Words Mean Different Stuff

I note with raised eyebrow an email from my local zoo inviting me to a "Bear Opening". Are they really going to open a bear? In public? Surely that is only of interest to clinical ursologists.

Wait though - that's not what it means. Maybe it means there is an opening for a bear...like a job offer. Well, I don't think they'll get many applicants, as bears are notoriously poor at responding to emails in a timely fashion...

...ah, no, it actually means the zoo is holding a public opening ceremony for its new bear habitat, with TV vet Steve Leonard, in support of the charity...the charity...oh, the irony! This event at the new bear enclosure at the zoo is in support of the charity "Free The Bears". Enough said.

Netballs

The wife and I went to witness small A's appearance in a netball tournament at a local primary school the other day. It was one of those "nice" contests where they mix up the players with pupils from both schools in each team, and hand out tea and cake at the end. After four matches, A's team won, despite her being completely non-aggressive. It's as though she thinks it's impolite to get in the way of an opposing player who's shooting at goal, even when that is exactly what she's supposed to be doing. Ah well, there are far worse ways to be. Actually, the main reason her team won was that the two goal shooters were about twice as tall as every other kid in the room. The advantages of varying growth rates in 10 to 11-year-olds!

Anyhoo, dear reader, this is not the reason I felt moved to create today's post. While we were sitting waiting for the contest to begin, one of the other parents leaned over to make conversation. His opening line was "hello, are you A's grandparents?" Well, my friends, I cannot tell you what expression this caused to cross my face, but the gentleman in question recoiled visibly. For a couple of seconds I literally could not think of anything to say as an apoplectic fugue coursed through my temporal lobe. Finally, I just said "no!" and managed to avoid thumping him.

He did have another go. "Parents? Oh, sorry", and smiled apologetically before going on to say nothing else at all. I do not feel that I've made a friend.

The wife blamed the incident on what she insists on referring to as my "old man hat". This is a stylish and modern flat cap from Next for Men, which I happen to think I rock. I suppose it is possible that my zipped-up hoodie looked a little bit like a cardigan, but still, I am clearly no-one's grandpa. My dear mother on hearing of the incident apparently remarked "oh, well, he's always looked older than his age".

Well, I have since subtly canvassed independent opinion and come to the conclusion that many people think I am younger than I actually am. These people are undoubtedly correct. Balance is thereby restored to the cosmos.

And I do rock that hat.

Progress

I just came across this IM I sent in 2008 in answer to the question "why are you so cross?":

I am in my mid-forties and have achieved none of my half-arsed goals. The man I see in the mirror is liked a tired, fat version of my Dad, which is not how I naturally feel inside. I seem unable to inspire or help you in your various struggles. I have lost the prop of my faith, which at least used to keep me unreasonably optimistic. My daughter is growing up fast, reminding me that the past is dead, and that I am, ultimately, dying. I note that the world at large generally fails to appreciate my brilliance, which annoys me and yet at the same time feeds my "told you everything is crap" mentality. AND my feckin' ear is blocked.

I can now report, dear reader, some progress, in that my ear is no longer blocked. Onwards and upwards.

Dark Lord of Ventolin

I was walking with small A to school this morning, when we noticed Edward Scissorhands on the path behind us. Far from being alarmed, A said "I think he's wearing a wig, Daddy". It soon became clear that Edward Cardboardfingers would be a better name for him, and after clocking several refugees from Fame and two giant bananas we deduced that the local high school must be having some sort of non-uniform day.

I dropped A off at school and started back, past a few footballers, some mad scientists and one guy in a purple morphsuit. I had mentally awarded the best outfit prize to a Mexican cowboy when I heard heavy asthmatic breathing coming from just around the corner. As I rounded the bend I came face-to-face with none other than Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor, dressed from head to toe in black velveteen and sporting a homemade cardboard helmet covered in silver foil. The poor guy (or girl - hard to tell really) was wheezing like a clogged hoover (which put me in mind of that other Dark Lord), but the overall effect was outstanding, and full marks to you, whoever you are. Kudos! You made me smile. Who says the youth of today lack imagination?

Wait, though...what if it wasn't a kid from the school...

Of Mice And Monkeys

After reading this news item yesterday, I find myself checking my own sliced bread for murine stowaways. It's not at all likely that I'll find any, but something in my psyche makes me look anyway. It's the herd alarm signal - it's why you feel compelled to check the house for spiders after watching Arachnophobia. Anyway, is it only me who feels a little bit sorry for the poor mouse? Going about his business, finding a few crumbs to keep body and soul together, finding a nice warm, dry room full of delicious bread and then WHOMP! Game over. He's medium sliced. I believe they never did find his tail - which must worry the guy who'd already eaten some of the loaf.

Today, there's an even better animal story. It seems that the beleaguered organisers of the Delhi Commonwealth Games are employing langurs as monkey security guards to patrol various venues. Apparently there's been a serious monkey problem in Delhi for years, which can't be effectively dealt with as a significant proportion of the population consider them sacred. The answer - bring in bigger monkeys to scare off the smaller ones. But what if the small monkeys get wise to this and hire themselves some chimps as bodyguards? Then they'll have to send in the gorillas to protect the langurs. Worrying times for those concerned about a simian arms race.

Ok, I'm going to go and take my medication now. After checking the house for monkeys, of course.

Disney: the magic continues behind the scenes

Recently, my daughter's weekend theatre school had the opportunity to perform at Eurodisney, or rather Disneyland® Resort Paris as we must now call it. This meant that we had to go into the heavily-guarded backstage areas, where princesses and 5-foot chipmunks mingle freely with chain-smoking French technicians. We were warned several times that absolutely no photos were to be taken, but they stopped short of making us swear to secrecy on the lives of our children, so I can report to you now, dear reader, that the magic really does continue behind the scenes. Any ordinary visitor to the park may wander through Discoveryland, Frontierland or Adventureland, but as our coach was driven into the mysterious backstage compound, a sign informed us that we were entering "Castmemberland". This, naturally, delighted me, though not quite as much as the bus stop labelled "Pirates". Imagine that! A bus stop for the exclusive use of pirates! I wish I could have taken a picture. A couple of young, French, female buccaneers did wander past on their way from the Caribbean, just to heighten the surrealism to dizzying levels.

We were led past various corrugated iron buildings and discarded rollercoaster cars to an unassuming wooden door in a scabby shed. This turned out to be a magic portal to Fantasyland! As we went through, the sounds of the park suddenly rose around us, and everything seemed to go from black-and-white to colour. This transformative experience was actually one of the highlights of the trip for me. That and watching my 7-year-old daughter performing Michael Jackson's Thriller dressed as a zombie bridesmaid.

ELO cellist killed by bale of hay

Mike Edwards - no longer facing the music

Of all the words I wasn't expecting to see in the same sentence this week, these are somewhere near the top of the list. This is one of those dreadful things that would be funny if it weren't true. I first heard of it when my dear wife told me "somebody from ELO is dead". I confess I was relieved to discover it wasn't Jeff Lynne, but this just made me feel guilty for the poor guy who actually died.

I now realise I have a mental order for who I'd be most upset about dying from ELO. It goes as follows:

1. Jeff Lynne
2. Bev Bevan
=3. Richard Tandy and Kelly Groucutt
4. Mik Kaminski
5. Anybody else.

(NB - this doesn't include Roy Wood, who I mentally classify as an entity in his own right. If he WERE in the list he would be =1 with Mr Lynne.)

Of course, poor Mike Edwards (damn, I just had to look up his name again) is at the bottom. But I am still a little bit sad, especially on learning that he would sometimes play his cello with a grapefruit "in order to make the band more entertaining". I wish I'd seen that.

National Karma

Yesterday a Eurostar train screamed into St. Pancras station, empty but for a few journalists, taking just over two hours to get to London from Paris across the shiny new High Speed 1 track. At the same time, hundreds of thousands of Londoners were taking much more than two hours to get from, say, Liverpool Street to St. Pancras, thanks to industrial action on the Underground. There you have British life in microcosm.

Lost Beach Ball Trauma

My wife, 4-and-a-half-year-old daughter (A) and I were at the beach today with a friend and her kids, and naturally a game of "beach ball catch" was initiated. Unfortunately this instantly became "beach ball chase" as the wind kept grabbing the wretched thing and tossing it towards the sea. Very soon the game had developed into "kids throw the beach ball up in the air and laugh at A's daddy running to save it again". After five or six 300-yard dashes and mumbled curses I said, "ok kids, no more throwing the ball now". One of A's friends asked if he could hold it, so I said yes, and we started back up the beach. Then the little rascal threw the ball up again with a chuckle, and I was off again, the sole competitor in the Over-40s Shingle Stumble. This is what you get, I thought, for playing with a bag of air on Hurricane Beach.

Anyhow, this time I didn't quite make it, and the ball flew into the sea and started bobbing mischievously further out of my reach. I couldn't get it, so I headed back to the family and the dreadful sight and sound of little daughter tears. We tried to comfort her, but she wasn't interested in the idea that the ball was having an adventure, she just sobbed that she wanted it back.

"I know exactly how you feel, darling," I said. "When I was little my ball fell in the sea, and Grandpa swam out to try and get it, but he couldn't make it." Suddenly that memory came flashing back to me. The ball is yellow, with red wavy lines and blue spots...I'm watching it bobbing out to sea...Dad's swimming after it...no good...that awful feeling of loss. My dad died at the end of 2003 when A was just one, but she still remembers him and misses him. I looked up. A's yellow beach ball was still in sight, the wind blowing it in a straight line towards the pier about half a mile away. The coast curves there, and I realised that with any luck the ball would return to shore at some point way off in the distance...before being drawn out for good on the ebbing tide. My brain ticked a couple of times, like a dusty grandfather clock in the attic. Suddenly I yelled "I'm going to get it!" and sprinted off down the beach, vaulting over groynes, leaping over pools, I'm SuperDad, unstoppable, invincible...

The wife told me afterwards she noticed the moment when I stopped running and started wheezing. I'd hoped they would've given up watching by then. But I kept going. I think in truth I was on some belated quest for closure. The only time I ever remember seeing my Dad in the water, ever, was on that beach long ago when he tried to save my silly ball from drowning. Well, fortunately the laws of physics didn't let me down, and the ball came in on a wave just about where I thought it would - about a mile away from where we'd started. Oh yes!! Now I know what it's like to win a marathon! The World Cup! YES! I did it!! Hahahahaha! In your face, forces of disappointment! For once I made a snap decision that didn't turn out to be stupid, dangerous or just plain wrong! I saved my little girl's cheap piece of plastic from a very slow trip to Holland...

Of course, by the time I returned, flushed but triumphant, she'd forgotten all about it and was enjoying a Wild West train ride. But that didn't matter. Somehow, I've closed some connection that was unresolved. I feel I've done something, strangely, for my Dad. And when I put A to bed, she told me I was the best man in the world.

Another chance to fail

Ah yes, another blog, another chance to forget, or indeed, not bother, to update my burblings.




...in fact, I can hardly be bothered to write anything in the first place. I'll just hop and skip over to the second place straightaway, and tell you why the so-called Grandfather Paradox is in reality, no paradox at all. See the next post! How exciting.

By the way, in case you were wondering, the blog title is a reference to a quote from Richard Dawkins: "Life results from the non-random survival of randomly varying replicators". This is a sentiment with which I wholeheartedly concur. I also wear socks.