A chip off the old block ...

It's my Dad's birthday today.

Happy Birthday Pops!

After he gave us his two penneth about concussion I asked my Dad to think of some more memories of days gone by.

I crossed my fingers, hoping he wouldn't remember another naked neighbour story.

It is with great relief that I give you 'The Perils Of Shopping With Children - Parts 1 and 2' by my Dad. Reading these has reaffirmed my belief that what comes around goes around!

Perils of shopping with children - Part 1

We are in the newsagents. You are about four years old, a picture of innocence in your pretty dress, blonde pigtails, white socks and shiny black shoes. I am the very proud father. Mr Fish, the newsagent, probably awash with fond memories of fatherhood smiles down at you, just visible above the counter, and we exchange pleasantries; the weather, children and the economy.

The conversation is difficult as Mr Fish has a cleft palette and requires a degree of patient interpretation.

In my peripheral vision I notice you are unusually quiet and very still like a predatory insect.

I look down and see a face of rapt concentration, your eyebrows are knitted and your lips are silently moving. With mounting anxiety and then dread it comes to me that you are mentally testing Mr Fish’s unfortunate nasal accent and that you may be about to give it a full trial run.

With as much good manners as possible I bring our chat to a quick close, grab you by the collar and make for the door, rudely pushing a few elderly customers and a birthday card display stand aside.

I fail to make the door.

“Whoy dus he spuk lak dat, duddy”? you ask in perfect mimicry of the unfortunate newsagent.

This is not asked in a small discrete whisper. As your mouth is four feet below my ears and you suspect I am a bit deaf the question is asked at full volume.

I turn as we leave and smile an apology at Mr Fish across the silent shop who smiles back with the sad look of someone resigned to this sort of innocent abuse by children.

Perils of shopping with children - Part 2

Earlier in your life we visited the bakers shop with strict written instructions from your mother about what we were to buy; a small shopping list reflecting the economic hardships of the time.

I know you were very young as you were attached to me by some sort of harness with a lead, presumably to prevent you running amok on the busy main road.

Reaching the head of the queue I handed the meagre list to the lady behind the glass display counter in the baker’s shop and as I waited was mesmerised by the machine that saws the loaves of bread into slices. That is if you want sliced bread, which happened to be the specification for the bread on the list.

The completed order is bagged and placed on the glass top of the tall display counter. I am waiting to be told how much to pay but notice the lady is staring down at one of the large cakes behind the glass.

“Is she trying to entice me to buy a cake as well as the bread and rolls”? I muse.

If she is she has another think coming, cakes are definitely not on the list.

No, I realise that she is actually trying to draw my attention to the deep grooves that have been ploughed across the pristine iced top of one of the cake on display. I look at the cake, then at you, who has all the fingers of a guilty hand in your mouth which is suspiciously rimmed with what looks like icing debris.

“Ah, I suppose I had better add the cake to the order”, I say to the lady behind the counter and wonder if I will have enough money.

Then, as we discuss in a joshing manner the problems of controlling young mischievous children I look down and watch with mounting horror as your hand again slips behind the glass front of the display counter and vandalises another, even more elaborate iced cake of even larger circumference.

We leave the shop and, watched through the window by the queue of entertained customers, I stagger up the street festooned with bags and towed by a small child in a harness trying desperately to keep her distance from her irate father.

He is known as Gramps or Grumps

Before I start - I would like to bring it to your attention that Jo Beaufoix is hosting the Best of British Mummy Bloggers Carnival this week. Go and have a read - there are some great entires.

I will be hosting the carnival on the 17th of February. If you would like to take part please email your entry to me ... lauradriver(at)hotmail.co.uk

Now down to business ...

I've been tagged by Not Enough Mud to do the photo blogstep challenge.

The rules are: Go to the 4th folder in your computer where you store your pictures; Pick the 4th picture in that folder; Explain the picture; Tag 4 people to do the same.

Here’s mine:

This is my Dad. He is known as Gramps or Grumps by the children and occasionally as Victor Meldrew by members of the public. To be fair he does look rather like Mr Meldrew and has got the 'I don't belieeeeeeeeeve it' down to a fine art.

It was late Summer 2006. Gramps was visiting from Spain on business and stayed with us for a couple of nights. The 4 year old was just 2 and clearly loving the bubbles.

These visits are special for both the children and my Dad. Time with Gramps is precious and they always manage to squeeze some adventuring in. He goes home to the tranquility of his life in Spain shattered but happy.

The good news is that in less than a month he will be moving back for the majority of the year and living close by.

We can't wait!

So, now I have to tag four of you lovely bloggers to do the same.

Here goes;

Mary - Caution ... Woman At Work who could be offering up a picture of some Mediterranean doilies

Corey Schwartz (author of picture book Hop! Plop!) - Thing 1 and Thing 2

Serena Rain over at Zip 'n' Tizzy whose photo is bound to involve a cardboard box

&

Merrily Down The Stream at Life is But A Dream who was last seen kicking back on a chaise longue

More Concussion and Naked People ...

This post relates to this one and that one (concussion and the naked man!). If you don't understand, don't worry ... normal service will resume tomorrow.

This is an 'anonymous' email I received ... from my ummmm ... Dad.

Head butting kitchen cupboard doors is in your genes. When your Mum lived in the flat at blah blah blah she actually knocked herself out on an open cupboard door. We were in the kitchen at the time and I was washing the dishes distracted by the neighbour in the semi-detached property who habitually washed her dishes topless (which is why I always voluntarily washed the dishes). Thus distracted I failed to notice the break in our conversation and thought that the silence meant that that your Mum had left the room.

When I eventually finished the dishwashing and dragged myself away from the spectacle of our neighbour’s glorious bosom I found your mum on the floor slumped semi – conscious against the kitchen units. Luckily the open door was not my fault (I would have remembered the bollocking!), the kitchen cupboard was not damaged and your Mum made a full recovery.

What my anonymous father fails to mention is that the 'topless neighbour' also had a 'naked husband' similar to ugly naked guy in Friends.

I must apologise now .... it's been a slow 'blogging material' week. The children have been behaving and haven't embarrassed me.

I, Laura, promise that there will be no more mention of naked people or concussion herewith.