my agreement with the family of sparrows that lives in the nest above it is that they leave it alone for a minimum of 15 seconds before they defecate on it. Perhaps sensing that there was something going on at the moment, they very graciously left it clean for a whopping 25 seconds.

I don’t mind, they are very neat…pooers? and they were here first. Plus I love the noise they make.

Learning To Ride A Bike…

Tags

children, kids, love, musings, outdoors, Parenting, park

I remember when I learned to ride a bike.

 

I was on my own.

 

No mum, no dad.

 

Just me, wheeling round my local estate.

 

Freewheeling, and then it just…’clicked’.

 

I was filled up with joy, elated.

 

I wanted to share it with someone.

 

But I was alone.

 

I never wanted this to happen to you though, son.

 

We’ve done it together, me and you.

 

In the park, on a bright sunny day.

 

Mummy and your sister are watching, over near the swings.

 

You are so happy,  a huge smile spread across your face.

 

You’ve got it, it’s ‘clicked’ for you, like it did for me.

 

But you’re not alone.

 

We’ll remember this day for years to come.

 

And we’ll always be together.

I Never Thought I’d Say That To My Son…

Tags

children, cycling, Humor, kids, melt down, outdoors, Parenting, park

 

Little legs push the pink bike up the garden path, there’s merriment twinkling in those young eyes. But then the pedalling stops. Hands dart through pockets, frantically searching. Big eyes scour the grass, eyelashes blink and there are the first hints of tears welling up. ‘Where’s my lip-gloss?’ the plaintive cry echoes around the garden.

 

My son has lost his lip-gloss. He is sat on a pink bike crying about it. I am OK with this. I am OK with this.

 

This is all my fault.

 

We are visiting friends for the afternoon, friends who have kids that have grown up with ours via a shared nursery. We head to the local park to let them have a bit of fun. It’s here that I spy the lip-gloss on the floor. I wouldn’t ordinarily give something like this to my son (for fairly obvious reasons), but it comes with a ‘Moshi Monster’ tag attached to it, which I know he loves, so I do. It looks like this:

 

 

He’s pleased as punch with it, and even more so when we find a second one, which he actually prefers, so he gives the first one to his sister. This leads to cries of ‘But I don’t have one!’ from his friend Alex. Alex’s sister is also with us, but she could care less about the lip-gloss. Not the boys though. In a park filled with rides and swings, they seem more interested in the tube of bright pink lip decoration than anything else.

 

We head back to our friend’s house and continue to play in the garden. Alex has a bike, but he’s a big lad, and so it’s far too large for my son to ride. Alex’s sister’s bike however, is just right for my son. In size if not in colour, anyway.

 

We while away the next hour or so in a delightful mix of the kids leaving the garden on their various two-wheeled modes of transport, and me chasing them back in the garden. It’s stressful, but fun. Until my son realises that he’s lost his lip-gloss.

 

We go hunting for it in the garden, no result. We head back out towards the park, eyes glued to the ground, me leading a search party of four kids, but no luck there either. We look in the house, in the toilet, even places where we haven’t been. It’s gone.

 

I look at my my little boy, sat on his pink bike, his eyes filled with tears, and I utter a sentence I never thought I would, to my nearly-six-year-old son: ‘It’s OK’ I say to him, ‘We’ll find your lip-gloss’*.

 

 

 

 

*We didn’t.

Fun Times At Pleasure Island Cleethorpes, On The Last Day Of The Holidays

Tags

children, fun, funny, holidays, Humor, kids, outdoors, Parenting, park

My son and I have a tradition. As he isn’t six yet it’s not exactly a longstanding one, but it is one I hope to enjoy with him for many years to come. On the last day of the long summer holidays we take a trip to Cleethorpes, in Yorkshire, and enjoy a day at Pleasure Island, a theme park. It’s not the most popular theme park in the UK, but therein lies its attraction.

 

Not for us the lengthy queue-times, or wallet-cripplingly high entrance fees, oh no. We get to enjoy a day of pretty much instantly going on any rides we like (and that my son is tall enough for) at a reasonable rate. OK, so some of the rides aren’t exactly top-of-the-range, but my son is young, and he doesn’t care.

 

So here for you are a selection of photos from our day out together.

 

(Oh, and in case you are wondering why my daughter isn’t with us, that’s because she’s in nursery. Take them both to the theme park? on my own? are you insane?).

 

The start of the day. A gloomy start, but we were lucky and the weather held off for the most part. We got there ten minutes before they opened, and my son managed to beat his personal best score of 110 utterances of the question ‘Is it open yet Daddy?’ in that space of time. New record is 121.

We always go on the peddaloes first, and the guy always tells us ‘stay away from the sides of the lake’ and my son always steers us into the sides of the lake.

Waiting for the train, it transports you around the park. It’s not an especially large park, but it’s a nice touch.

My son, who is quite timid as a rule, made me go on this. A log-flume like ride in a dark wet tunnel. I don’t like heights. Look at how high that thing is.

The obligatory cuddly toy. I got it from a ‘guaranteed win’ machine for £2. Took me ten minutes, he was very specific. Had to be brown. I was sweaty and aggressive by the time I finally grabbed the thing.

An Alpaca that, despite the warning signs, steadfastly refused to spit at my son. That would have made his day.

On the monorail. Giving us epic views of everything from 8 feet in the air.

This looks like Cape Canaveral (is that spelled right?) as opposed to a gloomy day in Cleethorpes.

Can’t go to the seaside without buying an ice cream.

Mr happy. He was put out because I didn’t want to lose more money playing games that you can’t win – where you have to knock down three tins – and thus meaning he wouldn’t be going home with a three-foot-tall Super Mario.

All smiles again.

The chap manning this ride was bereft of intelligence, wit, charm and, almost, his trousers, due to an unfortunate lack of belt. Seriously, I thought he’d wandered in from the set of Hot Fuzz (yarp!).

An Idiot’s Guide To Running A Welly-Wanging Stall…

Tags

children, funny, games, Humor, kids, outdoors, Parenting, school, stay-at-home Dad

 

 

I watch in horror as the heavy piece of rubber hurtles skyward, completely off course and heading straight for a family of four. There’s a mum, a dad  a toddler and a baby in a pram. Thankfully – and I use that term in the loosest possible sense – dad feels the full force of the welly. This gloriously sunny Sunday is not going well, I think to myself. And this is only the first 30 minutes. I’m manning the stall for three hours. Three hours. But surely that’s the worst thing that can happen on the welly-wanging stall isn’t it?

 

Nope.

 

I do a lot of volunteering in my village, partly to keep myself active, partly to feel part of the community and partly to keep my CV looking relatively healthy (some people don’t see ‘stay-at-home-dad’ as a worthwhile usage of time – they think we sit around all day playing PS4, when in actual fact we spend all our time writing articles that overuse the word ‘partly’ for our world-famous blogs *cough cough*). One of the groups I help out with is the local PTA.

 

I helped them run a Minion-themed night a few weeks back. There were over a hundred kids. Then we put minions in the room. Then we gave the kids pop and sweets.

 

I’m still having nightmares about that one

 

Kind-heartedly – or foolishly, you decide – I offered to help them out again at the summer fair. A yearly event involving inflatable castles, face painting, tombolas and lots of confusing games. They all cost either 50p or £1. That’s generally the upper limit for a school gala. Anything costing more than that is frowned upon.

 

I’m asked to man the ‘welly-wanging’ stall, and nod my head in agreement. ‘That’ll be a doddle’ I think to myself. ‘After all they do it every year’.

 

‘We’ve never done this before’ says the head of the PTA to me, on the aforementioned gloriously sunny Sunday, as he ambles past. ‘Good luck’. I set up my stall and mark out the ‘target area’, thinking as I do that it’s rather close – some might say dangerously so – to the football stall next to it. After I’ve marked out the target zone I set out my wellies, or wellington boots, there’s three different sizes, for the three different age-ranges we have. So small ones for the 3-7 year-old bracket, medium for the 7-11-year-old bracket, and really heavy ones for the ‘adult’ bracket.

 

I then look at the prizes. The youngsters get a toy tractor, the middle kids get a box of chocolates, and the 11 and over category get a bottle of wine. I point out that this means in theory we can have a 12-year-old walking away from a school fair with the top prize of alcohol in their hands.

 

The PTA hastily agrees that we should ‘Contact the parent of the winning thrower, and make sure they accept it’.

 

Before I continue I should probably give you some information about the wild and crazy world of wellies, and indeed welly wanging.

 

Here’s a welly:

 

Want to know what welly-wanging actually is? Here’s some info from Wikipedia:

 

Welly wanging is a sport that originated in Britain in Upperthong, Holmfirth. Competitors are required to hurl a Wellington boot as far as possible within boundary lines, from a standing or running start. A variation requires participants to launch the welly from the end of their foot as if they were kicking off a pair of shoes. The high level of competition has led to precise, highly regulated rules for the sport. The sport is regulated and administered by the World Welly Wanging Association, based in Upperthong

 

They must have been really, really bored one day to have come up with this ‘sport’.

 

I open for business at 1pm prompt and, at first, think I’m in for a quiet day. People stroll up, look at me, look at my wellies, smile somewhat pityingly and then carry on to the hook-a-duck stall instead.

 

But things soon pick up. I’ve got an assistant you see, a ten-year=old lad from the school who loves drumming up business. ‘COME AND WANG A WELLY’  he shouts. And when that doesn’t work he effectively encourages/bullies his school friends into having a go. We soon start cashing in, especially with our attractive price – 50p a go.

 

Things go wrong when the adults get involved.

 

The kids, in either category, are limited by their development. The adults have no such limitations. Some truly monstrous looking men begin having a go at hurling the wellies as far as they can, and any fears I had of a 12-year-old walking away with the wine are soon put to rest. No 12-year-old has a hope against some of these man mountains.

 

It’s one of these behemoths who hits the daddy and his family. But daddy’s ok, he laughs it off. But I’m worried, more for the kid in the pram than anything. ‘This wasn’t on the risk assessment’, I think to myself. ‘These people are too close to the stall, it’s a health and safety nightmare’.

 

The headmaster passes me by and stops for a chat. ‘Everything ok?’ he asks me. ‘Not really’ I say to him, ‘These people are too close to the stall, it’s a health and safety nightmare’. He nods his head, ‘Yeah, we should have covered that on the risk assessment’, then he ambles off.

 

The next victim is a young chap, he’s chilled out, enjoying the sun with his friends. This enjoyment soon ends when a size 10 welly smacks him straight in the face. We’re lucky though, he’s 13 and brushes it off, saving the bragging rights for later.

 

Another adult strolls up, he’s not muscly, but you can tell he’s got power. He’s just got that ‘coiled spring’ look about him. He takes a run up, winds his arm back ‘This one’s a winner’ I think to myself. Then the welly disappears. Backwards. He’s thrown it 20-feet behind him, nearly taking out the entire dance class that’s scheduled to perform within the next hour. ‘It can’t get worse than this can it’ I say, to no-one in particular, looking off into the middle distance, wondering if I could just walk off and leave my stall….

 

The worst thing then happens.

 

A mum and her three kids roll up at the stall, they look like they’re having fun, and they’ve clearly made the effort for the fancy dress competition. Mummy is dressed as one of the Pink ladies from Grease, son is Buzz Lightyear and daughter is generic Disney Princess. They look like they want to ‘have a wang’. So does the 11-year-old next to them. But he’s already paid so he has first dibs. He takes a run up and, WANG!

 

The welly doesn’t even get over the starting line. No, it promptly takes a 90-degree left-turn straight into little miss generic Disney Princess’ face. The tears are immediate and the cries are loud. Mum looks at me, I apologise profusely. ‘It’s alright’ she says to me, ‘I think she’s just a bit tired’. I look at the little girl, who now has the imprint of a size 8 wellington boot on her face and think to myself ‘Yes, it’s definitely fatigue, not concussion’.

 

It’s late, I’ve had enough and so I pack up the stall and head off towards the exit, pausing as I do to drop the money off with one of the PTA ladies. ‘Same time next year?’ she says to me jovially. ‘Next year’ I say to her ‘I’m doing the hook-a-duck stall’.

 

Alternative Forms Of Child Punishment In The Land Of The Rising Sun

Tags

children, funny, Humor, musings, outdoors, Parenting

 

I can’t believe all the bad press that Japanese dad is getting, he’s a trailblazer in my eyes.

 

He punished his kid by leaving him in a bear-infested forest, to teach him a lesson.

 

I mean, come on fellow parents, who HASN’T thought about leaving their kids in a bear-infested forest for a few days as a punishment?

 

You mark my words, this time next year everyone will be putting their kids in bear-infested forests for up to a week.

 

Wow….a week of peace with only a 85% chance of your kid (s) being eaten by a bear…good odds say I.

How Do You Say ‘The Food’s Lovely, But Your Dog Smells Like Horse Manure’ In French?

Tags

children, France, funny, holidays, Humor, kids, outdoors, Parenting, stay-at-home Dad

It’s the Easter holidays and, like every year, we find ourselves in France visiting the in-laws. For those not ‘in the know’ – and I’ll be honest I’m not sure I’ve mentioned it in much detail – my other half is French. This means I get to make lots of people jealous at the fact that I, just a lad from Yorkshire, have a relatively exotic lady for a partner. It also means I get to holiday in France twice a year, soak up the culture and stuff my face with lots of cheese and other fine foods.

 

The holiday is generally broken up into two parts, due to the fact that her parents – like mine – are divorced. The first part we spend at Chez Mamy – my partner’s mother’s house – and the second, smaller part at her dad’s. Then after the jaunt to her dad’s it’s back to her mum’s for the final part of the holiday before the inevitable, and unwanted, return to the UK. Chez Mamy is in Aubigny Sur Nere, a beautiful little town tucked away in the French countryside. It’s small, but still has a bustling heart and busy main street, as you can see:

The town has all the  things you need, pub, boulanger, patisserie, charcuterie and a variety of small shops selling all kinds of unique items. The village itself is also twinned (or jumilee as it’s called in France) with a Scottish town called Haddington. Sometimes the ‘Scots’ even make a special trip over, to acknowledge this fact:

It’s midway through the holiday and so we are settled in at her dad’s, in his rural retreat. His house is based near a beautiful town, called Charité sur Loire:

We spend more time at Mamy’s house than we do at ‘Papy’ Guy’s, so my knowledge of his home-town isn’t as extensive. Therefore I won’t be putting you through an exhaustively in-depth 1000-word description of his, like I did with hers. It is a stunning place though, and sights like this are commonplace:

Just five minutes by car from the main town finds us at Papy Guy’s house, in St Leger Le Petit. It’s a large converted farmhouse set within quite a few acres of land, with a variety of large outbuildings for the kids to entertain themselves in. Some of these are full of rusty farm machinery though, so a watchful eye is always needed.

 

The kids love it here, they have far more places to explore and, if the weather is fine, they can spend hours wandering the estate, discovering new and interesting things.

 

Then there’s the animals.

 

Papy Guy is the proud owner of two lovely animals (which is two more than we own) cat, Gabi, and a labrador called Fleur. The grounds of the farmhouse are still used for a variety of farming tasks, and it’s planting season. This means lots of work for Guy, and his partner Josiane, in the fields.  During a walk myself,my son and Fleur encounter Josiane, busy shovelling manure onto the soil. She tells me something, pointing at the dog, and shaking her head. My French is ok, but try as I might, I can’t fully understand what she’s saying.

 

We complete our tour of the grounds and head back in for dinner, and it’s then that what Josiane was saying to me becomes apparent.

 

I take my place and tuck into my freshly-made bread, dipping it in some homemade mayonnaise. It’s then that the smell hits me. Is it the mayonnaise? I think to myself. has it gone bad? Surely not. The smell gains in strength, reaching a crescendo (can smells do that?) and I feel a nudge at my thigh. Fleur is resting her large head on my leg, looking deep into my eyes and imploring me to give her some bread. And it’s then that what was earlier lost-in-translation is now all too clear to my nose.

 

Fleur likes rolling in the horse manure, and then coming for a cuddle with yours truly.

 

How to broach this subject with the in-laws? Even if I was fully fluent in the lingo, how to mention this delicate matter? The simple answer is you can’t. You just have to do the British thing and suffer in silence.

 

And suffer I do.

 

I’m not sure know if it’s because I don’t pester her as much as the kids, or if it’s because I’ve given her treats in the past, but she favours me with her presence. Especially at meal times. I can’t full enjoy the delicious meals laid out in front of me, because they’re always, always, accompanied by that ‘freshly laid dump’ aroma from le-cheval.

 

We get to the end of the ‘Papy-segment’ of the holiday, and get ready to depart. It’s then that everyone begins to freely comment, about the reek coming from the dog. It seems everyone is aware of it, and everyone agrees – none more vociferously than I – that the dog needs a wash. All except Papy Guy himself, who says he can smell nothing untoward. But then he would say that, he constantly refers to her as ‘Ma fille’ (my daughter, in French). And what dad would admit that their daughter smells of horse-shit? Still, I hope he concedes and gives her a bath.

 

We’re going back in August, last summer it was very, very hot, and I dread to think what she’ll smell like by the time we arrive, if the situation isn’t remedied…

Staving Off Cabin Fever: The Half-Term Holidays Day Two – The Joy Of Godparents

Tags

children, funny, holidays, Humor, kids, outdoors, Parenting, teachers

It’s an early start today, breakfast down the hatch (es) and then everyone is bundled into the car for the one-hour-or-so trip to Skipton, Yorkshire. It’s a leafy town set amidst rolling hills, with some quite breathtaking scenery. I’m not taking the kids just to admire the view though, oh no. As well as lovely scenery, Skipton is also home to two other items of particular interest: the kids’ godparents.

We roll up outside said godparents’ house and, before we even knock on the door, we are greeted by the godmother. We are quite lucky in our choice of godparents, particularly when it comes to school holidays. Godmother is a teacher, so it means you are guaranteed to be able to see her when school’s out. The godfather works in a cafe in the train station, and his hours are such that by just after dinnertime he is finished for the day.

This is great for me, as it means I get to ‘share the load’ and have help with the kids. We nip into chez godparents for a quick toilet break and then it’s off to the park.

My daughter, who I am primary care-giver to, soon switches her allegiances, and waves me away when I attempt to help her onto the swings. She points an imperious finger at godmother, and indicates that she would prefer her help getting onto the swings.

Godfather rings me up from the cafe while my traitorous daughter is swung merrily, and my son smears mud on the slide as he climbs up it the wrong way.

‘Where are you? I’m nearly finished at the cafe’ he says to me.

‘We’re in the park’ I tell him.

‘Great, I’ll be there in five minutes. I’m wearing a red coat’

I ponder this for a moment.

‘This isn’t a blind date’ I tell him ‘I do know what you look like’

But he’s hung up already.

He arrives shortly after, wearing a gloriously red coat, and we continue entertaining the kids for a while. Godmother takes her leave of us, and we arrange to meet back at basecamp. The sky turns gloomy so we decide to head into town. Skipton is a town with an abundance of affluent, elderly people and this has, for some reason, given rise to a surfeit of my drug of choice: charity shops.

They’re everywhere, and I take great pleasure in trailing our little convoy around them. They are staffed by well-to-do volunteers, who probably still pay more a year in taxes than the average person earns per year. They react poorly to the arrival of a child, a parent, a godfather and a child in a pram. They don’t know the first thing about ensuring their shops are pram friendly, my daughter exploits this fact to the full. Every shop we go in her little hands eagerly grab articles of clothing, hoping to take these age-inappropriate items back to her lair. She’d have gotten away with it too if it hadn’t have been for these pesky (god) parents.

It’s heading towards dinner time, so we head back to chez godparents. They have a lovely clean house, on three floors. It doesn’t stay clean for long. There’s soon cleaning up to be done on all but the highest floor, and daddy leaves a present in the toilet on that one that the godparents will enjoy later.

Godmother has brought provisions, and after a slap up lunch, she takes the kids outside to help her with a spot of gardening. The godfather and I recline upstairs in the lounge, supping coffee. We discuss the quality of the new James Bond theme (it’s poor), and put forward the hypothesis that sago is actually rice pudding’s evil brother. We ramble on like this for some time, just enjoying each other’s company. I enjoy the blissful lack of kids.

This brief nirvana doesn’t last and, realising I shouldn’t put too much strain on the parent-godparent relationship I venture outside. In scenes somewhat reminiscent of what I imagine a sweat-shop would be, I find godmother ruling over my two industriously working children. Leaves are being shovelled up, collected, and then tidied away, with disconcerting efficiency. The advantages of being a teacher, if not clear to me before, are crystal clear now.

We call it a day, the night is approaching and the kids, filthy, tired but happy are on their last legs. I shake hands with godfather and we agree to meet up again to catch SPECTRE at the cinema. Godmother apologises for the state of the kids, and gives me such a hug that I am left in no doubt that she, possibly more than the kids, has had a very good day.

There’s lots of babbling from the back of the car on the way home but it doesn’t last. Twenty miles into the journey and it’s just me and my thoughts. Oh, and Sam Smith on the radio, warbling about the writing on the wall. It really is a very bland song…

My Top 5 Inventions for Dragon’s Den To Make A Parent’s Life Easier

Tags

children, entertainment, fun, funny, Humor, inventions, kids, outdoors, Parenting, television

Author’s Note: Take this with a pinch of salt, I’m just using the Dragon’s Den show as a tool, to illustrate a few annoyances I encounter when at home, or out and about with my kids.

1. A PACKET OF BABY WIPES THAT ACTUALLY DISPENSES ONE WIPE AT-A-TIME

So you’re wiping your baby’s bum and reach for the wipes. But as usual your big sausage fingers pull out not one, but two wipes. But you only realise this mid-wipe, meaning you’ve wasted a wipe. Unless of course you are wiping their bum and they’ve had a REALLY bad nappy. Then you pull out five instead. With the all new Individua-wipes these multi-wipe nightmares can be a thing of the past. All new, nano-technology-based packaging ensures that you are guaranteed to get one wipe, every time (estimated cost per-packet, £4000).

2. CONNECT-A-BIKE/ TRIKE (OR PRAM)

Picture the scene: your son has just started learning to ride his bike, but your daughter is still confined to her pram, or trike. But what’s this, your son has reached an impassable obstacle, a slight – some would say imperceptible – rise in the pavement, causing him to cry out in terror and immediately start wobbling. And what are you to do? You’re on your own and have the pram – or trike – to contend with. This is where CONNECT-A-BIKE/TRIKE (OR PRAM) (name not set in stone) comes in. Using this simple steel-claw contraption you can securely connect a bike to a pram (or trike), ensuring that there is zero chance of anyone falling off their bike, and also zero chance of anyone having any fun. Ah, bliss.

3. STRIM-AWAY ATTACHMENT FOR PRAMS & TRIKES

You are enjoying a lovely day out with the kids, walking in verdant lush fields, and enjoying nature’s bountiful treasures. Why not go for a walk down that public footpath, the one that goes by the farmer’s field. Ooh this is nice. Right up to the point where it becomes clear that someone isn’t doing their job properly, and has let all the nettles and stinging stuff get out of control, in a bid to stop locals walking there. Well with the new strim-away attachment, these problems can be a thing of the past. A simple locking mechanism attaches this effective, 200bhp, diesel-powered strimmer to your pram (or trike) After that it’s just a simple process of using your pram (or trike) like a lawnmower, cutting back the bushes and enjoying your, somewhat noisier, walk. Goggles and breathing apparatus extra.

4. THE YO-YO STRAP

He’s five. She’s two. He’s going one way round the castle, she’s going the other. What to do? Well, with the all-new yo-yo strap it’s a simple case of attaching each child to the end of this bungee-rope-like length of fabric, then attaching it to you. Then watch as each child tries to run in opposite directions only to immediately come flying back (comes with body armour – for the parent – as standard).

5. DROOL-PROOF TOP

That job interview starts in 5-minutes, so just time for a quick kiss and a cuddle before it’s off in the car. But what’s this? It seems that darling Maisie has left a little reminder of her love on your new top, a loving, moist ‘slug trail’. Well, banish these problems before they can impede your career with the all new ‘Plasto-top’. Incredibly uncomfortable high-viscose content tops, which ensure drool is no longer an issue (caution, do not walk too briskly as friction from the tops may cause minor electrical fires). Will be a great success with….

My Hour In The Life Of A Rickshaw Driver

Tags

cycling, exercise, funny, Humor, kids, outdoors, Parenting

This seemed like a good idea at the time, I think to myself as sweat dribbles into my left eye with an unpleasant sting. I crest the hill and get my breath back, as the path levels out and I can ease off on the pedalling. The bike I’m riding is ok, fairly comfortable and with responsive brakes.

That’s not my problem though. My problem is sat behind me, in the trailer attached to the bike. A four year old and a 21-month-old; bickering away, asking me questions that I can’t hear, and generally causing their father to sweat buckets, with their combined 40-kilos-of fun.

I plumped for this form of entertainment today because it looked like fun, a trailer – or ‘pod’ – that you connect to the back of a bike and stick your kids inside. You get some exercise and they get to have some fun. Also they’re effectively your prisoners for the duration, as they are strapped down inside, and can’t get out.

I’ve seen these kinds of things before, being ridden by mums and dads. They’ve gone past me with smiles on their faces and laughter ringing out from their kids. After 45 minutes on one of these things, I’ve realised that it wasn’t a smile on those parents’ faces, it was a grimace.

Or perhaps rictus would be a better term.

We’re at our local nature reserve, which has a visitor’s centre where you can hire these bikes for a reasonable sum. We amble up and have a nosy at the pod. The kids love it, and immediately get in and get comfy.

I go and pay, it’s £5 for one hour. I also have to leave my car keys. I’m puzzled as to the fact that they seem to think I would come here, with two children, and then steal a bike with a pod. Maybe this has happened to them before, maybe there’s a gang of dads with kids out there nicking all the bike pods (there is, after all, only one available at this visitor’s centre).

I hand over my car keys – the value of my car versus the bike is debatable – and, after some basic instructions, get on the bike and set off.

It’s a fairly easy start to the journey, since becoming a stay-at-home dad I’ve had to adapt my fitness regime, and that means we now have an exercise bike installed in the house. So this means it’s not a complete shock to the system.

My exercise bike does not, however, have a couple of kids hanging on the wheel creating drag. It’s ok for a bit, but then we approach inclines and that’s when I suspect my fitness levels aren’t as high as I thought.

Also there are lots of obstacles that I have to avoid.

And by obstacles, I mean people.

There’s no bell on the bike, so at first I just try to go around the slower moving ones. However after about ten minutes, my daughter decides that, actually, this bike ride isn’t that great. This pod isn’t comfortable and you know what? I’m going to let daddy know about it. So after just ten minutes, I begin to ride around with a howling banshee in the back.

You know that bit from Jurassic Park: The Lost World? The bit where they’re back in America, driving around with the injured baby T-Rex in the back howling away? It’s like that. Except I’m not in a Cadillac.

The silver lining to this is that I now have an early-warning-system, for people to hear so they can get out of the way. Which helps.

But then I realise something, these pods are better suited for longer journeys, or ones where you have more to look at. We’ve already gone round the lake once, and we still have 45 minutes of torture – sorry I mean fun -to go.

We keep bumping into the same people.

They keep moving out of our way.

This is ok the first time, we exchange smiles if they are coming our way. But it’s a bit weird the fourth time. And the smiles quickly turn to frowns. Or they stay smiles but they get that tight, forced look.

One guy laughs the first time.

Second pass I say to him ‘someone might be having fun here, but it’s not me’.

The third time I say to him ‘I’ll be asking for your number next time’.

There isn’t a fourth time. Mainly because I purposely take a different route, after all, saying you’ll ask for another chap’s phone-number next time is ok, in that context- as long as there is never a next time.

 

I wonder to myself, as the kids shake the pod behind me on our final circuit, and my leg muscles pump lactic acid, what it must be like for Rickshaw drivers around the world, doing this every day. They have my sympathies.

But then again, as a rule, once the customer has enjoyed his, or her, ride they simply get out and pay, and that’s the end of it. Mr Rickshaw generally doesn’t have to change the nappy of one of his customers, before he goes home.

Unlike me.

So maybe that’s what all the wailing was about….