I Am He

The doorbell rang.

I'd been in a happy little world of festive goodwill, wrapping up christmas presents and bounded upstairs to answer the door. The Ex was there, with First-Born (today, you see, is a First-Born day.)

With The Ex was a woman I didn't recognise.

"This is The Boyfriend's mother," said The Ex, "She wanted to meet you. Can we come in?"

Speechless, I stood back and they both came in and peered at the bomb-site that is the living area of my home. Sunday is Ironing day, and the room looked like an explosion in a clothes shop. A nice clothes shop, I might add.

After a few awkward minutes of stilted conversation I was left alone with First-Born and not an inconsiderable amount of confusion.

So what was that all about?

I Told A Lie

I don't do lies. Those that know me know that its a flaw. I genuinely can't tell a direct lie. I stammer. I blush. I do all the body language things that scream "I AM LYING TO YOU" I can't lie.

This is a problem for me. You see, when I realised that my lying skills were so poor I gave up trying. Which has led to more than one awkward moment in that pre-going-out moment:

She: "So do you like my new outfit?"
Me: "Its certainly a new look"
She: "But do you like it?"
Me: "Its got a certain je ne sais pas about it"
She: (tersely) "A simple Yes or No will do..."
Me: ...

Me: "No"

Which, as every human male on the face of the planet knows, is always and without fail the WRONG answer.

I told a lie tonight. The trick this time is that I didn't know I was telling a lie until just now. Here's the conversation:

Concerned parent: "So you're still determined to go to Canada after christmas?"
Me: "Yes. Absolutely."
CP: "But what happens if something goes wrong? You'll be all alone out there."
Me: "Well, they speak English (I'm not going to Montreal), the health service is better than ours, and anyway - I'm meeting some people while I'm over there" (TRUE)
CP: "But what about the skiing? Think of your back..."
Me: "Ah well, I think I'll probably just enjoy the atmosphere. I'll leave the boots behind" (TRUE. At the time...)

Now, when I said that, I genuinely meant it. Then I looked at this with the sun shining over virgin snow and realised I'd told a lie the brazeness of which would make Dubya and little Tony Blair blush. Oh well.

The Binary Man

My transportation to work at the moment is that particularly masculine phenomonen - the binary car.

The binary car has two modes of movement:

Stop.
Screaming down the road with the needle bouncing off the rev limiter.

I love this. While my friend grips the steering wheel with an icy determination to destroy the engine (he resents the existance of this car since it replaced his beloved BMW) I hang onto the FuckMe handles saying "Weeeeee!" as corners are dispatched with a precision not in keeping with the humble family car origins of the vehicle.

(For those confused, FuckMe Handles are those handles placed above the door apperture on most cars these days. Their purpose is to allow a passenger to hang on, yelling "FUCK ME!!!!" (as an exclamation rather than an invitation) as the driver conducts a particularly foolhardy cornering or overtaking manoevure. I've also heard them referred to as "JesusChrist Handles", but that would be offensive to christians, while the F-word is offensive to all denominations. I'm nothing if not inclusive.)

I'm a little nervous of the binary car today. So far this morning there have been two fatalities on the country lane to my office, and some impressive crashes - lorries to the brickworks next door have dumped clay all over the tarmac thus making things a little slippery.

If there are no further posts to this journal, you'll know the reason why.

Have I Got News For You

As some may know, I'm a regular audience member in BBC recordings. I have guffawed through The News Quiz, chortled during The Now Show, giggled in I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue and declared Mark Lamarr to be a bit of an arse after Never Mind The Buzzcocks.

Last night I was in the audience for Have I Got News For You (the show is broadcast tonight - as the camera tracks back during the opening and closing credits you'll see the devilishly handsome back of my head on the left) and I recommend watching it in the hope that the clip of George Bush reacting to the news of the breakdown of the latest Anglo-Irish peace talks (today: how Ian Paisley and Gerry Adams will share power, tomorrow: how to nail blancmange to the ceiling) with the words "...gee, I gotta eat a burger" makes it into the final edit.

Although it is broadcast by the BBC, the show itself is made independantly. This results in a far less civilised experience for the audience. Usually, there is a bar in which the audience can lubricate the laughter muscles. Not here, oh no. Here, one is made to queue outside in the cold for an hour until being led into the studio and introduced to the painfully unfunny Australian warm-up act. A small plastic cup of mulled wine was the only sustenance for the next 3 hours.

The quiz itself was won by Paul Merton as usual. The true winners will, of course, be the lawyers who'll spend this morning expensively working out what can be broadcast in the 25 minute slot tonight out of the 2 hours of libel recorded last night.

Troubled Times

Last night was another First-Born night. It was a good evening. We did her math homework for the week together and wrote some christmas cards. We then ate cake on the sofa and watched Shrek before it was time for stories and bed.

I miss doing stuff like that.

So, all told, a good evening. Except...

...she said a few things that have left me troubled:

"Mummy cries all the time. Last week she cried because she'd drunk too much wine and couldn't see the road when she was driving us home. Then she cried last night because she couldn't change the light bulb in my room..." and so it went on.

The question I have to ask myself is this: how much of it is true and how much is exaggeration aimed at playing one parent off against the other? Since First-Born sees me 2 or 3 times a week, I believe that I represent a novelty while The Ex is a figure of day-to-day resentment (I gather from The Ex that everything is a battleground, from getting dressed to doing homework. Not so when she's staying with me. Apparently the last words she said to The Ex before I picked her up were "You upset me with everything you do")

Not for the first time I pondered sole custody. The legal system in England is a little stacked against the father in this regard (I understand the motives of the individuals who dress as Spiderman and scale Buckingham Palace in order to make a point, but their methods leave me somewhat incredulous) and so it needs careful thought.

And this, of course, is one of the reasons for this journal. I started it to document the divorce process, record adventures and track the actions of The Ex in the event I ever need to produce a list of dates and events. I didn't think I'd have to use it. Now I'm not so sure.

Falling Down Gently

Oh, and about the physio.

Last week's prodding with pins and needles appeared to be a success. I must admit to a certain scepticism regarding complimentary medicines - if I had a heart attack in the cinema, the last thing I'd want to hear is "Is there a herbalist in the house?" And it would probably end up being the last thing I heard - "I'm sorry, even with the essential oils we still lost the patient..."

But I digress. In spite of my scepticism, I felt pretty good in the days following treatment. So much so, that I ran for the train the night before last to ensure I could be present for the whole Brownie thing.

(note to all single parents not living with their kids - when you make a promise to a child that you'll be there for something, make sure you keep it)

This was a silly thing to do. The running, not the keeping of the promise. Yesterday morning I awoke with my leg feeling like I'd run a marathon. I fervently hoped that it was only the mile-long sprint to the station after over 2 months of inaction that was causing the pain, rather than anything more serious.

The physio poked, prodded and stuck in some more needles. She then gave me a clean bill of health.

"What about the skiing?" I asked. I have somewhat of a one-track mind.
"Oh, you'll be fine," she said, "Totally different motion. Don't do any more running though, ok?"
"Ok" (scientists have since used the period of thought it took me to agree to not running as a measurement for the smallest possible slice of time)
"One thing though - when you go skiing, don't fall down - ok?"

Ah. I think I'll keep that little nugget of advice to myself. Fortunately the physio is unaware of the unique blend of enthusiasm over talent that I use when I hit the slopes. And I'm using 'hit' in the most literal sense of the word.

The Bastard Files II

I went to see Kate The Physio last night. Twice a week I go, and twice a week she makes encouraging noises. Because I can't drive at the moment, I'm subject to the vageries of public transport and seeing the physio involves a train to the airport and then a short taxi ride.

And after what I did last night, I'm a bit concerned I'm turning into a bit of a bastard.

Let me explain.

There was a crowd of people hanging around the taxi-booking booth. Beyond it I could see that the taxi to passenger ratio was not in my favour, and a long wait in the cold was in prospect.

It was then that I saw salvation. A small item of hand luggage was resting against the wall. There was no obvious owner. I waited until an airport security guard appeared in the doorway to the taxi rank and sidled over to him.

I pointed out the unattended luggage and watched as the anti-terrorism machine swung into action. Within seconds, the immediate area (the taxi queue in front of the yellow vested guard) was cleared. Except for me. You see, I'd been standing next to the guard, and so took a swift step backwards and into a waiting taxi.

So, the question - do I commend myself for doing a public service, or do I condemn myself for some highly devious and positively un-English queue jumping?

Answers on a postcard to the usual place.