Retailing rats and the £40 lemon . . . .

Greetings from Fortypoundland........

Earlier this morning, playing shop, me and The B and The G.

It's a game that doesn't often get an airing due, in the main, to The G's fondness for scattering fake food all around the house.

There is nothing more painful than treading, barefoot, on a plastic asparagus. 

Trust me, I've done it and not just the once.
This morning, though, I retrieved all the shop things from the garage, where they'd long been in exile, determined, for once, to do a little proper playing.
The result, a good time all round, even if one or two issues did present themselves in the process.
First job, stocking the shelves, organising the food into departments (bakery, dairy, fresh produce and canned goods) and putting all items into their rightful homes.
It's The B's favourite part, this, his OCD tendencies (the cans nice and neat, labels all aligned, arranged according to size) indulged to the full.
The process did cause us one or two problems, in the main due to The G's lack of fundamental knowledge in the field of fruit and vegetables.
I might have mentioned in previous posts that The G has a certain code that governs her eating habits. The main rule, that if a food stuff has been grown on a tree or bush or in the ground, she doesn't eat it.
That in mind, getting her to stock the produce department a tall order indeed, the organic item identification challenge not an overwhelming success.
"What's this?" I asked, holding up each piece of produce in the vain hope that she might be able to name it.
Two standard answers here:
1) Tomato.
2) Egg.
Overlooking the fact that an egg is not a typical piece of greengrocery, the answer proved, much more often than not, to be wrong.
The B much better at this, although one item in particular troubled him.
"What's this?" he asked at one point, holding up something purple and foreign looking.
"It's an aubergine," I told him.
He looked most suspicious but far be it from me to hold that against him. 

I'm sure most normal people feel much the same about aubergines.
Several minutes later, I held up said aubergine and asked him to tell me what it was called.
To be fair, he remembered that it ended in 'ine', but that was about all.
"Is it a washing machine?" he asked.
Time to move on.
Other problems encountered:
1) The B's pricing policy (all items £40, not a single exception). I suggested that £40 might perhaps be a little steep for a lemon. He took the advice on board, even if he did go too far the other way, from that point on everything in the shop costing 1p (in effect the shift from Waitrose prices to Lidl).
2) The G misheard me when I asked her to pass me a can of dog food. I tried to explain to her that dog poo doesn't come in tins and that even if it did, no-one would buy it, but it proved pointless. The dog poo stuck, if you'll pardon the expression.
3) The rat (pictured below). Found lurking amongst the fruit, a remnant from Halloween. I thought its presence was indicative of below-standard health and hygiene practices. The mistake all mine, it turns out that the rat was for sale (a steal at £40, or so the shopkeeper (The B) assured me).

I've been thinking for some time that, with my days as a stay-at-home dad numbered, it'd be nice to start a business of some description.
On this evidence, perhaps retail isn't the best option.

She who cheats, wins . . . . . . .

Horizontal moves are for losers......

The G has developed one or two rather bad habits in recent times.
In the main, these tend to be wind-based, although enthusiastic nail biting and a little light nose picking are also causing concern.
That said, the habit that I'm most keen to crack down upon is her growing fondness for cheating.
You see, there isn't a game in the house that The G hasn't learned to manipulate using one illicit method or another.
The G loves a good game, although it's clear that rules and regulations are not for her.
Her top three pursuits (and the illegal means employed to ensure that she always wins) are as follows:
1) Snakes and Ladders: Forsaking the conventional course to the final square, The G refuses to make horizontal moves, her counter instead taking a more-direct vertical route.
2) Honey Bee Tree (think Kerplunk, just with bees instead of marbles): The rules might stipulate that each player should remove one stick at a time, but The G doesn't consider it a proper turn unless she has taken a good handful (at least three, but on occasion, up to five).
3) King of the Castle (a simple board game, roll the dice, move the piece, the first one to reach the middle is the winner): Each player must spin the arrow, prior to their turn. Should it come to rest pointing at a castle, proceed. Should it come to a rest pointing at a snail, miss a turn. On the occasions that she spins a snail, The G either declares 'Castle!' and continues as though no-one has noticed or, as though it is her right to do so, she just has another spin.
Such crooked methods guarantee that The G always comes out on top and, to The B's growing chagrin, she does like to announce the result come the conclusion.
"I won!" she always bellows.
It's said that cheats don't prosper.
The G is proving otherwise.

Decapitating cats, cardboard and croquet . . . . . . .

Hammer Time: The G is armed and dangerous....

The @homedad Guide to Stressful Situations* suggests that, as a general rule, it is best to keep small children and hammers apart.
Nowhere in the edition that I have does it mention mallets.
It's perhaps for the best given our latest pursuit.
You see, here at @homedad Towers, we have, in recent days, taken up a little light croquet.
You might think that November is an unusual time to embark on such a pursuit, but I do like to think that I'm a little bit renegade. Heck, I'm a stay-at-home dad after all.
It came last week, our rather spiffing croquet set, arriving from Garden Games Ltd, a red-faced van driver delivering all the components - mallets, balls, hoops, the lot - right to our front door.
"Wow!" said The G, taking the chance to put her favourite word to the test. That was just the reaction to the oversized cardboard box that it came in.
The carton's contents, even more impressive: Four wooden mallets, painted red, blue, yellow and black, four wooden balls in the same colours, six steel hoops and a winning post, all packaged up nice and neat in a zip-fastening canvas bag.
Sadly, it was raining, the unpredictable conditions proving a definite downside to starting a croquet campaign in late November.
Not to fear, for the cardboard box saved the day, The B delighted to discover he could fit The G inside and close the flaps, The G a little less thrilled at such a finding.
The weekend a little drier, into the garden at last, The B taking charge of organising the pitch, The G coming close to decapitating poor Cat Two, the sight of his nemesis brandishing a bright red wooden mallet doing nothing for his stress levels.

It was worth the wait, an enjoyable encounter, the action intense and the competition, well, competitive, although it must be said that, like all the best sporting occasions, the main protagonists paid little regard to the rules and regulations.
No matter, it seems croquet is here to stay, The B&G both relishing the next fixture.
Two observations that did occur to me during the match:
1) The B in particular, given a little practice, could become rather good at croquet.
2) I ought to cut the lawn.

This is a review of the Lawn Croquet Set by Garden Games Ltd. I have not been paid for this review. For details of the @homedad Review Guidelines or to learn more about submitting a product for review, please click here.
* Not available from all good bookshops.

Silent Sunday 27.11.11

Carriages, cabs and terrifying a train driver . . . .

The B Express: all aboard............

Yesterday, me and The B, off to the station to indulge in a little light train spotting.
Our morning can be considered a success, for it had all the hallmarks: countless carriages, two different freight trains, snacks from Greggs, the lot.
The highlight, however, courtesy of the kind-hearted driver of the 10.45am to Reading.
Noticing us peering into his cab as he made his final preparations, he invited us in, and even allowed The B to sit in his special train-driving chair.
So far, so good, a little conversation about life as a train driver, admiring all the buttons and levers, spinning on the swivel chair, all rather convivial.
Then, without warning, The B, unable to resist any longer, lurched forwards towards the dashboard and made a grab for the controls.
The driver turned white. Time for a sharp exit.
Later on, The W back from work, The B enjoyed telling her all about his memorable morning.
"He says that the train was taking all the passengers to a wedding," The W said as The B&G sat down at the table and began to tuck into their tea.
Hearing this, The B, sighed, his exasperation obvious.
"Not a wedding," he said, rolling his eyes. "Reading."

Fiction Fridays #3: Monkey Do!

FF#3

Monkey Do!: Allan Ahlberg, Andre Amstutz (1998).

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From cuddles to kicking: an alternative embrace . . .

Full-time parenting: More cuppas than cuddles.....

Numerous benefits involved in being the full-time stay-at-home parent.
One such advantage: additional affection from appreciative offspring.
That's the theory, at least.
The reality, a little different.
Take this exchange from a little earlier this morning, for instance.
Me (to The B): "Come and give me a cuddle."
The B: "Just a quick one then."
Enforced embrace two seconds old.
The B: "Can I go now?"
The G often more reliable in such situations, I switch focus.
Me (to The G): "Come and give me a cuddle."
The G: "No."
Several unremarkable moments pass.
The B: "I'll give you a foot cuddle if you like."
This doesn't sound so bad so I agree.
I realise that we have different ideas as to what constitutes a cuddle as The B begins to put the boot in as I lie helpless on the floor.
The kicking over, I get up, abandon the cuddle quest and, instead, go to load the breakfast things into the dishwasher.
Like I said, numerous benefits involved in being the full-time stay-at-home parent.

The hare, the tortoise and the out-of-order ears . . .

The B's ears: Just not working.......

I'm starting to think that I might have to take The B to hospital.
It's his ears.
I'm afraid that they're no longer in an operational state.
Not all the time, just on certain occasions.
Occasions such as all the times that I need to communicate.
Should ever I speak to him, ears out-of-order.
Everything else - The Octonauts, his favourite BeeGees CD, the sound of a Haribo packet rustling at 100 paces - he can hear just fine.
There is, of course, nothing deficient in physical terms, for this is just a typical symptom of the ailment that I like to call The Frustrating Fours.
If anything, this makes his hearing loss even more annoying.
Two main problems here:
1) I seem to be spending several hours, morning and afternoon, repeating myself.
2) The B never has the slightest idea as to what's going on, where we're going, what he should be doing and so on and so forth.
Last night, during our pre-bed story, matters almost came to a head.
The book, Michael Morpurgo's superb retelling of Aesop's Fables, the chosen tale The Hare and the Tortoise.
I had a good idea that The B had lost focus when, right at the point at which the hare settles down at the roadside for an ill-advised nap, he interrupted the narrative to enquire, "Where's my Lightning McQueen magazine?"
I thought I'd test him so, at the end, just before I tucked him in for the night, I posed one or two simple questions.
Me: "Can you tell me what the story was about?"
The B: "Erm....a rabbit?"
Me: "And?"
The B (after thinking hard, he pointed to a picture of the tortoise): "That one?"
Me: "Tell me what they were doing in the story."
The B: "Having a race."
Me (encouraged for a moment): "And who won the race?"
This seemed to stump him.
Me: "Was it the hare or was it the tortoise?"
The B: "The hare?"
Case closed.

Cats, bottoms and the anatomical basics . . . . . .

Cat One: has a bottom.....

Following the unfortunate Tailgate affair, I thought it might be time to give The G a lesson in some anatomical basics.
The time, this morning. The place, the kitchen. The method, comparing and identifying certain parts.
Please understand, I don't mean mine. That'd just be wrong.
No, for this particular assignment, I enlisted, as an assistant, a cat.
Not Cat Two, this kind of task much too stressful for his delicate disposition, this a job reserved for the more-robust Cat One.
Cat One is The G's favourite so I had her attention from the off.
Cat One, not so keen, so I had to make it quick.
The idea, in a nutshell: The G first identifying Cat One's main features and then pointing to her own.
The start promising, it soon began to deteriorate.
I first asked The G to point out Cat One's ears and then her own, the eyes, nose and mouth all following.
So far, so good but then The G noticed Cat One's thick tail.
"Tail," announced The G, proud as punch.
"Have you got a tail?" I asked the G.
She stopped and thought about it for a moment.
"I've got a bottom," she said.
I tried to explain that Cat One also has a bottom, just that it tends to remain hidden beneath her tail.
This, however, didn't quite get through.
It turns out I'd lost The G at the B-word and, delighted, she spent the next 20 minutes trotting around the house squealing 'bottom' at the top of her voice.

Does Peppa Pig have a willy? Ohhhhh Yessssss!!!!!!

Peppa and George.......

One afternoon, during The G's recent Gruffalo phase, she demanded that I use the kitchen chalkboard to sketch her favourite characters from Julia Donaldson's bestselling book.

I put up a fight, fearing that the result might prove a little embarrassing. 

In the end, the combination of The G's persuasive powers and some hitherto-unknown chalking skills ensured a rather-pleasing end product.

The main protagonists, all there: Gruffalo, Mouse, Fox, Snake and Owl, some better than others, it's true, but all depicted to an acceptable standard.
For several weeks afterwards I became a chalkboard bore, basking in the glory, requiring all visitors (family, friends, the man who came to fix the TV aerial, the lot) to cast an appraising eye over said masterpiece and not allowing them to leave until positive comments had been passed.
During that time, all was well with the world.
Then one dark night that still isn't talked about here, The W cleaned the chalkboard and I found myself facing the greatest challenge yet of my fledgling chalking career.
Tasked with improving on perfection, there was just one choice.
Not for the first time as a parent, I staked everything I had on Peppa Pig.
Yet again, the end result remarkable: Peppa, George, the familiar logo, nailed one and all.
The G approved, although a little earlier this week, I caught her looking at Peppa, a confused expression forming on her face.
I enquired as to the issue and, in response, she pointed up at Peppa's curly tail.
"Peppa's a girl," she said, and then thought it through for a moment.
That done, The G pointed again at the tail, the source of the trouble.
"But what's the problem?" I asked.
"Daddy, Peppa's got a willy," she squealed and ran off chortling to the playroom.

Peppa and Willy......?

Still on The G theme, some odds and ends and observations (as promised here last week for all fans of The G and her antics).

1) I have a new toothbrush. It's pink.
Just to be clear on this issue, I didn't choose a pink one but a pink one was all that I could find in the bathroom cabinet last week when my somewhat manlier blue toothbrush began to malt bristles mid-ablution.
That said, it doesn't offend me. I don't mind that it's pink, unlike The G.
The fact that I have a pink toothbrush troubles her deeply, for she believes that when it comes to colours, she has exclusive rights on this one.
The reckoning here: 1) If it's pink, it must be hers. 2) If it's not hers (and more often than not it is), it must be The W's.
Bearing that in mind, ever since I debuted the controversial toothbrush, The G has been on the warpath, admonishing me whenever she catches me using it.
"Mummy's toothbrush!" she scolds and wags her finger.
Sometimes she takes it from me and refuses to give it back.
It has got so bad that I've had to start sneaking off and brushing my teeth in secret.

2) Something The G has inherited from me: Biting her nails.

3) Something The G has inherited from The W: Telling me to stop biting my nails.

4) Something I'd like The G to stop doing: Goose Stepping.
5) The G has, in recent days, revealed a hidden talent for impersonations.
Granted, her repertoire is a little limited at the present time, consisting, as it does, of a single impression. But it's a good one, and everyone has to start somewhere.
The impersonation in question: Churchill, the nodding dog from the insurance adverts.

It's an inadvertent impersonation, it's true, because The G doesn't have a favourite insurer and, in actual fact, has no clue as to Churchill's existence.

But it's uncanny, ask her a question that requires a positive response on a subject that she feels enthusiastic about (crisps, Peppa Pig, the colour pink, that kind of thing), and, nodding and all, her answer is always the same: "Ohhhhh Yessssss!"

Silent Sunday 20.11.11

Children in Need (of their normal clothes) . . . .

Fact: Pyjamas are for bed.....

I have a confession to make.
I've never been into the whole Children in Need thing.
It might not be the best time to be saying this, but there it is.
Don't get me wrong, Children in Need raises some huge sums for some great causes, and, as such, is a phenomenal force for good.
I just can't get into all the hoopla that accompanies it.
It might just be me, but I'm always going to struggle with anything that gives the BBC an excuse to bring Lenny Henry out of storage, even if it is for just one night.
It's not just me, of course, as I discovered this morning.
You see, all the evidence suggests that The B is also a Children in Need cynic.
To mark this year's event, The B's nursery, as per usual, asked all the children to dress in their pyjamas for today's session.
I'm informed that most greeted this news with great excitement.
The B, however, was having none of it.
I've spent all week encouraging him, honest I have, but it has been to no avail.
One final attempt just prior to leaving this morning.
"I'm not wearing pyjamas to nursery," he said with obvious disdain. "That'd be weird. I'd just like to wear my normal clothes. Pyjamas are for bed."
The final fact difficult to dispute, I took him in his normal clothes, as ordered.
Upon arrival, it soon became clear that everyone else, children and staff alike, had taken up the challenge and dressed in their bed-wear.
Did The B feel left out?
Not a bit.
On the contrary, as he looked around at his pyjama-clad peers, a satisfied expression formed on his face.
"That's just weird," he said as he surveyed all his friends, feeling a little on the superior side.
I admit, I found it hard to disagree.
* Just to prove that I'm not a total killjoy, I can report that I have made a donation. The official Children in Need website can be found here.

Fiction Fridays #2: I Love You, Blue Kangaroo . . . .

#FF2

I Love You, Blue Kangaroo: Emma Chichester Clark (2009).

Read more about Fiction Fridays here.

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Soufflé, spikes & spelling: Poo, poopy, poop . . . .

Hair today, gone tomorrow......

The B's growth rate has increased in dramatic fashion.
In the last seven days, he has added at least an additional inch.
Impressed?
Don't be: It's all down to hair gel.
Yes, I'm afraid that at a little over four, The B has discovered personal grooming.
The spikes add around two-and-a-half centimetres and, perhaps more alarming, about 10 years.
Growing up fast, here.
Next stop: Tattoos.
Still on The B theme, some odds and ends and observations (and please, for those preferring The G, don't panic, I'll do the same for her in due course).
1) The B is working hard at his spelling in preparation for starting school next September.
In addition to his name, he has also mastered the words pop, top, stop and mop (he likes the letters o and p, it's true).
In recent days, further additions to his repertoire, ones he is rather proud of.
Consider the following images:

These are, of course, from top to bottom, poo, poop and poopy.
Never let it be said that I'm not teaching him the important things in life.
2) Back to the hair, because these days, he's checking it out all the time, always searching for the next available reflection to ensure it's still sticking up.
It's clear that he thinks about his hair quite a lot too.
Yesterday, I caught him looking at me, deep in thought, running his fingers through said spikes.
"Daddy?" he said after quick contemplation, "when I'm grown up, will all my hair go too?"
Nice touch, that.
3) Strange tastes The B has these days.
Yesterday, for lunch, he requested a melon sandwich.
Needless to say, I declined.
Eating his cheese-on-toast a little later, he stopped and looked at it in disdain for a moment.
"I eat seaweed for lunch at nursery," he said.
It can be arranged.
4) Still on the food theme, an unusual request the other morning.
"Daddy?" he said in the special tone he reserves for the strangest questions, "can we make a soufflé this afternoon?"
Never made one in my life, not about to start now.
5) Developed another obsession, this one the result of several hours spent watching Octonauts.
It's one that means he refuses to exit the bath until all the water has gone, The B fascinated with watching at close quarters as it disappears down the plughole.
The specific obsession is whirlpools. Or as he calls them, wormpools.

@SAHDandproud and an offer I couldn't refuse . . . .

That Don Corleone and me.
Like two peas in a pod, we are.
You might not think it to look at us but on the parenting front, at least, we're singing from the same sheet.
Take the following line, for example: "...a man who doesn't spend time with his children can never be a real man."
There's no question that I don't put the hours in.
For me, Marlon Brando doesn't feature enough on parenting blogs.
Until now, that is.
You might have noticed that I'm sporting a rather spiffing badge featuring Mario Puzo's gregarious Godfather.
It's because, I'm pleased to report, I've been named @SAHDandproud's Don of the Week.
If you've never looked in on @SAHDandproud, click here.
You'll not regret it because, as blogs go, it's a blinder, a regular read here at @homedad HQ, and it's an honour to receive such an award from such a fine fella.
The Don award is, I'm told, in recognition of Fiction Fridays, the first meme to emanate from this here blog.
Fiction Fridays proved popular on its first ever outing last week, and I've had messages from several bloggers keen to join in this time around.
If you missed Fiction Fridays, click here to learn more.
The rules, guidelines and official #FF badge can be found here. The first Fiction Fridays post - #FF1 - is here.
I'm pleased to report that @SAHDandproud didn't miss the inaugural #FF and it's no surprise that his choice ranked amongst the @homedad favourites. You can find it here.
Other fabulous Fiction Friday included these from @stressymummy, @mummy_cool, @musodad and @childledchaos.
Thanks to everyone for taking part, I hope you'll join in again this week, and thanks again to @SAHDandproud, whose badge I'm wearing with pride.

The G, The B and The Bookstart bombardment

Something to treasure: Bookstart at its best....

In the days before Facebook, what did people do at libraries?
I ask the question because, whenever we visit ours, it always strikes me as strange the fact that no-one else there appears to have the slightest interest in borrowing books.
It's not as though it's not busy, far from it, in fact.
It's just that, us apart, everyone there is concentrated in the small area around the computers, each one awaiting a chance to access their accounts and update their Facebook 'friends' as to their most up-to-date movements (OMG!!!! I'm in the library, LOL :))) !!!!!! LMAO xxxx, that kind of thing).
Don't mistake me, I'm not complaining.
If nothing else, it means that there are far more books for us to choose from.
It's a good thing because, unless our haul is in double figures, The B&G are just not satisfied.
It'd be nice, just for once, to be allowed to leave with just our books and not be press-ganged into taking home the latest ream from Bookstart.
I'm not against Bookstart - far from it, in fact - because anything that encourages children to read more is to be applauded.
It's the continual bombardment that I find a little tiresome, the fact that, each time I take The B&G to the local library, there's another project for us to bring home, one that, as a rule, involves little more than borrowing a book and receiving a sticker as a reward.
Given that The B&G take out at least five books apiece on each visit, it's not as though stickers are required, nor the accompanying literature urging us to read more.
One such scheme offered junior readers one sticker for each book borrowed during the school summer holidays, challenging children to take out six books during the seven-week break. The fact that The B&G carried home more than that from the same single visit suggests that perhaps, just perhaps, we're not the target market.
The real bugbear is that on the occasions that we've put all objections aside and tried to take part, from one librarian to the next, no-one involved in the process seems to understand it enough to make it worthwhile.
The latest scheme meant The B&G got a 'passport' to take home, the idea being that each time a book is borrowed, a sticker designed to look like a visa stamp is issued.
In theory, great. In practice, we take it with us on our next visit and that day's librarian has never seen the 'passport' before, has no idea what to do with it and looks at me as though I've spent the morning making it at home as some kind of cunning ruse designed to extract undeserved rewards from the unwitting.
"I think you're supposed to give us a sticker to put in it," I suggest, cue much rooting through drawers, checking in the back, calling colleagues in other libraries on the telephone, all to no avail.
Two possible outcomes here:
1) The stickers can't be found, making the entire process pointless and leaving The B&G disappointed.
2) The stickers are located after much searching, moving us one step closer to the ultimate reward.
The ultimate reward is a certificate.
It looks as though it has been designed on a ZX81.
If we're lucky, the librarian might scrawl The B&G's names on in a black marker pen.
If we're really lucky, the handwriting might almost be legible.
I've long felt that the issue here lies with the libraries rather than with Bookstart per se, a suspicion that appears to have been borne out in recent days.
You see, another week, another Bookstart initiative, the difference being that this is one that has captured the imagination.
There's more to this one than a glorified reward chart and, perhaps most tellingly, this is one that has come not from the library, but from The B&G's nursery.
It is packaged as a rather attractive pirate's treasure chest, the contents including, amongst other things, two books, crayons and a drawing pad.
One book, We're going on a bear hunt, is known to us already, the other, You choose, was not a familiar title.

It is the latter that has proved more popular than anything else emanating from Bookstart, the basic concept being that each page contains different categories (where you'd like to live, what clothes you'd like to wear, what food you'd like to eat and so on) and the children use the striking illustrations to build their own, personalised tale.
The things I've learned from this book include the following:
1) The G would like to live in the jungle.
2) The B's favourite food is a pig's head, as long as (and it's an important condition, this) it has an apple stuffed into its gaping mouth.
3) The G is keen to learn bungee jumping.
4) The B is not.
5) The Bookstart initiative is important, it just needs to be administered a little better.

Furthermore, I've discovered (from The B) that I shouldn't acquire the following headgear, the hats in question being:

1) Too yellow.

2) Too Scottish.

I've also learnt that The G has her future career all planned out.
You see, when she grows up, The G would like to be . . . .

 . . The Queen.

Knowing her as I do, I'm not surprised.

Silent Sunday 13.11.11

Ice Hockey™, SAHD-style: it's a far superior sport

No rink required.......

Earlier this afternoon, I invented a new sport.

I've decided to call it ice hockey™.

I know what you're thinking: That ice hockey™ exists already, and that someone has beaten me to it. 

The thing is, I'm aware of that particular pastime. 

I just choose not to recognise it.

You see, ice hockey™, the one that I invented a little earlier, that is, is a far superior sport, one that can be played anywhere, by anyone (anyone owning a freezer, that is).

The other one - the one that I refuse to recognise - requires an ice rink and, here at @homedad HQ, that's something I've still to get around to installing.

But ice hockey™, the one that I'm planning to patent at the earliest opportunity, can be a much more impromptu event, one that can be played sans rink. 

I can't take all the credit, though, because I did have a little help.

It was The B's idea to spend the morning making ice, a pursuit that, for inexplicable reasons, he has been nagging me to indulge him in for several days.

The G helped, selecting a suitable receptacle from the Tupperware drawer, pouring in the water and holding open the freezer door for us.

That was first thing this morning, precipitating several hours of relentless nagging, The B on countless occasions imploring me to check to see if the ice is ready. 

I admit that, at that stage, I didn't have a plan for the end product.

It wasn't until we removed it from the freezer, the ice set solid in its small, round plastic container that it struck me that, unwittingly, we'd made a hockey puck. 

From ice. Quite literally, an ice hockey puck, and a sport had been born.

It strikes me as strange that no-one has thought of this before. 

Exchange the ice rink for an ice puck and there it is, an all-singing, all-dancing DIY at-home ice hockey™ kit. Well, almost.

The final step, the piece de resistance: Rooting around in the garage, I retrieved two oversized plastic clubs from The B&G's garden golf game, then outside, onto the deck, for ice hockey's™ inaugural contest.

To be honest, deciphering the rules proved a little difficult, the participants (The B&G) came to blows at one stage and no-one watching had the foggiest as to what was going on.

In that regard, ice hockey™ has a lot in common with that other event that we don't like to talk about, but our sport is, without question, the best.

Fiction Fridays #1: Guess how much I love you . . .

FF#1
Guess how much I love you: Sam McBratney, Anita Jeram (1994).

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