Dear Dave

  They really are silent

Dear Dave,

How are you holding up? Sure, it's tough having a new baby around but Daisy is five weeks old and she should be settling in by now. You ought to be acclimatised to tiredness, lack of sleep and limited free-time. What's maybe more of an issue just at the moment, is that Liz has been on maternity leave for a couple of months.

Have you driven each other mad yet?

The first weeks after Fraser was born were quite idyllic. I was about, Sarah was about, we learnt together how to be parents. It was a bit different second time round. There was more work to be done, for a start. We were both pretty busy. Beyond that, we both felt the effects of Sarah 'invading my work space'. I had my routines and rules and schedules in place and suddenly the boss was around all the time. I had to consult on decisions and give regular progress updates. Meanwhile, Sarah wasn't sure where she fitted in and often felt a bit pointless as I rushed around getting stuff done and failed to include her in case it slowed me down.

Of course, the tiredness, lack of sleep and limited free-time didn't really help matters.

Remember to work together and discuss your needs over the next few months. If you can talk when you're both relatively awake but the children are both asleep, so much the better. (Good luck with that...)

Thankfully, Sarah and I got by without too many arguments because we're fairly agreed on the general principles of parenting. We're both trying to achieve the same goals (i.e. happy, polite children who love Jesus and physics), even if the practical methods sometimes vary wildly. Sarah likes to get the kids out and about; I'm keen to make sure they get a chance to relax at home. She maintains discipline using a points system; I tend to employ shouting and banishment. As long as we know who's in charge of the kids at any given time, however, this isn't a problem. We just have to use the methods that work for us.

There can still be issues, though. These days, our main bone of contention is usually the pronunciation of certain words. It's one of the difficulties of a mixed marriage. The kids' accents still haven't become firmly established. Will they sound Scottish or English or just confused?

Fraser brought a book home from school last week to read for homework. I think the idea is that we're meant to find a quiet spot without distraction and he's supposed to read out loud while I correct and encourage. What normally happens is that, wherever we go, the moment we get comfortable, Lewis comes in wanting to play and Marie needs the toilet. This has a tendency to divide my attention. Fraser steams on, though, whether I'm listening or not. The book was about a naughty boy whose teacher stops him misbehaving by making him responsible for policing the other pupils. Fraser was a couple of paragraphs into the book before I became aware that something was awry.

"What's the boy called again?"

He paused and squinted at the name on the page. "Rage," he said uncertainly.

"Are you sure?"

"Not really. It keeps confusing me."

I took a closer look. "His name's Raj. The book's called Raj in Charge. It rhymes."

"Oh, OK." He started reading again. He's pretty good at it and continued clearly and without hesitation until the next time he got to the name. He paused. He squinted. He made a noise like a revving motor. "Rage?" he said.

"No, Raj. To rhyme with charge."

"Raj, OK." He kept reading. Everything was fine. Then he got to the name again. Pause. Squint. Rev. "Ray... Ra... Radge?"

"Nope. Rhymes with charge."

"Raj, OK." He managed about another half a sentence before he paused for another revving squint. "Ray-a-arge?"

"Close enough."

He just about had the hang of it by the time the book was finished. It reminded me of when he was at nursery and had a friend called Conor. Fraser had never heard the name 'Conor' before and couldn't cope. He called the poor kid 'Corner' for months.

The next day at breakfast, Fraser told Sarah about the book he'd read. He waved it at her and was a little way into his account before Sarah stopped him.

"What's the boy called again?"

He paused and squinted at the front cover. "Raj," he said uncertainly.

"Are you sure?"

"Not really. It keeps confusing me."

Sarah took a closer look. "His name's Raj. It rhymes with badge."

"That's not what Daddy said."

"Daddy's from another country. He speaks funny."

"You can talk," I piped up. "You pronounce the silent 'h's in words like whistle and where."

"For the last time, they ARE NOT silent."

"They are. The old joke proves it. How do you get two whales in a car? Along the M4 and across the Severn Bridge. Doesn't work unless the 'h' is silent."

"At least when I'm talking, everyone knows which witch is which. And you can't say bath."

"I can."

"No, you can't. You say baa-th."

"That's how it's supposed to be said."

"I don't think so."

We did a quick poll of the kids - we got two ba-ths and a baa-th. Then we did the poll again and got two baa-ths and a ba-th. They're obviously pretty confused. It could have been worse, though. At least we didn't call either of the boys Luke. I pronounce the name Loo-k. Sarah pronounces it Look. Having parents who argued over how to pronounce your name, probably wouldn't be that much fun.

As Sarah says it, 'Look at Luke' sounds the same as 'Luke at look.'

That just does my head in. Then again, she can't cope with the way I say 'aunt' and 'aren't' alike. She says 'aunt' and 'ant' alike. We can debate how the children should speak for hours.

Fraser returned us to the matter in hand.

"Daddy said it's Rarge."

"Maybe that's how they say it where Daddy comes from but, round here, everyone says Radge like me. Which do you think would be better for you to use?"

I had to concede that she had a point.

"Oh, OK," said Fraser. "Raj." It was somewhere in the middle. Compromise was reached.

I don't really know why we bother, though. He was probably calling the boy Rage again by lunchtime.

We'll have to wait and see what kind of hybrid accent the kids eventually settle on. They've all picked up different bits and pieces. Maybe I should do some more experiments. I think I'll start by getting Fraser to read out, 'Look, Luke, wear ants where aunts aren't," very fast a few times. That should be good for a laugh... (Or is that laff?)

All the best with finding your own compromises and staying sane.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: Scotland

 
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  Ninja biohazard in St Andrews

Dear Dave,

You're right - you should go on holiday now. You've got one child who is almost three and another due in a couple of months. IT WILL BE YEARS before you have this much freedom to travel again. Sam can eat normal food, doesn't need nappies and can be reasonably expected to sit still and quiet for a couple of hours. In eight weeks time you'll need to take twice as much stuff with you on a trip to the zoo than you would traveling to Italy tomorrow. It will also be four times as much stress.

Go.

Right now.

What are you still doing here?

Well, seeing as you've continued reading, I'll tell you a little more about our trip to St Andrews. (Thanks for asking by the way).

St Andrews is a strange place really (even now that Prince William fever is past). It's a small seaside town of around 18,000 but, unlike most small seaside towns, a third of the population is students. Unexpectedly, however, the town actually gets busier over the summer when most of the students have gone away. Tourists and golfers take over. When the Open is on, hundreds of thousands turn up. It's crazy. It does mean, though, that the place is geared up for visitors.

St Andrews even has plenty of activities for children. Compared with Tobermory it's Disneyland. There's an aquarium, the castle, the cathedral, a small cinema, a theatre, tennis, putting, a couple of decent beaches, a swimming pool and at least a dozen charity shops in which to hunt down bargains. Craigtoun Country Park is on the outskirts of town. It's run by the council and so is cheap and cheerful but in nice weather it's a great day out. For a £12 family ticket we all got unlimited access to a boating lake, miniature railway, adventure playground, trampolines, bouncy castle, crazy golf and a swanky new swing-park. There's also bowls, gardens to explore and plenty of room to run around.

As with everywhere else this summer, it rained a fair amount while we were in St Andrews but in some ways that just gave us a good excuse to lie around in our self-catering accommodation and not do very much. We still managed to get to all the places we wanted to but Fraser and Lewis also had ample opportunity to collect dozens of shines in Super Mario Sunshine. (Yes, we took a console with us. I even had to buy an extra wire to hook the thing up to the hand-me-down-from-the-Flintstones telly but it was soooo worth it - the boys were able to entertain themselves first thing in the morning).

That reminds me of something which happened not long after we arrived. I was getting some food in Tesco and was slightly freaked by the odd look the checkout assistant was giving me. It was only after I left, however, that I realised that when my mobile had rung as I was unloading my shopping, my side of the resulting dialogue had been somewhat unfortunate:

"Hello?... Who's going to get it?... Well, we only brought one nunchuck with us... I'm at the checkout just now. I'll call you back when I'm done."

I was probably lucky SWAT didn't turn up. Not that St Andrews has a SWAT team but there must be something in the back of that police van that drives round town on a Saturday night (besides drunk teenagers, obviously). I certainly don't want to find out. It could be anything. Maybe the A-Team have found a quiet place to hide-out in their twilight years. They could be drinking cocoa in the back of that van, ready to leap out at the first sign of trouble and construct weapons from whatever comes to hand. This being St Andrews, the things which most easily come to hand are golf clubs, pensioners and upper-class arts students. The consequences don't bear thinking about.

Of course, I wasn't actually planning a ninja-style contract killing at the supermarket. Sarah was just phoning to see whether she should follow the kids' suggestion and purchase Mario Party 8. But I can see now where some confusion might have arisen. Mentioning the Wii in the conversation might have made things clearer but, you know, maybe not. There's always the possibility of an unfortunate misunderstanding involving bodily fluids ("Yeah, we've got the wee but we've only brought one nunchuck.") or a bizarre one suggestive of martial arts gnomes ("We've only got one wee nunchuck with us.") Just wait until next year when the gun peripheral will have come out.

The rest of the holiday went more smoothly. We went swimming, we pottered on the beach and we even managed a dry day at Craigtoun. It was just pleasant to get away from the stress at home.

Marie had a little embarrassment one evening, however.

Sarah took the boys out to see an excellent production of George's Marvellous Medicine at the Byre Theatre. I was left with the girl. She wandered off into the bedroom while I was working on my nunchuck skills. She chattered away to herself and seemed happy. Then, suddenly, she sounded distressed, as if she'd wrestled a duvet and lost or a pillowcase had eaten one of her cuddly toys. A few seconds later, she emerged from the bedroom with her trousers round her knees. Her pants were flying slightly low and she was trying desperately to yank them up.

This got my attention.

She didn't appear to be leaving a slimy trail behind her but I was instantly prepared for at least a Level 7 biohazard and I feared a Level 9 or 10. In case you didn't get the memo, here's the current international scale for biohazard alert levels:

1. Underpants wet but not wet enough to bother changing them.


2. Underpants wet enough to consider changing them if parent responsible is feeling charitable.


3. Underpants undeniably wet. Trousers may also require changing.


4. Trousers sodden. Moisture check required in all recent locations of offspring.


5. Shoes need drained. Some fumigation required.


6. Underpants contaminated with poo. Clothes may need soaked.


7. Underpants filled with poo. Clothes may need flushed in toilet.


8. Underpants filled with vast amounts of evil poo. Offspring may need flushed in toilet.


9. Containment breach from underpants. Hope you bought more carpet shampoo.


10. Underpants missing. (In some ways you'll want to find them; in other ways you won't).

I got Marie to stop where she was and went over to investigate, my eyes scanning the floor, walls and ceiling for any signs of noxious fluids. Then I noticed she was clinking. Not only that, but the sound was coming from her underpants. This is not normal. She looked at me mournfully. I said some soothing words and advanced cautiously. Kneeling down to cuddle her, I gingerly pulled back the elastic and peered down the back of her trousers with trepidation, unsure for once of what I might find. I wasn't really expecting seventeen pence in small change.

No wonder she was upset. I'd be upset if someone put coppers in my underwear. And, yes, I'd probably be even more upset if I'd somehow managed to do it myself and I had to get my dad to help me retrieve them while he stifled laughter... (One to tell her first boyfriend).

Hope you manage to get away and find a chance to relax. Not long to go now...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS That Guardian article is now in what appears to be Polish!

Labels: children, Scotland

 
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  Balamory, plumbing and vomit too!

Dear Dave,

Thanks for your letters of concern wondering where I'd got to. (Your list of poisonous creatures indigenous to South America was a nice touch. As were the instructions on how to rob a bank in Spanish which you cribbed from Butch Cassidy). As it turned it out, Sarah took the news of my meeting with Steve remarkably well and didn't feel the need to harm me. She was just glad he wasn't still here when she got home. As a result, I didn't have to sit on the naughty step for any great length of time. I did, however, get sent to Balamory as penance. This was a bit like being sent to Coventry but involved taking the entire family with me and having to endure much more singing.

No, really.

Tobermory (where Balamory was filmed) is only slightly easier to get to than the dark side of the moon. We spent most of Saturday travelling. We took the train to Glasgow, changed trains there for Oban, got the ferry to Craignure and then rode a fairly scary bus round the island to the land of PC Plum and Miss Hoolie.

The kids spent a lot of the journey arguing over whether we were going to Tobermory or Balamory. Fraser was for Tobermory, Marie was for Balamory and Lewis is at an age inbetween where he wasn't quite sure. He understood that they made Balamory in Tobermory but couldn't quite grasp why we didn't bump into Spencer during our stay. I think the whole trip messed with his head. Fraser struggled to recall the name of the island on which Tobermory is situated until be came up with a handy memory aid: Mull as in Mull-ti-player. (He's not addicted. No. No...)

There is a point an hour or so north of Glasgow on the train where the world ends. Houses become scattered, mobile phones give up and the sheep start walking around on their hind-legs because they think there's no one around to see them. The scenery is beautiful but sometimes desolate. The track becomes winding, hilly and overhung with trees. We were surprised when some branches caught the side of the train and sent wet leaves raining in through the open window. Marie looked on the bright side. "Salad!"

When we reached Oban I realised the low level of my expectation when I said with genuine excitement, "Look! There's a Woolworth's!" To be fair, there was also bowling next to the station but we didn't have time and went for a quick tour of the shops instead. Fraser scored a small stack of Pokemon books in Oxfam. In Blockbuster I noticed that they rent out entire DVD box-sets for between £5 and £7 for a week. I thought, 'Wow! Wish we had a Blockbuster near us.' Then I looked at an entire season of 24 sitting on the shelf. Twenty-four episodes in a week. That's more than three a day. That can't be healthy. Maybe it's a good thing there isn't a Blockbuster close by...

The short ferry trip across to Mull was fun and brought back memories of childhood. In particular, I was reminded of a sight-seeing ferry in Spain I went on with my family when I was about seven. On that occasion we were sitting on the top deck and it started to rain. Everyone else ran for cover. We, however, being British (or just hopelessly optimistic) put on our waterproofs and got steadily soaked. The captain took pity on us, invited us into his little control booth and played us Max Bygraves tapes. (I didn't say fond memories...)

The ferry to Mull had soft-play. It was more a padded cell with squishy shapes, really, but it was sufficient to keep the kids amused for half an hour. A couple of mums were having a conversation and, in a Twilight Zone moment, one of them mentioned how she'd rented an entire season of 24 for a week and gone slightly mad. Spooky.

Near the gangway of the ferry was a stack of leaflets giving advise on how to drive on single track roads. I should maybe have taken one for our bus driver. We had some 'entertaining' moments on the forty-five minute drive to Tobermory as we whizzed along the narrow, twisty, up-and-down road which frequently ran along beside water. At least we've found travel sickness pills which work on the boys, though. (They're called Joy-Rides).

As for Tobermory itself, it's pretty and there are plenty of restaurants but there's not much else to it. The whole place is built on an incredibly steep hill which made exploration difficult. We did find a small swing-park but we had to leave in search of plasters after Fraser went down the slide using his brother's head as a mat. There's a children's farm but that was too far out of town to be realistically walkable. Buses are few and far between. Even half the Balamory houses have changed colour.

We stayed three nights and any longer would have been stretching things. Waiting to catch the bus home, an old man chatted to us. In the middle of his life story he said, "What do you think of the place. Bit of a dump, eh?"

This was somewhat off-message compared with the official tourist leaflets which advertise a child-friendly town. Considering there's very little for children to do and there's a frequent lack of pavements, I'm not entirely sure what they were getting at. I guess 'Tobermory - child-friendly' sounds more appealing than 'Tobermory - usually free of ogres, witches, bear traps and Super Nanny'. Apparently, in the height of Balamory fever, the town was swamped with toddlers. Goodness knows what they all did. Tobermory certainly isn't a dump but it's more a place for wildlife spotters and hard-core OAP hillwalkers. It's not really somewhere you'd find yourself passing through, either. The locals must have been pretty bemused by a sudden influx of under-fives hoping to stalk Josie Jump. The toddlers' parents were probably equally bemused by the lack of locals. Our first meal was served by an Eastern European, there was a South African behind the till when we bought groceries and the Indian restaurant, although good, was somewhat surreal. Not what we'd expected.

After we'd discussed Tobermory, I told the old man at the bus stop that we'd taken the ferry across to Kilchoan for a day out.

"Did you go to the place where they sell teas?" he said. "It's quite nice."

This is akin to asking someone who has just come back from Niagra if they went to see the waterfall. In Kilchoan there are views, a few houses and the place that sells teas. It is, indeed, quite nice.

We returned to the gleaming metropolis of Oban - a place where it is possible to order three glasses of milk at the same the time without a waitress looking shifty and making excuses about the boat/bus/airdrop not arriving until four.

We had a while to wait for the train so we went and had lunch. There was no one else in the restaurant so they put us on display in the window to attract other customers. Unfortunately, Marie took one bite of her food and was promptly violently sick. This was probably not the kind of advertisement they were looking for. The manager didn't look impressed. I decided to distract him with a Spanish bank robbery. "Donde esta la caja?" I demanded. He didn't seem to want to tell us where the safe was, however. Sarah pointed a loaded toddler at him. "Manos arriba!" I said, raising my own hands in the air and making for the door. He was suitably confused. We beat a hasty retreat (and left a big tip).

We got home exhausted, only to discover water welling up from beneath the floor. Two days later and we still don't know where it's coming from. Marie is still ill as well and having very disturbed sleep which means I'm having disturbed sleep. I think it's some kind of test of parenthood. Correspondence may be intermittent for a few days.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: flood, Scotland, sickness

 
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  1966 and all that

Dear Dave,

I quite understand the trauma you're going through trying to choose a nursery for Sam. There are so many things to consider: the adult/child ratio, the quality of the equipment and facilities (both inside and outside), the curriculum, the teaching ethos, the discipline code, the evaluation report, the nutritional content of snacks, the colour of the walls and the level of drugs slipped into the milk. We gave up and just went for the one at the end of our road. Seems nice enough.

Marie could start when she's three so I finally got round to registering her the other day. It didn't take long - they copied most of the information from the boys' records. I still had to tell them her nationality, though, and this was harder than you might think. I had three viable options - Scottish, British or English. All were serious possibilities and I tried to peek at the school secretary's monitor in order to see what I'd said last time for Lewis. I hoped I hadn't panicked and told them he was Swiss. Deftly swivelling her screen away from my prying eyes, the secretary looked at me with an amiable smile obviously reserved for the kind of simpleton who doesn't even know the nationality of their own child.

I tried to think fast. It should have been easy - she was born in Scotland, she lives in Scotland, her mum is from Scotland. There's a pattern there. The only thing is, I'm not from Scotland. I'm from the middle of a blackcurrant field in Norfolk and I'm as English as the day is long. Admittedly, I used to describe myself as British but then I moved to Scotland and discovered that in some dialects of Scots this just means 'I'm English but I want your oil and somewhere to keep my nuclear missiles.' It doesn't go well.

British would probably have done for an answer in this context but it felt wrong. It would have been like calling myself European - specific enough if I was in rural China but stupidly vague in central Edinburgh. Britain doesn't have a football team. And, realistically, that was what I was choosing - her national identity, her sense of belonging and her level of expectation for progression to the knockout stages.

Much was made of Andy Murray's unwillingness to support the English football team in the last World Cup. I have to concede that I did find it mystifying when I first moved up here that there are so many fond memories of England losing to Germany in penalty shoot-outs. After all, most English fans are happy to wish the Scotland team well and even to support them if England are already knocked out. Turns out, though, this is quite patronising and annoying. Imagine how Manchester City fans would feel if they made it to a cup final and a whole load of United fans turned up to join in the celebrations. Or how Canadians would feel if Americans started taking credit for Celine Dion.

Not pretty, is it?

I've lived here long enough that I'm not entirely sure who I would support if England played Scotland. Probably England... but if they won the World Cup then it would be the main headline on The Six O'clock News for at least a week. That would do more for the cause of Scottish independence than almost anything. I'd probably vote for the Nationalists myself if it meant I didn't have to hear about 1966 and 20XX ever again. I don't fancy Alex Salmond being in charge, though. Every time the man opens his mouth I want to slap the smugness out of him with a wet fish. Independence would be expensive and a waste of time. It would be far cheaper just holding compulsory classes for English people on how not to irritate their neighbours. Can't see it happening, however, and it would be a shame to break up the Union over football.

As I stood at the secretary's desk, all these thoughts flashed through my mind and I realised that Scotland needs all the support it can get. An extra cheer here or there might make all the difference. "Scottish," I said.

The secretary nodded. "Wise choice," she said and rubber stamped Marie's forehead with a Saltire. The deed was done.

Of course, you won't have this problem. Unless Liz is French. Then maybe you'd have something of an idea of where I'm coming from. If England and Scotland ever do meet in a World Cup match I'll probably just dig myself a hole in the back yard and hide in it until it's all over, slapping myself occasionally with a wet haddock in an act of ritual penitence for being born the wrong side of the border.

That's what I normally do when the rugby's on.

Good luck with the nursery hunt. Have you started looking into secondary schools yet?

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: nursery, Scotland

 
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