Hymn

Fertile Ground

“Where are the pretty lights, Daddy?”

‘They are still there, sweetheart, we just can’t see them.’

We are in the car.  She sits behind me as I drive.

“Why can’t we see them, Daddy?”

‘Because we only have them on at night.’

“Why, Daddy?”

‘Because it needs to be dark so we can see the lights’

“Why?”

And I realised I’d been snared.  Two and a half years old and finally, her rampant curiosity has discovered the inexhaustible power of ‘Why?’

Now, I’m a Good Parent.  At least I try.  I don’t want to be dismissive.  I don’t want to be restricting.  I don’t want to be discouraging. 

So I answer.

Each

Successive

Round

Of

Whys.

She is a sponge.

I explain about day and night.

I give details of human vision.

I describe how the eye works.

I discuss at some length the properties of light.

I start to unpick the complexities of particle/ wave duality theory.

I hear a stifled laugh from behind me.  She has caught me.  She is giggling.

‘Silly Daddy.’ She chuckles.

She is not a sponge.  She is a sod.  A fertile, blooming sod.

Pie Eyed

It is a rite of passage.  We set up Santa Claus.  Carefully establishing each detail; emphasising every aspect like an illusionist priming an audience for the Prestige.

The mince pie.

Something for Rudolph.

The empty empty stocking.

Needless to say much of the excitement lay with us.  And helped to explain why S had an uncharacteristic lie-in this morning.  She left us adults to sit expectantly in our dressing gowns until she stirred.

The pastry crumbs, the carrot stump, the sack full of presents and the Delight of a Child’s Christmas.

Made me feel like a proper grown-up.

Merry Christmas!

It's been a frenetic few months and I feel rather embarrassed that I haven't written more nonsense.  Perhaps that's the wrong way around.

Still, my New Year's resolution is scratch a few more words down.  Until a deliberate peace will descend.

I hope you have a very Merry Christmas and a properous 2009.

With warmest wishes,

c

Can Not

If I have to buy another can of deodorant in the next hundred years it’ll be too soon.

I’ve been on a plane you see.  A proper one.  With all its doors.  That I intended to land in.  No problems there but getting on the damn thing, now that’s a different story.

It’s these infernal security precautions. 

I arrived at the airport and already had a two-page list of the things I had forgotten.  I tapped my pocket every thirty seconds to make sure my passport hadn’t mysteriously vanished.  Some of my suitcase omissions would have to wait.  Others I could rectify.  I could do something about the potential of sweaty armpits: I nipped into chemist and bought a can of my usual body spray. 

I’m always a little anxious at security checks these days: thirteen hours of cross-examination by customs officials on the Isle of Man can play havoc with one’s nerves.  I might be emotionally scarred for life but at least I now understand why their cats have no tails.

After inevitably setting off the scanner alarm, it was the contents of my bag.

‘I’m sorry, sir, that’s too big.’
“I’m sorry.  What?”
‘You can’t take that on board.  It’s more than a hundred millilitres.’
“Is it?”
‘Yes, sir.  It’s a hundred and fifty.’
“But I just bought it.  Just there.”

I pointed at the shop ten metres from where we stood.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t bring it through.  It’s too big.’
“But I just bought it in your shop.”
‘Yes, sir.  I understand that, but still, I’m afraid you still can’t bring it through.’
“So why in God’s name do they sell it?  Do you think I’d nip in to buy my weekly groceries?  What other possible reason could there be for me to buy it here?  I bought lip balm too – do you want that as well?”

He looked at me at though I was the gayest man he had ever met.

‘You could check it.’
“What?”
‘Check it, sir.  Into the hold.’
“You’re not serious.”  Which of course was a ludicrous thing to say.  It was patently obvious that he had no sense of humour whatsoever.

“You’re suggesting I check in a single can of deodorant”
‘If you want to keep it, then, yes.’

Now, I’m no expert on homemade explosives but even with my schoolboy knowledge of TATP I know that in the time taken to hop over Europe, the most determined fanatic is unlikely to create the explosive equivalent of a safety match.  And besides, this security guard was only interested in one liquid.  Even my Nan knows you needed two.

“So you’ll want this too then?” pointing to my contact lens solution.
‘No, sir, that’s medical.’
“What?”
‘It’s medical.  It’s okay.’
“But it’s twice as big.”
‘Yes, sir.  Very impressive.’

A muscle in my eyelid twitched.

“So, let me get this straight: you won’t let me take the sealed metal canister on board but the plastic bottle with a removable cap is okay?  You think I would manufacture and spray paint my own noxious aerosol can or better still, buy an original, slice it open, replace the contents and invisibly weld it shut within sight of this security check rather than simply unscrew this one and pour in some nasty chemical?”

I waved it expansively under his moustached nose.

‘I can take that one off you too, if you’d like, sir.’

You just can’t talk to these people – the bit of their brain that deals with common sense has been scooped out and replaced with red tape.

“If I smell, it’ll be your fault” was the best parting shot I could muster.

Of course once through check-in there is another branch of the same chemist selling exactly the same range of products.  I buy the same can again, slamming my money on the counter so hard it made the display of Fisherman’s Friends topple over and muttering evil thoughts about the Revolution and what happens when it comes.

I fumed all the way to Berlin.

I was only there two days.  That’s eight squirts, give or take a little odour paranoia. 

When I tried to return the Bastards took that can off me too.  For Crying Out Loud.

‘But I have the receipt from Heathrow’ I cried pitifully as two ex-shot putters rifled through the personal possessions they’d tipped gleefully on to the counter.

I whimpered all the way back to London bereft again of any anti-perspirant, sweating gently and rocking ever so slightly.

As I waited for my delayed train back in Blighty, I crawled into the ubiquitous chemists and bought yet another can.  From a man whose moustache looked curiously familiar.  Although it seemed this one had something to smile about.  

Coupling

‘Did you notice that couple?  Him in the trousers that are too tight and her with the Radley handbag.  Just went down the carriage.  You must have seen them before.’ And then, leaning forward conspiratorially, ‘They are Train Lovers.’
“Eh?  I’m sorry.  What?”
‘Train lovers.  They canoodle on the train.’
“Canoodle?  Surely not.  On the train?”

Imagine it!  Canoodling.  On a train.

‘Yes, they cuddle up when they get on.  They always push past everyone to get a seat together; then he sits there stroking her leg as they talk, right at the top of her thigh.’

She unconsciously demonstrates on her own leg, glazing over slightly for a moment.

‘It’s horrible.  And they kiss and cuddle.  And she is so much younger than him.  And he’s not much to look at.’

I had absolutely no idea who she was talking about.

“Are you sure they’re not together, together?”
‘Definitely.  They always arrive separately at the station and at night get picked up in different cars.’
“I see.”
‘And I saw him in Tescos.  Grocery shopping.  With another woman.  He saw me and obviously recognised me from the station and looked very sheepish.  I tutted very loudly.’