As the last few minutes of 2011 approach, happen and fade into the past, I thought I would spend it constructing a couple of sentences to wish everyone out there, both real and those of you who just think you're real, a very happy and prosperous new year.
I'm currently at work, so grabbing a moment or two on the computer whilst waiting for the mix of fireworks and alcohol to go (quite literally in some cases) tits up and require my presence for some analgesia, a stern reproach and, if necessary, a sympathetic wince.
Stay safe, friendoids, and may your future continue to occur!
Happy New year
The Jules
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Monday, December 26, 2011
The Fun Starts Somewhere!
I found it a bit difficult to get into the old chrizmuzz spirit this year, due to work commitments making me do stuff for money on the 25th of December.
Normally you might think that an areligious type like myself wouldn't get particularly festive anyway, having quite literally the same amount of soul as a metre-square bit of tarmac with a dead squirrel on it. Literally.
But you'd be wronger than a monkey wearing a toupee, because I DO actually quite enjoy christmas, having been brought up in the pseudotraditional environs of working class England. Lights, glittery stuff and indoor conifers all break up the tedious grey monotony of the typical British winter, and I'm all for that. We need that bit of distraction.
If it weren't so, why would it have persevered for so many centuries, millennia even? There must be a basic psychological benefit in having a mid-winter jolly or else why would such a thing be adopted and adapted by so many cultures and religions that have arrived in these murky island regions thinking they're the new way of doing things, when in reality we all know they're just a rehash of some old ways of doing stuff that can't change too much because their basic unit of composition is still the human being.
Scathing about organised religion as I know I can be, I do like a bit of a knees up and the occasional present, so if that means I have to be spiritual to have a bit of fun without being labelled a hypocrite, then hand me a dog collar and pass another barbequed haunch of choir boy.
So I have missed out on the celebrations a tad, especially now I have small children because christmas is primarily about them. Watching them open their gifts on a video doesn't quite capture the full pant-wetting squeals of excitement as they realise they're allowed to play with ALL that paper, and even the toys inside if they want.
I'm not complaining really. Well, I am, but only because I'm trying to elicit sympathy despite being allowed to do a job I enjoy, which probably isn't going to happen now that I think about it.
So I won't.
Stir the violins! Play a maudlin tune of deprivation for me, fiddlers! Fiddle me sad and I shall darnce the Darnce of Melancholy, whilst wearing the blue Pashmina of Forlorn Despondence.
Oh woe! Woe is I! Woe to the max! There is woe in my hood! My hood is all woey!
There we go.
But at least we have got the New Year coming up and, if christmas is for the kids, New Years tend to be more adult orientated,. We can celebrate new starts, pretend we know more than ten per cent of the words to Auld Lang Syne and drink enough booze so that, should we collapse in a snow drift, we wouldn't actually freeze until the temperature drops to the solidifying point of ethanol. We can make solemn oaths about fresh endeavours to improve ourselves, whilst simultaneously consuming enough food and drink to smother a rhino. We can sing and dance and stay up late and party and bond and be free and above all, above all else, we can have FUN!
Oh man I love fun.
If anything, I'm more excited about the New Year than Christmas!
Oh cock, I'm on nights.
.
Normally you might think that an areligious type like myself wouldn't get particularly festive anyway, having quite literally the same amount of soul as a metre-square bit of tarmac with a dead squirrel on it. Literally.
But you'd be wronger than a monkey wearing a toupee, because I DO actually quite enjoy christmas, having been brought up in the pseudotraditional environs of working class England. Lights, glittery stuff and indoor conifers all break up the tedious grey monotony of the typical British winter, and I'm all for that. We need that bit of distraction.
If it weren't so, why would it have persevered for so many centuries, millennia even? There must be a basic psychological benefit in having a mid-winter jolly or else why would such a thing be adopted and adapted by so many cultures and religions that have arrived in these murky island regions thinking they're the new way of doing things, when in reality we all know they're just a rehash of some old ways of doing stuff that can't change too much because their basic unit of composition is still the human being.
Scathing about organised religion as I know I can be, I do like a bit of a knees up and the occasional present, so if that means I have to be spiritual to have a bit of fun without being labelled a hypocrite, then hand me a dog collar and pass another barbequed haunch of choir boy.
So I have missed out on the celebrations a tad, especially now I have small children because christmas is primarily about them. Watching them open their gifts on a video doesn't quite capture the full pant-wetting squeals of excitement as they realise they're allowed to play with ALL that paper, and even the toys inside if they want.
I'm not complaining really. Well, I am, but only because I'm trying to elicit sympathy despite being allowed to do a job I enjoy, which probably isn't going to happen now that I think about it.
So I won't.
Stir the violins! Play a maudlin tune of deprivation for me, fiddlers! Fiddle me sad and I shall darnce the Darnce of Melancholy, whilst wearing the blue Pashmina of Forlorn Despondence.
Oh woe! Woe is I! Woe to the max! There is woe in my hood! My hood is all woey!
There we go.
But at least we have got the New Year coming up and, if christmas is for the kids, New Years tend to be more adult orientated,. We can celebrate new starts, pretend we know more than ten per cent of the words to Auld Lang Syne and drink enough booze so that, should we collapse in a snow drift, we wouldn't actually freeze until the temperature drops to the solidifying point of ethanol. We can make solemn oaths about fresh endeavours to improve ourselves, whilst simultaneously consuming enough food and drink to smother a rhino. We can sing and dance and stay up late and party and bond and be free and above all, above all else, we can have FUN!
Oh man I love fun.
If anything, I'm more excited about the New Year than Christmas!
Oh cock, I'm on nights.
.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Getting stoned.
Working in a medical organisation it can be easy to forget what a big deal it often is for someone to suddenly find themselves classed as a patient. They can go from walking around happy and healthy then, BLAMMO!, something untoward occurs and they're no longer in complete control of their lives.
The modern medical ethos is to involve the patient at every stage of their treatment if possible.
This is great.
Mostly.
There's always the "I don't want to go to that hospital because they do crap sandwiches and my 103 year-old great Aunt died there after a boob job, so take me to one fifty miles away" patient who perhaps doesn't get all the respect they deserve, however unprofessional that may be.
Usually though, we try to accommodate the patients wishes and, for them to make an informed decision, we like to keep them informed.
But everybody is different. We're all individuals. We're all unique*
So you might be surprised to learn that many people who end up in the purple-gloved clutches of the ambulance service don't want to know anything about what we're going to do to them. Or for them. Or with them. They have a "just get on with it, man." philosophy.
"I don't ask a plumber why he's wrenching that nut as long as he fixes the leak, and the same goes for you, Sunshine."
Fair enough.
When someone tells me that, I just obey their wishes and open the sterile packaging for the medical nut wrench.
In general, though, people do want to be involved. They want to know what's going on and why you're doing it, and above all they want to talk. It helps them retain a semblance of confidence and some aspect of control when entering a strange and often unfathomable new environment.
Putting yourself in the patients shoes, not literally as that is frowned upon and results in letters of complaint, is a useful mental exercise, but there's nothing like suddenly finding yourself on the other side of the professional fence to engender feelings of empathy in the future.
So I thought I would relate the story of my own hospital admission which happened about four years ago and what I learned from it.
It all started, as many tales of woe are wont to do, in the middle of the night, when I woke up with some discomfort in what is termed, in medical parlance, my tummy banana.
Bit weird, I thought to myself, and presumed it was simply the after effects of some strong Belgian lager I'd had earlier in the evening. I went to the toilet and noticed my wee was pink.
Stylish, I thought, trying not to worry too much, but I was more concerned about the ache in my lower abdomen having not reduced at all. In fact it was a bit worse now.
I got back into bed, but started tossing.
And then turning.
This disturbed the missus and our new bed-sharing baby, so I got up and went downstairs.
The pain spread round to my side and crept along my back, getting worse, until the ache became a sort of cold grip that made me gasp.
I tried unsuccessfully to go to the loo again, but did achieve a new pain. A completely unrequired pain that no man should ever have to endure. The tip of my penis hurt.
"Oh come ON!" I grunted to myself, as I wondered if I should try and rub it better. "I know something's wrong, so is really there any need for that?"
The pain in my side was now worse than the worst pain I'd ever had before, when I'd gone sub aqua diving with a cracked tooth some years ago. And then it got worse!
I looked in the mirror, surprised by how pale I was.My pulse crept up past 120. I retreated back to the toilet just in time to throw up magnificently, as if my body didn't know what to do so thought it would try that, see if it worked.
Staggering to the the living room, I couldn't sit, stand or lie without the pain coursing through me, although I did at the time remember thinking how bravely stoic I was being, keeping it to myself and staying quiet so I didn't disturb my wife and new baby upstairs.
Suddenly, Mrs The Jules appeared at the door.
"Why are you whimpering?" she asked, adding "So loudly?" to make a point. Then her eyes adjusted and she got a good glimpse of me.
"Bloody hell. What's the matter?" she made a face at my sweaty pallor and took my pulse, muttering "One thirty!" and rushing off to get some paracetamol and ibuprofen. She returned and I downed the tablets like sweeties.
"I think . . ." I grimaced, " . . . I've got . . ." I gurned, " . . . a ki . . . " I grunged, " . . .a ki . . ." I garbled, " . . . . a ki . . ."
"A kidney stone?" Mrs The Jules finished impatiently. I nodded up at her, now bent double in a comical Notre Dame mutant campanologist pose. "Shall I call an ambulance?" she asked.
I wasn't sure a kidney stone was particularly appropriate for ambulance transfer, despite having treated many in my time. They are excruciating, but not particularly life threatening. Also, the thought of one of my colleagues picking me up, giving me morphine and subsequently taking the piss out of me for the rest of my working life made me shudder, despite the pain. Instead, we lashed the baby into his bucket seat and made our own way to the Emergency Department.
The drive was appalling. Even my missus, who is a smooth driver, couldn't stop me clutching on to the hand hold, shaking like a dog doing it's business outside a nursery,
The pain got worse! How can it get worse, I wondered? There is no more pain to be had. Any more pain and I won't be able to think. I'll be like a . . . no simile came to mind. The pain had de-similefied me!
Of course, at the Emergency Department, there happened to be a number of ambulance personnel who were most surprised to see one of their off duty colleagues scuttle out of a yellow Nissan Micra, bent double and sporting a dashing grey colour, and into the recpetion area to book in. A couple of them helpfully followed me in to point out how funny I looked, and would I like a poke in the ribs to see if it really did hurt, and also how funny I looked.
It was relatively quiet, and I got efficiently triaged, assessed and dosed up with morphine and diclofenac. I actually sighed with relief as the pain ebbed to a dull throb over the next half hour.
Then, three days in hospital on fluids and antibiotics, all waiting for the emergence of what I presumed to be some sort of spiky boulder as it made it's way down my lacerated ureter and into my bladder. Eventually, I went home and caught it in a tea strainer that my wife now refuses to use.
And all because of this:
The modern medical ethos is to involve the patient at every stage of their treatment if possible.
This is great.
Mostly.
There's always the "I don't want to go to that hospital because they do crap sandwiches and my 103 year-old great Aunt died there after a boob job, so take me to one fifty miles away" patient who perhaps doesn't get all the respect they deserve, however unprofessional that may be.
Usually though, we try to accommodate the patients wishes and, for them to make an informed decision, we like to keep them informed.
But everybody is different. We're all individuals. We're all unique*
So you might be surprised to learn that many people who end up in the purple-gloved clutches of the ambulance service don't want to know anything about what we're going to do to them. Or for them. Or with them. They have a "just get on with it, man." philosophy.
"I don't ask a plumber why he's wrenching that nut as long as he fixes the leak, and the same goes for you, Sunshine."
Fair enough.
When someone tells me that, I just obey their wishes and open the sterile packaging for the medical nut wrench.
In general, though, people do want to be involved. They want to know what's going on and why you're doing it, and above all they want to talk. It helps them retain a semblance of confidence and some aspect of control when entering a strange and often unfathomable new environment.
Putting yourself in the patients shoes, not literally as that is frowned upon and results in letters of complaint, is a useful mental exercise, but there's nothing like suddenly finding yourself on the other side of the professional fence to engender feelings of empathy in the future.
So I thought I would relate the story of my own hospital admission which happened about four years ago and what I learned from it.
It all started, as many tales of woe are wont to do, in the middle of the night, when I woke up with some discomfort in what is termed, in medical parlance, my tummy banana.
Bit weird, I thought to myself, and presumed it was simply the after effects of some strong Belgian lager I'd had earlier in the evening. I went to the toilet and noticed my wee was pink.
Stylish, I thought, trying not to worry too much, but I was more concerned about the ache in my lower abdomen having not reduced at all. In fact it was a bit worse now.
I got back into bed, but started tossing.
And then turning.
This disturbed the missus and our new bed-sharing baby, so I got up and went downstairs.
The pain spread round to my side and crept along my back, getting worse, until the ache became a sort of cold grip that made me gasp.
I tried unsuccessfully to go to the loo again, but did achieve a new pain. A completely unrequired pain that no man should ever have to endure. The tip of my penis hurt.
"Oh come ON!" I grunted to myself, as I wondered if I should try and rub it better. "I know something's wrong, so is really there any need for that?"
The pain in my side was now worse than the worst pain I'd ever had before, when I'd gone sub aqua diving with a cracked tooth some years ago. And then it got worse!
I looked in the mirror, surprised by how pale I was.My pulse crept up past 120. I retreated back to the toilet just in time to throw up magnificently, as if my body didn't know what to do so thought it would try that, see if it worked.
Staggering to the the living room, I couldn't sit, stand or lie without the pain coursing through me, although I did at the time remember thinking how bravely stoic I was being, keeping it to myself and staying quiet so I didn't disturb my wife and new baby upstairs.
Suddenly, Mrs The Jules appeared at the door.
"Why are you whimpering?" she asked, adding "So loudly?" to make a point. Then her eyes adjusted and she got a good glimpse of me.
"Bloody hell. What's the matter?" she made a face at my sweaty pallor and took my pulse, muttering "One thirty!" and rushing off to get some paracetamol and ibuprofen. She returned and I downed the tablets like sweeties.
"I think . . ." I grimaced, " . . . I've got . . ." I gurned, " . . . a ki . . . " I grunged, " . . .a ki . . ." I garbled, " . . . . a ki . . ."
"A kidney stone?" Mrs The Jules finished impatiently. I nodded up at her, now bent double in a comical Notre Dame mutant campanologist pose. "Shall I call an ambulance?" she asked.
I wasn't sure a kidney stone was particularly appropriate for ambulance transfer, despite having treated many in my time. They are excruciating, but not particularly life threatening. Also, the thought of one of my colleagues picking me up, giving me morphine and subsequently taking the piss out of me for the rest of my working life made me shudder, despite the pain. Instead, we lashed the baby into his bucket seat and made our own way to the Emergency Department.
The drive was appalling. Even my missus, who is a smooth driver, couldn't stop me clutching on to the hand hold, shaking like a dog doing it's business outside a nursery,
The pain got worse! How can it get worse, I wondered? There is no more pain to be had. Any more pain and I won't be able to think. I'll be like a . . . no simile came to mind. The pain had de-similefied me!
Of course, at the Emergency Department, there happened to be a number of ambulance personnel who were most surprised to see one of their off duty colleagues scuttle out of a yellow Nissan Micra, bent double and sporting a dashing grey colour, and into the recpetion area to book in. A couple of them helpfully followed me in to point out how funny I looked, and would I like a poke in the ribs to see if it really did hurt, and also how funny I looked.
It was relatively quiet, and I got efficiently triaged, assessed and dosed up with morphine and diclofenac. I actually sighed with relief as the pain ebbed to a dull throb over the next half hour.
Then, three days in hospital on fluids and antibiotics, all waiting for the emergence of what I presumed to be some sort of spiky boulder as it made it's way down my lacerated ureter and into my bladder. Eventually, I went home and caught it in a tea strainer that my wife now refuses to use.
And all because of this:
Hang on, that doesn't show the true majesty of the thing. Try this one:
Observe the wonders of nature!
So, anyway, what did I learn from the experience?
Well, despite the best care from attentive and decent staff, hospitals are boring. Really boring. For this reason, I always tell my patients to grab a book if they can. Hospitals are also noisy at night, so take ear plugs.They're disempowering, so take a positive mental attitude.
And they're full of sick people, so take a decent immune system.
Most of all, I was reminded how thin the line is between us and them. Between the practitioner and the patient. So thin, indeed, that often it fades into invisibility.
* " I'm not."
Friday, December 2, 2011
Sliding interview.
 |
| "Roll up! Getcher answers! Get 'em while they're true!" |
I've been subjected to some questions by the lovely Feryx Lim over at Absolute Eloquence and Shit. Don't be put off by the fact that she's posted an interview with Yours Truly because, apart from that, there's some good stuff over there.
It's like an interblog love-in round these parts.
http://feryxlim.posterous.com/gravel-farming-is-so-much-fun
Monday, November 28, 2011
Badder sex
Publicity is being gained for writers who have penned some prose involving questionable copulation, their reward being the honour of receiving the coveted Bad Sex Award from Literary Review.
Having only briefly perused the offenders, I was half expecting it to be about actual bad sex, maybe where one partner rests an elbow on the other's hair, or involving a nasty clash of teeth, or perhaps a mid-coitus nosebleed, but it's not. It’s just about sex.
I don’t think I’d be too embarrassed about receiving a bad sex award (unless it was from my wife), because it must be exceptionally difficult trying to be original when describing something people have been doing since . . . well, since before there were people.
So, in the guise of any publicity being good publicity, unless you're a murderer, I have decided to have a stab at it. You can insert an innuendo here if you are childish and unsophisticated.
Heh. Insert.
Picture the scene. It is one of classic romance, involving traditional gender orientation and eroticism that has appealed to both men and women since time immemorial.
___________________________
She opened wide after a single knock, and raised a questioning eyebrow at the darkly tall stranger standing before her.
"I have come. . . " he growled deep in his throat, a testosterone fuelled baritone that she could feel in her very core, its timbre threatening to vibrate her knickers off, " . . . to fix your washing machine."
"Oh god!" she exclaimed breathlessly, "I was just going to have a bath." She looked at him askance, and he looked back at her askance as well, "In the nude!" she elucidated.
"But I have already brought my enormous plumbing tool," he waved it back and forth in front of her flushed cheeks, its hard, unforgiving length still glistening from another lady's fluids.
"My!" she gasped, admiring his professional manner. "Then it would be a shame if you got it out and didn't get chance to use it."
"I will be very . . ." He leaned forward, lowering his voice even further as their eyes met, his gaze smouldering like slices of black pudding in a frying pan " . . . quick."
"Good." she whispered back, relief flooding quite literally out of her, and she led him into the bedroom where she kept her washing machine.
"I keep my washing machine in the bedroom." She told him.
"That is completely normal and requires no clarification." He smoothed his moustache down and wiped his brow. "It's a little hot in here." He pointed out unnecessarily. "Would you mind if I made myself a little more . . ." he paused as he unbuttoned his shirt and searched for a word, " . . . sexy."
"Why not at all." She replied. "It is very, very warm in here, and me wearing this hot, winter silk negligee as well." She shrugged it off, but left her high heels on for the purposes of decorum.
"Now," he knelt before her and raised his tool in front of them both, expertly manoeuvring it into position. "Let me at it."
"That's it. Right there" She showed him. "Yes. There. Right in the alcove. That's it. Right there."
"Yes, I can see it because it is quite large, it being a washing machine."
True to his word, he was expertly quick, finishing rapidly and then holding up his tool wot was all covered in white residue.
"You see, the problem is you haven't been descaling it, and it's a bit like a kettle in that respect, so perhaps you should use Calgon."
"That's really very efficient of you, and reasonably priced as well. Thank you very much,"
"You're welcome." He cleaned his tool on the bedroom curtains before making his way to the van, leaving another very satisfied customer in his wake.
A few days later they met in the street, swapped numbers and went on three dates, which culminated in some satisfactory sexual intercourse and began a pleasant relationship lasting almost two years before ending relatively amicably.
Actually, forget the bad sex awards, this stuff is pretty hot.
Sorry it was so short.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Roll Me Over, In A Rover
Thought I'd do a quick ambulance related post, because I spend so much of my life in one.
Got called to a crash a few weeks ago and, after the (luckily minimally injured) patient had been packaged up and sent off to hospital, I took a cheeky couple of snaps in the name ofblogging reflection and learning:
This is technically termed a "roll over" for mysterious reasons that elude me. It had narrowly missed a snack van in a layby where a queue of people were treated to the alarming spectacle of a car doing some acrobatics just a few metres away, before coming to a rest in a ditch. The driver then got out and staggered around for a bit holding his neck before we managed to catch him and stop his head falling off with some judicious immobilisation.
Okay, so he wasn't really that badly injured. The use of the spinal collar, full body vacuum splint and seven or eight large bore cannulae in his jugular might just possibly have been a teensy touch over the top, but you can never be too sure with this sort of mechanism of injury. Also I need the practice.
But what could possibly have caused such a loss of control? The driver swore he wasn't going too fast. He wasn't over the limit, hadn't taken any drugs or medication that could have affected his driving, and had apparently simply turned the corner and lost it. He seemed genuinely upset that he had been so unlucky, as he'd been driving for years and never had an accident before.
We made sympathetic sounds and told him, at the end of the day, he was still talking so there were reasons to be cheerful. He wasn't overly receptive to our pleasantries though and I suggested that, sometimes, you just had to chalk these things up to the vagaries of the universe.
It's a mystery, beyond the ken of mere humans to solve, completely unfathomable and utterly unpreventable
At least until you looked at his tyres:
I've seen more tread on an eel.
When I left the scene, the unamused police were heading off to the hospital to see the driver. On the way, they told me, they were going to find a nice heavy book to throw at him.
Got called to a crash a few weeks ago and, after the (luckily minimally injured) patient had been packaged up and sent off to hospital, I took a cheeky couple of snaps in the name of
 |
| I'll just park this here. |
This is technically termed a "roll over" for mysterious reasons that elude me. It had narrowly missed a snack van in a layby where a queue of people were treated to the alarming spectacle of a car doing some acrobatics just a few metres away, before coming to a rest in a ditch. The driver then got out and staggered around for a bit holding his neck before we managed to catch him and stop his head falling off with some judicious immobilisation.
Okay, so he wasn't really that badly injured. The use of the spinal collar, full body vacuum splint and seven or eight large bore cannulae in his jugular might just possibly have been a teensy touch over the top, but you can never be too sure with this sort of mechanism of injury. Also I need the practice.
But what could possibly have caused such a loss of control? The driver swore he wasn't going too fast. He wasn't over the limit, hadn't taken any drugs or medication that could have affected his driving, and had apparently simply turned the corner and lost it. He seemed genuinely upset that he had been so unlucky, as he'd been driving for years and never had an accident before.
We made sympathetic sounds and told him, at the end of the day, he was still talking so there were reasons to be cheerful. He wasn't overly receptive to our pleasantries though and I suggested that, sometimes, you just had to chalk these things up to the vagaries of the universe.
It's a mystery, beyond the ken of mere humans to solve, completely unfathomable and utterly unpreventable
At least until you looked at his tyres:
 |
| The Telly Savalas of the tyre world. |
When I left the scene, the unamused police were heading off to the hospital to see the driver. On the way, they told me, they were going to find a nice heavy book to throw at him.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Camera obscura
Woo! Hallowe'e'e'n. Argh! Urgh! Grr! Fnarples!
Maybe not fnarples, thinking about it. That's for a different celebration.
But still, Halloween, properly de-apostrophised and bulging with the promise of hollowed out vegetables and obtaining sweeties through extortion!
I now have children, which sort of curtails most things celebratory that I used to enjoy, such as meeting other adults and having a conversation about something other than Teletubbies and poo, unless we wanted to. This means that if I see an opportunity for some gregarious celebration, no matter how infantile and pointless, I will grab on to that sucker like a politician on to an expense account.
My little boy was particularly excited as he had been invited to a Halloween fancy dress party in the evening. To stop him from asking "Is it time for the party yet?" more than eighteen hundred times, we spent the rest of the day torturing pumpkins by scooping their innards out and making them into soup and pies before callously eating them in an orgy of lunch.
At one point in the afternoon, my son clocked the digital camera on the sideboard and immediately had a great idea. "I want to take some photos Daddy!"
I was unsure. The last time he'd used it I had to spend ages with a tiny alcohol wipe cleaning raspberry jelly off the lens so people didn't look like they were being eaten by the Blob in every shot.
"Puh-lease can I take some photos Daddy!" He held his hands together in front of his chest out as though praying, knowing very well that I can't resist that sort of supplication. Besides, I thought, it's a distraction, and raising children is all about distracting them. And feeding them occasionally.
I set the camera up and handed it over.
"Find something interesting to photograph." I advised, removing a sticky finger from the delicate lens mechanism.
"Okay."
Snap:
That's the sofa, close up. Fascinating stuff. Look at the weave. And the discolouration. It shows the beautiful cycle of stains and stain remover, forever chasing one another down the years.
"Not the sofa. Something interesting." I remind The Boy.
"Okay"
Snap:
A bit of living room, with the wife's crocs just scuttling to get out of shot. Hardly the stuff of award winning exhibitions.
"How about the pumpkins I just spent ages hollowing out and carving?" I suggested.
"Okay"
Snap:
"Bonobo, please stop eating the pumpkin."
The doorbell rang. Great stuff, I thought, and suggested a photo of the visitors might be interesting.
"Okay."
Snap:
Yep, visitors, nearly as interesting as the door.
Or the wall.
Or the floor.
The Boy bounces around the house, so excited to be taking pictures he is actually vibrating which makes him both hard to see at the edges and quite difficult to catch. I eventually trap him with a cunningly set up photographic opportunity of his old man. Predictably, he can't resist.
Snap:
Looking good. I point him in the direction of the pumpkins which have been put on display ready for any passing art critic, and we finally have a picture taken from the viewpoint of a four year-old.
Snap:
I borrowed the camera for a moment and looked at the pictures on the little display. The ones shown here are the pick of about fifty, mostly of walls and floors, with the occasional door thrown in for good measure. I heartlessly deleted them and then handed the camera back, whereupon The Boy ran off to continue his reportage.
This included:
Light fittings:
A box of red:
A bit more floor:
A sucked dry smoothie carton:
And his sister begging for a go, or possibly a chew, on the camera:
Before she finally feigned disinterest:
Eventually, the novelty wore off, and I managed to retrieve a surprisingly clean camera for some judicious memory wiping. A couple of them were actually rather good, and I think we can consider getting him his own camera for his fifth birthday in March. They do relatively cheap, tough ones that are ketchup proof nowadays and just right for little people to take photos anywhere they want.
I think I'll have to put a lock on the bathroom door.
We got The Boy ready for the party and, before we drove him to his friend's house, he was quite willing to step in front of the lens for a change.
Snap:
Gruesome.
.
Maybe not fnarples, thinking about it. That's for a different celebration.
But still, Halloween, properly de-apostrophised and bulging with the promise of hollowed out vegetables and obtaining sweeties through extortion!
I now have children, which sort of curtails most things celebratory that I used to enjoy, such as meeting other adults and having a conversation about something other than Teletubbies and poo, unless we wanted to. This means that if I see an opportunity for some gregarious celebration, no matter how infantile and pointless, I will grab on to that sucker like a politician on to an expense account.
My little boy was particularly excited as he had been invited to a Halloween fancy dress party in the evening. To stop him from asking "Is it time for the party yet?" more than eighteen hundred times, we spent the rest of the day torturing pumpkins by scooping their innards out and making them into soup and pies before callously eating them in an orgy of lunch.
At one point in the afternoon, my son clocked the digital camera on the sideboard and immediately had a great idea. "I want to take some photos Daddy!"
I was unsure. The last time he'd used it I had to spend ages with a tiny alcohol wipe cleaning raspberry jelly off the lens so people didn't look like they were being eaten by the Blob in every shot.
"Puh-lease can I take some photos Daddy!" He held his hands together in front of his chest out as though praying, knowing very well that I can't resist that sort of supplication. Besides, I thought, it's a distraction, and raising children is all about distracting them. And feeding them occasionally.
I set the camera up and handed it over.
"Find something interesting to photograph." I advised, removing a sticky finger from the delicate lens mechanism.
"Okay."
Snap:
 |
| Sofa so good |
That's the sofa, close up. Fascinating stuff. Look at the weave. And the discolouration. It shows the beautiful cycle of stains and stain remover, forever chasing one another down the years.
"Not the sofa. Something interesting." I remind The Boy.
"Okay"
Snap:
A bit of living room, with the wife's crocs just scuttling to get out of shot. Hardly the stuff of award winning exhibitions.
"How about the pumpkins I just spent ages hollowing out and carving?" I suggested.
"Okay"
Snap:
 |
| A moist cavity |
"Maybe not quite so close up son."
"Okay."
Snap:
 |
| Got eight teeth, gonna use 'em |
The doorbell rang. Great stuff, I thought, and suggested a photo of the visitors might be interesting.
"Okay."
Snap:
Yep, visitors, nearly as interesting as the door.
The Boy bounces around the house, so excited to be taking pictures he is actually vibrating which makes him both hard to see at the edges and quite difficult to catch. I eventually trap him with a cunningly set up photographic opportunity of his old man. Predictably, he can't resist.
Snap:
Looking good. I point him in the direction of the pumpkins which have been put on display ready for any passing art critic, and we finally have a picture taken from the viewpoint of a four year-old.
Snap:
 |
| Guard the iPod, gourdy minions. |
I borrowed the camera for a moment and looked at the pictures on the little display. The ones shown here are the pick of about fifty, mostly of walls and floors, with the occasional door thrown in for good measure. I heartlessly deleted them and then handed the camera back, whereupon The Boy ran off to continue his reportage.
This included:
Light fittings:
 |
| Enlightenment |
A box of red:
 |
| Desperation is evident in the dented packaging. |
A bit more floor:
 |
| Skirting the issue |
A sucked dry smoothie carton:
 |
| Art! |
And his sister begging for a go, or possibly a chew, on the camera:
Before she finally feigned disinterest:
Eventually, the novelty wore off, and I managed to retrieve a surprisingly clean camera for some judicious memory wiping. A couple of them were actually rather good, and I think we can consider getting him his own camera for his fifth birthday in March. They do relatively cheap, tough ones that are ketchup proof nowadays and just right for little people to take photos anywhere they want.
I think I'll have to put a lock on the bathroom door.
We got The Boy ready for the party and, before we drove him to his friend's house, he was quite willing to step in front of the lens for a change.
Snap:
 |
| That's a wrap. |
Gruesome.
.
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