Parenting Photos

Drinking Problem

Drinking problem

Food Photos

Cheese? Grate!


In my opinion, the basis of a strong relationship is not sharing each chore out 50-50, but rather efficient division of labour. There are some tasks which I hate doing, so she generally takes charge of them, in return for which I am always willing to step in to do the hoovering and the grating of cheese.

I love grating cheese. Partly for the task itself, partly because I like having a handful of grated cheese at the end of it (sneaking a few delicious flakes for myself, of course), and partly because the aesthetic value of a half-grated brick of cheese is, quite frankly, so awesome that I’m going to have to invent a new word for it.

It’s incredibly vulva.

What? Whadya mean, that word’s already taken?

Shove off.


Global warming? S’now joke.



This morning I came to the realisation that Twitter has jumped the shark. I logged in to see about a dozen messages informing me that there had been some snow, apparently.

*Four years ago*


How many roads must a man drive down?

Today, everywhere you look is evidence of yesterday’s storm. As I drive to work, I pass men in high-visibility jackets feeding huge chunks of wood into chipping machines. I drive through the centres of magnificent trees, a matching stump on either side of the road. Just back from the edge of the road, I see hundreds of silver birches and pine trees that are leaning on their brethren like drunken hobos.

In a way, I feel like I, and millions of others, have cheated death this week. Across Europe, 33 people were in the wrong place at the wrong time and were killed by this storm. Like me, they probably didn’t think that they would lose their lives this way. Modern technology has come a long way, but the fact remains that when a tree is blown down in a 100mph wind, your mobile phone won’t catch it. Nothing will catch it. You forget how vulnerable you are.

I consider myself fortunate that my only loss has been two fence panels.

BBC “In pictures” here and here.

On another note, I feel that I can share one of my resolutions for 2007 with you:

*#10: When you see a blog entry that says “Click this link – it’s really cute!” then don’t bother. It’s just that fucking sneezing panda again.*


Taes of the evening

1. On the tube, it seems that a couple of Indian guys to my left were
in an argumetn with the guy across fromme, because he had been winking
at them and they didn’t like it? I caught his eye, and gave him a
wink. He turned to the Indians and made a noiser, which instantly
meant that I was now a part of this conflictg. “Are you taking th
piss?” they said. “No, no, nononon” we said. As I left the train, I
gave hima nod “Cheerio”

2. OPn the train home, a drunken girl onthe phone to maybe her best
friend, mnaybe her ex-borfyfiened. Seems that the two had formed an
item, and she was furious. F words flying left rihgtn and centre.
Tragic to listen to. Meanwhile, I was worried that I waso nthe wrong
train home, nbecause th stqation names sounded like I was heading for
Woking,. I was worried that Karen would have to come and pick me up in
the car at an ungodhly hour. It all turned outnicely.

3. OI wanted a wee so badly. Bladder full to the brim.At Twickenham,
we were delayed. The light was red, and until it went green we would
be stranded, so I lef the train and had a wee behindf a billboard. The
whilslet went, and I ran back to the cariiage. It helped for a while,
but soon enough it was full again. At Staine sor thereabouts, the
train stopped. I jumped ouat and aske dth econductor if I could wee.He
said yes so I did.,


(Occasional) Stay At Home Dad

Today was my initiation into the ranks of the (Occasional) Stay At Home Dads.

At 8am, Karen reluctantly left the house to head into her office, and I, faced with a very confused Bernard, was in charge. Armed with all my accumulated expertise, I am proud to say that I didn’t do a bad job at all. I know what he needs, I am reasonably competent at deciphering his signals, my only concern was that the absence of Karen for the first time in his life would leave him unable to keep his head together.

In the event, it didn’t go too badly. There were a couple of occasions when he was clearly trying to communicate *”Oh for goodness’ sake, where’s mummy and her boob?”* but for the most part, he seemed to understand the situation. In fact, the most pleasant surprise of the day was his sudden acceptance of formula milk, which until now he has refused with the utmost of disgust.

After lunch, I took him into town in his pram. We wandered round a few shops, and somewhere around Woolworths he fell asleep. I took the long way home, picking up a bottle of ginger beer on the way. Which I think I shall now open, seeing as Karen has come home early and the three of us have retired to the office ((a vague term, but I hate the term “home office”, I’ve fallen out of love with “studyo” (is it a study? Is it a recording studio? It’s both!) and “Man Cave” is no longer strictly true. What should I call this room instead?)) together. I’m contemplating making a little laptop out of foam for Bernard to gnaw on, so that he doesn’t feel left out.

The prospect of doing this once a week doesn’t seem so bad. I accept the arrangement with relish.