Dear Dave

  Hedgehog overdose

Dear Dave,

I've got a sore head. I think it's partly due to the cold I've had for the last few days but it's mostly down to the cable channel we discovered recently which is filled almost entirely with ancient Sonic the Hedgehog and Super Mario Brothers cartoons. The boys have gone crazy over it. They demand to watch it every time it's their turn to choose. Coupled with the fact that Lewis got various Sonic games for his birthday, I think it's fair to say that I'm suffering from an overdose of The Blue Spiky One and his associates. I close my eyes and I see Dr Robotnik. It's not pleasant.

In an effort to recover, I'm going to take it easy next week, so don't expect any letters until the week after that. Hopefully I'll have shaken the disturbing image of Princess Toadstool at a Milli Vanilli concert by then. (Presumably because of licensing issues, no actual Milli Vanilli music features in the episode. Cartoon facsimiles of the duo dance around on stage to a generic melody. They move their lips but, spookily, no words come out... Then they get kidnapped by Bowser and have to be rescued by plumbers.) No wonder my head hurts.

Before I go and curl up under a blanket, I thought you might want to hear about the latest strange behaviour from my nephew Ned. I think I might just be able to jot it down before my brain explodes.

He turned up here after school last Wednesday. When I answered the door, I found him lurking on the front step. Even wearing his uniform, he looked dishevelled in that gangly way peculiar to fourteen-year-old boys. He grunted at me, walked in, dumped his bag and then slouched off to the study to play on my Xbox.

"Er, hi," I said.

I followed him and watched him rifle through my games collection. He quickly selected Tomb Raider: Anniversary, switched everything on without incident and then spent several minutes adjusting my office chair to his satisfaction.

I left him to it while I checked on the boys, started Marie on some painting and looked out stuff for tea. When I returned a quarter of an hour later, he hadn't got past the START screen. It features Lara standing in a ruin. If you don't press anything for a few seconds, she looks bored, yawns and then does some stretching.

Lara Croft doing some stretching is pretty hypnotic.

"Do your parents know you're here?" I asked

"Nope," he replied, his eyes fixed on the monitor.

"Is that a problem?"

"Nope."

I had no reason to believe he was lying. Chris and Catriona are normally at work when Ned comes out of school so who knows what he usually gets up to? Compared with many of the alternatives, my study wasn't such a bad place for him to be loitering. I tried to make him feel at home. "Do you want anything to drink?"

"Nope."

"How about to eat?"

"Nope."

"Can you say anything other than 'Nope'?"

"Yep."

"OK," I said. He was certainly acting like he felt at home. I decided not to push things. "Well, let me know if you need anything..." My voice trailed off.


...


Time slipped away.


...



...



"There's purple on my nose!"

Wha...?

I was broken from a dream by Marie's cry from the kitchen. I'd forgotten she was still painting. I realised that I'd been staring at Lara myself for a good couple of minutes.

"It's a great game. You should start playing," I called over my shoulder as I hurried through to clean up.

"Uh-huh," said Ned and finally got going.

He stayed for another hour or so and then emerged from the study to collect his bag. "Bye," he said as I poked my head into the hall to see what he was doing.

"Good to see you," I said. "Come again."

He grunted and let himself out.

I wonder what that was all about?

Anyway, I'm going to go lie down. Hope you're all well.

Take care.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: Ned, TV

  9:00 AM - Permanent Link - 4 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  My little Santa

Dear Dave,

Glad to hear you had a good Christmas and that your mum is finally giving you some sympathy rather than treating you like a slacker who callously sends his wife out to earn a living in the cruel world while he stays home and eats biscuits.

It's probably thanks to the large age gap between you and your brother. Your mum never had to deal with two children under four at the same time herself, so you've gained a stack of ranking points relative to her in the All-Time Parental League Table. (You did know scores were being kept, didn't you?)

Obviously, you haven't had to put up with being in charge of yourself as a teenager, so you'll have to handle any number of rows, dubiously pierced girlfriends and a couple of police cautions before you catch up with your mum entirely but at least you're on more equal terms now. You've been a housedad long enough that she knows it's not some passing notion you're going to jack in when things get tough. She'll also know, from her own experience of parenthood, that things must be pretty tough already. She still may not understand why you're living your life in this crazy, mixed up way but she can appreciate the effort you're putting into raising her grandchildren.

That effort is especially noticeable at Christmas. I remember a time before kids when Sarah and I went to stay with my folks for the holidays. I would sit around drinking beer, eating mince pies and watching the Only Fools and Horses Christmas Special. Then I would doze off while reading the paper. I have vague memories that my mum might have had to do a certain amount of cooking at various points but I was fairly oblivious. It was a blissful break from work.

This is somewhat in contrast to a couple of years ago when we had Sarah's family round to ours for Christmas. The children were one, three and five. I had to lay on the full turkey spectacular in adult, toddler and baby formats while co-ordinating nappy changes, naps and tantrums. I needed a lie down for most of Boxing Day to recover. Except, of course, I didn't get one because it's not like the children went anywhere. It was a fun Christmas but not much of a rest.

Things were a bit more relaxed this year, though. For a start, we went to my sister-in-law's to eat but it also helps that the kids are older and more able to entertain themselves now. It's going to be a long time, however, before I, once again, get to spend Christmas eating and drinking and then doze off while watching ancient repeats of Only Fools and Horses. Judging by the state of the various grandparents attending, though, my wait will not be forever.

Anyway, Christmas morning, we unwrapped some of the presents, dressed Marie up in a Santa outfit, went to church and then headed off to Catriona's.

We were greeted at the door by her husband, Chris. "Good to see you. Looking gorgeous as always, Sarah; sometimes I wonder if I married the wrong sister. Oh, and Ed, you're just in time - Catriona's needing some help in the kitchen and the kids are no use - you know what teenagers are like. Hope you brought your own pinny!"

"Nope, brought yours," I said and, on cue, Marie danced over with a small, squishy parcel.

"I'm Santa!" she said, grinning. "Merry Christmas!"

Chris looked confused, both for being given an apron and at Marie's attire. "I thought you didn't do Santa," he said.

"We don't."

"Then why...?"

"We don't pretend there's a real Santa but pretending all the pretend Santas don't exist would be crazy." I called Marie over. "Are you really Santa?"

"No," she said, giggling at my stupidity. "I'm me!" Then she pulled another grin, did a little twirl and danced off into the lounge to an adoring fan club of aging relatives.

"She's having fun and we're not having to lie. Everybody's happy," I said. "Hopefully it will stop us having to explain that we don't do Santa so much as well."

"How do you mean?" said Chris.

I motioned him over to the lounge doorway so that we could observe. Marie had bounced over to Great Aunt Edith. "What did Santa bring you?" said Edith. Normally this would have led to Marie looking blank and Edith repeating the question over and over, until someone mentioned our unwillingness to join the Santa conspiracy, and then Edith looking blank and the someone repeating the statement over and over, and... You get the picture.

The costume helped get round this. "I'm Santa!" said Marie.

"Yes, and you look lovely, dear," said Edith, "but what presents did you get for Christmas?"

And thus confusion was avoided. Well, the Santa confusion was avoided, anyway...

"I got Rabitty-Rabbit!"

"You got a rabbit?" said Edith, struggling to hear and getting the wrong end of the stick. "That will be hard work to look after."

"A cuddly rabbit. I cuddle her."

"Oh, a new cuddly toy?"

"No!" said Marie, shaking her head. "She's not new. She's my rabbit."

"But you got her for Christmas?"

"No! Mummy and Daddy took her out of my bed and wrapped her up in a present and I opened up the present and I said, 'Rabbity-Rabbit!'"

Edith's eyes narrowed. "Your mummy and daddy took a toy you already had out of your bed and gave it to you for Christmas?"

"Yes, and for my birthday, too."

"They gave you a toy you already had for your birthday as well?"

"Yes, and her name was Rabbity-Rabbit!"

Edith's voice quivered with genteel indignation. "They gave you the same toy you already had for your Christmas and your birthday?"

"Yes! I cuddle her. She's Rabbity-Rabbit." Marie smiled sweetly and twirled off. "I dance now."

Edith scanned the room and then fixed me with a steely glare. I hurried over to explain that Marie had asked for her rabbit to be wrapped up and that, yes, she'd got other presents as well and, no, they weren't all recycled. Chris couldn't help laughing, however. "Looks like you're out of the will," he called after me.

I think I'll stick to bad-mouthing Santa next year. I'll look less of a Scrooge that way.

Not long after that, Chris was very keen to point out that he'd managed to secure for his daughter the very last Nintendo Wii console in Britain, thanks to calling in a favour. He'd only had to pay twice the normal asking price.

He then proceeded to play Wii Tennis on their vast plasma TV in a hugely aggressive manner without strapping the wiimote to his wrist. Luckily, Fraser told him off and then soundly trounced him with a few quick flicks of his hand.

I've never been more proud.

Chris didn't get much support from his own family either. Lisa was too busy texting to pay attention and Ned just smirked. "Don't worry, dad," he said, without looking up from his PSP. "He's had practice. Uncle Ed's had one for ages."

The wind taken out of his sails, Chris stomped off to carve the turkey.

I shouldn't have felt superior, however. Despite receiving the latest (translation: most expensive) Pokemon and Mario games for Christmas, the boys have spent much of the last week playing Sonic Adventure which I picked up second-hand as a stocking-filler. So, essentially, they've been using the must-have present of 2007 to play a game from 1999. I could just about cope with this until they unlocked a version of the original Sonic the Hedgehog and started playing that and it was suddenly 1991 on our telly. Next year, I think they'll be the ones getting recycled presents. I'll just go hunting in the loft - they can have a Walkman, my old Atari and some Fighting Fantasy books.

Actually, better not. I might find something really scary buried underneath. You know, like Mr Blobby or John Major...

Lunch was vast and then we stumbled through to watch the Queen in HD and very wide screen. It was a little perturbing in a number of ways. The persistent thought I had, however, was that the huge face plastered on the wall in front of us made it feel like we were conducting diplomatic negotiations over the viewscreen on the bridge of the Enterprise. I kept expecting an analysis from Mr Data and for Counsellor Troi to sense that Her Majesty was holding something back.

I'm guessing Prince Philip's up to something suspicious in the Neutral Zone.

After that, some of the guests went for a walk, the kids played and I helped clear up until I was told to get some rest while I could and I was sent back to a lounge full of snoring septuagenarians. I plonked myself down on one of the sofas and then realised Ned was there too. He'd been ordered to stay out of his room and mingle but he was still gazing intently at his PSP.

"Playing anything good?" I ventured.

"Syphon Filter."

"The new one or the old one?"

"New one," he mumbled.

"Oh, I haven't played that. The old one was quite good, though."

"Yeah. This one's the same."

I nodded. "I'd heard that. Got anything else?"

"Uh-huh."

There was a pause.

The pause continued.

I eventually realised that, although Ned seemed willing to talk in principle, I was going to have to do most of the work.

"What are they?"

He rattled off a few titles. I'd played about half of them and that was enough for me keep the conversation going. It felt good having some firm point of contact. There are probably some TV shows we both watch but he'd have been bound to mention something I'd never heard of pretty quickly. As for music, the only CDs I've bought in years are The Best of Don McLean, an anthology of Celtic melodies and a Dido album. I suspect that may put me in the realm of 'uncool'.

After a while, there was another long pause. I'd run out of things to say. It wasn't awkward, though - we'd had a little male bonding and we were done. I settled back in the sofa and reached for a magazine to see what was on TV.

"Sorry about dad," said Ned, unexpectedly.

I sat up again. Ned didn't seem to be referring to anything in particular. It was more of a general apology. "No problem," I said. "He's not the first person I've met who totally couldn't cope with the idea of a housedad and... Actually, no, now I come to think about it, he was the first person I met who totally couldn't cope with the idea of a housedad... but, er, he wasn't the last. There are lots of things I don't have much self-confidence about - being a housedad isn't one of them. I can cope with your dad." I shrugged. "Besides, I'm not the one he's thinking of sending to boarding school."

"What?!"

"Ah..." I'd kind of got the information fourth-hand via Catriona, my mother-in-law and Sarah. I'd assumed it wasn't a secret. I hastily back-tracked. "I take it he hasn't run that one past you yet, then? Something about toughening you up. It was probably just an idea. I doubt he really meant it."

"Doesn't matter. I'm not going." It wasn't said with defiance. It wasn't determined and said through gritted teeth. As a statement, it barely even deigned to be dismissive. With a minimal shake of his head, Ned consigned the whole concept to the mental garbage disposal unit that teenagers reserve for parental lunacy. He didn't even look up from his PSP.

There was another pause.

I still couldn't think of anything to say but I didn't feel I could leave it there. I looked around the room for inspiration.

"Does that take SD memory cards?" I said, pointing to Chris' snazzy camera that he'd left lying around.

"Yeah, think so."

"Excellent."

I popped the memory card out and stuck it in the Wii. Then I showed Ned how to use the photo-editing software. We'd just finished adding a Mexican moustache, Elton specs and fairy dust to a picture of his dad when the man himself walked in.

Chris wasn't too impressed. "Shouldn't you be in the kitchen?" he said to me but didn't cover it with laughter the way he normally does. I erased the changes and hurried off to find something useful to do.

Maybe I over-stepped the mark. I'm not going to be too thrilled if, when Fraser and Lewis are older, random relatives start taking their side. Of course, when my boys are teenagers, I expect to be an incredibly enlightened parent who is always understanding and open, dispensing gems of wisdom to aid my offspring though life's tribulations. I will always be right and they will know this. There will be no argument and no side for the extended family to take. The world will be at peace. A rainbow will permanently end in our back garden. It will rain cute, fluffy bunnies.

Teenage strife in my household? Never!

Well, maybe a little, when Marie has some dubious piercings and then gets arrested on a date with your Sam...

This is all bound to come back and bite me sooner or later. Hopefully later, though.

The rest of the day passed pleasantly. Chris was quickly back to his jovial self (outwardly, at least). I had a couple of mince pies and a drink or two and the kids mostly found their own entertainment. Eventually, as the evening wore on, Marie started getting crotchety. I scooped my little three-year-old up and gave her a cuddle. "I think it's time to go home," I said.

She cheered up. "Can I go to bed when we get home?" she asked excitedly.

"That sounds like a good idea," I replied.

She produced an enormous smile. "Thank you!" she said and gave me a big hug.

With luck, she'll stay that easily pleased for a good few years yet.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: christmas, Ned

  10:37 PM - Permanent Link - 1 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  The smell of things to come

Dear Dave,

For a language that has so many redundant words, English has a few peculiar omissions.

I mean, why isn't there a simple, polite word for having sex? Consider how many words there are for something like, say, 'walk'. There's amble, stroll, saunter, plod, stride, tramp, trudge and traipse just for starters and that's for something that no one spends any time consciously thinking about after the age of three. Sure, you could argue that each of those words has slightly different connotations and that they're all useful but then, why isn't there a similar set, based on pace and enthusiasm, for having sex? It's a bit weird.

Another omission is the word I constantly find myself searching for in order to refer to Sarah's brother-in-law. By which, I hasten to add, I don't mean anything derogatory, I just mean it's quite difficult talking about someone I have to constantly describe as my wife's brother-in-law. This is not a handy phrase. It's even ambiguous. Listeners who aren't entirely awake sometimes wonder why I'm going on about my own brother in such a round-about way.

Of course, I'm really talking about Chris, the guy married to Sarah's sister, Catriona, and the reality is that he's not a very close relation to me. Our respective parents have never met, for instance - that's pretty distant. On the other hand, however, I regularly end up spending Christmas day with him and he's the uncle of my children. You'd think I'd have a simple, polite word for him, wouldn't you?

But, no. As far as the language is concerned, he's not really a relative, and to describe him as a friend seems odd and, let's face it, something of a lie. Somehow, though, I spent quite a large part of Saturday round his house as one of a select group of guests at his birthday party. I got to drink his beer, eat his vol-au-vents, help with the washing up and be 'hilariously' asked if I'd brought my own pinny. (Grrr).

'The 2 Cs' have a lot of money, a big house and three cars. Most of their furniture and ornaments seem to be made of fragile, yet expensive, materials. Chris works long hours doing something impressive in the financial sector and Catriona is head of fund-raising for a major charity. They're nice enough (especially Catriona) but visiting them always feels like entering another world. It's partly because they're older and partly because their kids (Lisa and Ned) are teenagers but mainly because we just don't see entirely eye-to-eye.

Chris is the person in the family most likely to say to me things along the lines of:
'When are you going back to work?'
'Whatever are you going to do with yourself once Marie's at nursery?'
'I don't know how you do it. I'd go mad sitting around the house all day.'
'Have you learnt to knit yet?'
'It must be nice having such a short commute.'
and
'We all know who wears the trousers in your house.'

You know the type.

It wouldn't be so bad but he has a tendency to say at least three of these things every time I see him and then laugh in a fashion that suggests he thinks he's been particularly witty. I've given up arguing with him. I just shake my head and turn a blind-eye to Marie hiding strawberries in his shoes.

I won't go into the details of the day. I've had a cold since the end of last week and most of the weekend is actually a hazy blur. I had my work cut out just keeping it together enough to make sure the kids didn't start playing Frisbee with Catriona's glass coasters. I do recall, though, that we weren't allowed to just sit around chatting - we had to listen to Lisa play the violin, there was a nasty spate of Charades and then... Oh goodness, it's all coming back... there was a karaoke machine present and Chris' Great Aunt Edith has a fondness for The Locomotion...

I escaped upstairs to visit the bathroom. I stayed there as long as I thought I could get away with. Then, as I was heading back across the landing, I heard familiar sound effects from one of the bedrooms. The door was ajar and I poked my head round to look.

It took me a moment to adjust to the darkness.

And the smell.

I was aware that I had entered Ned's room. He's fourteen. There was a pungent mix of BO, cigarettes and dead gerbil in the air. There were hints of other things, too, but I really didn't want to think about those.

Ned was hunched over his mouse and keyboard, his white face palely illuminated beneath his hoodie by the light from his computer monitor. He was swearing profusely as he shot things.

Ned goes to a private school but you wouldn't know it. He looks like he's fallen off the back of a Eminem album.

I hesitated, unsure what to do. I'm not good at handling teenagers. Five-year-olds I can deal with but I struggled to interact with adolescents even when I was one. Still, I thought I'd better make my presence known. I tapped on the doorframe.

Ned glanced in my direction. "Hiding from dad," he grunted. I wasn't sure whether he meant it as a question for me or as a statement about himself.

"Yeah," I replied, non-committally. At least he hadn't sounded particularly grouchy. I risked entering the room further. The floor was uneven and squishy beneath my feet. "Is that Portal?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Mind if I watch for a bit?"

He shrugged. "If you want."

I shuffled through the darkness and gingerly sat down on the edge of his bed. The blackout curtains made it difficult to see anything but the screen. Somewhere, the squeak of a rusty wheel suggested that the gerbil was not entirely dead.

I watched the game in silence for a while. It looked good but then Ned became stuck with a puzzle. He started swearing some more.

"Would you like help?" I asked, spotting the solution.

"No."

"OK."

There was silence again. After a couple of minutes of trial-and-error, he worked out what to do. "You played it?" he said.

"Not yet," I replied, surprised he'd made an attempt at conversation. "I'll rent it sometime. I played Half-Life 2 on the original Xbox. That was pretty good."

"Yeah."

His concentration returned to the game. I watched a little longer but I had the distinct impression we were done. "I'll leave you to it. I need to go check on the kids."

"Bye," he muttered.

"Yeah, bye," I said and went back down, just in time to be roped into a rendition of YMCA.

It was the longest chat we'd had in several years, which is a bit pathetic, now I think about it. Chris may be such a distant relative that there's no word for it, but Ned is my nephew. Time was, he used to spend Christmas afternoon getting me to guess the names of all the pokemon on his new cards. After several years of spending Christmas afternoon running round feeding, changing and entertaining my own offspring, I'd emerged from my preoccupation to find he'd changed from a know-it-all seven-year-old into a shambling mound of matted hair and hormones. Now I actually knew the names of the pokemon, he'd moved on to shooting games, explicit music and horror films.

He'll probably come out the other side of that in a few years as a balanced, well-rounded individual (just like I did) but I was troubled by the whole encounter. My boys are five and seven now. I don't fancy the thought that, in not so very long, I'll need to pack a flashlight, a shovel and a bottle of Febreze in order to enter their rooms.

On Saturday, as I flailed my arms about above my cowboy hat, I wondered what could be done to avoid such a future. Maybe nothing. Nonetheless, I resolved to continue spending time with Fraser and Lewis, even though they've grown good at entertaining themselves now. My mind was befuddled by cold symptoms and disco, however - I also resolved to grow a bushier moustache than Edith's so that I get to be the one in the leathers next year.

Luckily, I stopped short of telling her that.

I just wasn't entirely in a fit state. We left soon afterwards, before Chris found a reason to put his shoes on.

Now I'm a bit better but I'm still troubled. I'm hoping Ned's OK and just suffering from age-related sullenness but the prospect of adolescents living in my own house seems closer than it has ever done before. It's a few years away yet but maybe that's just lazy thinking. I need to start planning now. I need to make sure to talk to the kids regularly and occasionally make sure they talk to me. I need to teach them about life, educate them and warn them. I need to hide the beer and my wallet. I need to...

I need to calm down.

Breathe.

That's better.

Maybe I just need to keep on doing my best to pay attention to them. That's good for a start. Beyond that, I don't know, although I should probably never leave them in sole charge of any small creatures, including gerbils, goldfish and their sister - I suspect it wouldn't go well.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

* * *

Dear other Daves and non-Daves,

If you haven't already, go leave some feedback at the DadsDinner review!

Labels: computer games, Ned

  1:00 PM - Permanent Link - 2 comments - Post comment - Links to this post