Hymn

French-style Yoghurt

“What did you do today, Sweetheart?”
‘Walk’
“Ah, you went for a lovely walk, did you?”
‘Yes.  Walk.  Miss Rosie’

Ah, Miss Rosie, the nanny who wants to look after her at weekends too.  Hmmm.

“A lovely walk with Miss Rosie? That’s smashing.  What else did you do?”
‘Paint.  Horses.’
“And you painted some horses?  That’s lovely.  What sound do horses make?”
‘Clip clop.’

S always says she paints.  And it’s always horses.  And who am I to argue?

“Brilliant!  Clever girl.”
‘Yoghurt.’
“Yoghurt?  Yoghurt, Sweetheart?”
‘Yoghurt.’
“You had some yoghurt for dinner?”
‘No.  Yoghurt.’ She said with extra emphasis.
“I don’t understand, Love.”  I explained, betraying my roots.  “Do you want some yoghurt?”
‘Yoghurt. Arms.’
“Eh?” 

She stretched her arms.

Not for the first time, I was nonplussed.  I looked to the gaggle of nursery nurses congregated to say goodbye.

‘Yoga.’
“I’m sorry.  What?”
‘Yoga.  Now that she’s in the Pink Room, she’ll be doing yoga.’
“Yoga.  Of course.  Why, she’s just turned two.  Yoga.  I’m surprised you’ve waited so long.”

They looked at me.  In that particular way.

S stretched again enthusiastically.

‘Fren.’  She said.

‘Yes, French tomorrow.  With Miss Sophia.’ Said Miss Rosie.

“French?!”  I spluttered. 

I am not cool.  I am not cultured.  I can barely speak English.  I do not bend.  My daughter will soon be conjugating Gallic verbs whilst maintaining the Lotus position. 

I am a stiff oaf. 

And the nannies didn’t argue.

Nailed It

So, my first skydiving competition.  Now don't misunderstand me.  I'm not competing because I've achieved any kind of excellence; I haven't reached some level of skill that means I can challenge the experts.  No, in the parlance of the Scrambles - I am the Baldrick.  The lowest of the low.

Every team of four has a Baldrick to spoil the skill of more qualified and experienced jumpers.  It gives us worms the chance to improve and have a bit of fun while trying to create set formations as we fall.

After four rounds, my team had failed to score a single point; failed to make a single formation; failed even to hold on to each other as we left the plane.  Not for wanting of trying mind you, rather for want of a bit of luck and a smidgeon of ability.  I had however managed to rip a nail on the last fruitless jump as the guy I was clinging to whipped away from me at 120 miles an hour.

We waited for the final round rather suspecting that our big fat zero might consign us to last place. 

We licked our wounds. 

I sucked my bleeding finger. 

A teammate's girlfriend offered me a pair of nail clippers to prevent my ripped nail from catching or tearing any more.  I accepted it gratefully.

After a moment or two, I noticed a treacly silence. 

I raised my head to see virtually the entire gathering looking at me.  Dumbfounded. 

Imagine, if you will, forty or so purveyors of one of the most ludicrous extreme sports in existence.  Consisting largely of grown-up surfer dudes or ex-Military Special Forces, almost everyone sports various tattoos and/or piercings.  They know no fear.  They are dangerously cool.

They were watching me file my nails.

They didn't look impressed.  I wondered if I might be lynched.  I considered explaining.  I considered fleeing for my life.

I wondered again why I didn't really seem to have any friends at the club.

Fit and Well

I've got to admit, it's not been the nicest Sunday I can remember.  And I don't think it's one I'll easily forget.

I thought my beautiful little S was dying.

We went out for a walk this afternoon.  Not long after S woke from her customary nap.  And after she'd had her 4 o'clock milk.  We set out for the park.

We'd just left our close.  We were saying the colours of the pretty flowers.  We were holding hands.  When she just stopped.  Literally stopped.  Almost dead in her tracks. 

At first I thought her two-day constipation was over.  She tends to stop like that when she's got to go.

But her eyes glazed over.  She didn't respond as I knelt beside her.  She crumpled.  I caught her as she fell.  She was limp and lifeless.  My little girl.  My little girl.

I picked up her tiny body and turned for home.  My head was spinning.  I kept telling her that Daddy was here, that she'd be all right, Daddy was here.  T phoned 999, struggling to remember where we live.

S lolled in my arms.  It took a lifetime of moments to walk the fifty yards home.  I clung to her.  I kept talking. 

An ambulance was coming. 

T was banging on the neighbours door, howling with panic.

I laid my little girl down.  She was grey.  Her lips were blue.  Her unseeing eyes wide open.  My God, I was losing her.  I couldn't believe what was happening: a couple of minutes ago we were laughing together.  Now I was watching her die. 

I kept talking, whispering to her, my lips brushing her cheek.  Can you hear me, Scarlett?  Daddy's here.  It's going to be all right.  Can you hear me? 

In the background I could hear T crying and the neighbours' confusion and the scream of a siren.

I couldn't understand.  She'd been fine.  Giggling, talking, playing.  Then this.  Nothing had happened but now this.  She wasn't choking.  She was breathing although it was so shallow, almost not there at all.  She almost wasn't there at all. 

She was hot, though.  I took off her little flowery dress.  As I did she sighed.   Then she spat out what looked like simple water.  She started breathing more deeply.  A hint of colour returned to her face. 

A doctor materialised by our side.  Her immediate assessment was that S was over the worst.  That it had been some sort of fit.  A convulsion.  That her body had simply shut down temporarily to deal with a fever.  That it was quite common.  That she would be all right.  We climbed into the ambulance, S in my arms still, and still glazed and still but with colour and breathing returning to normal.

All the time, I kept talking.  And even though the doctor reassured me, still a terrible dread held me.  Why was S not responding?  Why did she keep grabbing at her leg like that, over and over again?  Why didn't she seem to see me?  Had it been longer than it seemed?  Had I done something wrong?  Had something terrible happened?  Had our little girl been damaged?

I called some friends to pray.  I choked trying to explain.  I bit my lip lest S should hear my fear.  Saying it out loud somehow made it real. 

I returned to my quiet daughter.

'We're going to the hospital.  Where you were born.  We haven't been here for a while.  Where the doctors will help you feel better.  Look Scarlett, can you see the lights?   Can you see the cars on the road?  See if you can count then with me.  One...two...three...four...  What colour is that car?  Is it red?  Is it red, Scarlett?  Like the flowers?  Do you remember the flowers, Scarlett?  Don't worry, it will be all right.  Mummy and Daddy are here.  Oh, look, Scarlett!  Can you see the cows?'

"Yes" she whispered.

'Good girl' I managed as tears broke from my eyes, 'Good girl.'

It was a febrile convulsion, apparently. She has a virus.  It had raised her temperature.  The hot weather had just been too much.  Her body simply 'reset' itself.  No long term harm done.  As many as one in thirty kids suffer from it.  And in almost every case, it only happens once. 

Even once feels too much to me.

Old Fashioned Manners

I feel bad.  But not that bad.  That makes me feel badder.  I told someone off.  An old lady.  In a shop.  I don't think we should tell old people off.  It just feels wrong.  Even if we're right. 

She ignored the queue, you see.  And us patient queuers.  She simply pushed, ever so politely mind, with feeble little Excuse Me's, to the front.

"Can I just drop this off?"  She asked without asking and depositing the container on the counter.  "I'll pick it up later."

The assistant had to stop serving his current customer. 

'I'll have to take some details'

"Oh really?" She queried with feigned innocence as though he should know who she was and know all about her deposit immediately.

It took five minutes to take her details with various clarifications and corrections.  It was more than enough time for me to become quite cross.  I had a train to catch.  I had waited my turn. 

'How terribly rude.'  I said as she turned to leave.

"Oh dear" she said, "Have I done something wrong?" As though the rules of common courtesy become redundant after the age of fifty.

'You pushed in.' I pointed out.  'There's a queue here.'  I meant me.

"I've been looking after a hundred year old lady for eighteen hours a day for last three months" she offered in way of explanation.  The other customers who had suddenly materialised around us, nodded as though they understood.

'I'm sorry to hear that, I really am, but it's no excuse for being rude.  Look,' I said gesturing towards the other customers, 'I don't see why you couldn't just wait patiently like the rest of us.  This is England, you know.'

She'd already gone.  Only the reproachful looks of the other shoppers remained.  And the occasional 'tut.'

Crushed

Closing a door is not usually a traumatic experience.  Unless we're talking metaphorically.  But I'm not.  I actually did close a door.  And it crunched.  It's not a sound I normally associate with a door.  Slow speed car crashes, yes.  Walnuts in a nut cracker, yes.  Closing a door.  No.  Not Normally.

I reopened the door.  I still had all my fingers.  The raw eggs I carry in my waistcoat pocket were all still intact.  In fact, as far as I could see, there was noting wrong at all.

I closed the door again.  More crunching.  I looked around expecting to see the famous Peruvian Novelty Act, El Crisp Crunchers, starting a new performance behind me.  The street, though, was empty.

I looked around the door frame.  Nothing.  However, when I bent down, I saw something was dangling. 

Now, I'm a sensible chap.  Not known for rash behaviour or foolishness.  Some say I am a paragon of mild manners (if one ignores those few misdemeanours catalogued in volumes one to twenty six of "Mistakes I Have Made" by CR). Uncharacteristically, I acted without thinking.  I haven't done that since I was last confronted by a traffic warden in suspenders. 

I wiped the dangling thing with my finger.  It was wet and slimy and there was more to it than I'd imagined.  There were fragments of shell.  There was a grey gloopy substance with the remains of a crude sucker-based propulsion system. It was a freshly crushed snail.  And it was hanging from my finger.

I'm not a big snail lover.  Contrary to those scurrilous accusations.  Nor do I hold any particular grudge against them.  But having the mutilated remnants of this mollusc stuck to my finger must count as one of my most unpleasant experiences.  So fat today at least.