Christmas presents and poorliness . . .

It didn't quite go according to plan . . .
Christmas, that is. You see, The G's return to health proved to be rather shortlived.
Having rallied on Christmas Eve, she just about managed to tear open her presents before her symptoms returned. She has spent much of the time since then hot and groaning.
Christmas cheer and Calpol have eased her suffering a little, but even their remarkable powers are limited. That Dr Z has also been struggling hasn't helped. Not that it has been a complete disaster . . .
The B seems to have had fun - despite everyone else's ailments - and the bikes have proved popular. Yesterday, The G having decided to take herself to bed for the afternoon, The B and I took a long ride together along the sea front. Having eaten more than expected - I didn't like to see The G's share of the festive food go to waste - I needed the exercise.
There are signs this morning that improvements are being made and that people are starting to feel a little better at long last. I hope that this time it's a genuine recovery, as it's still not too late to salvage something from this Christmas . . .

The best Christmas ever . . .

The G is feeling much better . . .

Thirteen hours sleep, Calpol in copious quantities and the first 45 minutes of Disney's Once upon a Christmas on DVD: just the job for those suffering from a festive fever.

She hasn't eaten much and, just before bedtime, she informed me that she isn't planning to partake in Christmas lunch tomorrow . . . 

Back to her old self, then.

Illness on the wane, Christmas Eve has been fun. Earlier this afternoon, for instance, I took The B to church.

This isn't because religion has been discovered here, you understand, rather that he has developed a penchant for carols in recent times and had expressed an interest in attending a special service for children. Given that the priest doled out chocolates at the end, I think it's fair to assume that this could become an annual event.

Other than that, we've enjoyed The Snowman on TV, used NORAD's Santa Tracker to watch Father Christmas delivering presents to homes across Bangalore and even managed an after-dark outing (to inspect the lights and trees in the adjoining streets) in The B's Radio Flyer wagon.

Just before bedtime (after reading The Night before Christmas), The B proclaimed this to be 'the best Christmas ever'; that we haven't even got to the presents yet is boding rather well for the morning . . .

Tinsel and tissues - festive fever strikes . . .

Christmas fever here . . .

In more ways than one, The G's temperature having risen to lava-like levels over the last 24 hours or so. 

That illness has struck is inevitable, a bug having brought down several members of The B's class at school in recent days. Coughing and spluttering, he hasn't been 100 percent himself, although his symptoms do seem to be receding.
Dr Z is struggling, but The G is bearing the brunt right now, her soaring temperature - a little like the excitement levels that have marked the festive build-up - off the scale.

The timing could be better, although such things - coughs and colds and their associated symptoms - tend to be shortlived, and presents can have remarkable restorative powers.

Two sleeps still to go until the big day, I'm confident that, come Christmas morning, everyone is going to be fighting fit . . .

Icing sugar, sherry and Peter Pan in panto . . .

The Christmas theme continues . . .

Earlier this afternoon, Dr Z took The B to the theatre to see his first proper pantomime.

That the production (Peter Pan) lasted two-and-a-half hours (including a 30-minute interval) vindicated the decision to leave The G (ants in pants) behind. 

Not home alone, you understand. I stayed here too . . .

In their absence, we wrapped some presents and wrote in cards, sampled a little festive fare (televisual and cocoa-based) and even found the time to make a chocolate log.

The G, as I've discovered in recent times, has got a huge appetite for both icing sugar - uncut, in its purest form - and the buttercream topping used to make up the log's outermost layer. 

So The B got to go to a pantomime? I didn't hear too much complaining as she licked the leftovers from the mixing bowl, the kitchen side and, until I stopped her, the floor.

Licking icing sugar from the kitchen floor aside, such things are allowed at Christmas, because it's a time for treats. Right now, I'm enjoying a sweet sherry. It doesn't get a great deal more festive than that . . .

End of term, Tio and time that flies . . .

It's true . . .

That time flies, that is. 

That The B has been having fun at school in recent weeks is beyond question. That his first full term is over (to all intents and purposes, at least) borders on the frightening.

It doesn't seem all that long ago that Dr Z, The G and I delivered him to the classroom door for the first time. It doesn't seem possible that tomorrow's school run is going be the last in 2012.

Christmas is almost upon us, though - a fact that The B underlined a little earlier this evening as he emptied his bulging school bag . . .

From inside, he removed innumerable items that he had crafted in the classroom, each one sharing the same seasonal theme: a snowman, fashioned from felt and a paper plate; an angel, created using the cardboard tube from a loo roll; a calendar designed during a recent computer class; and a rather splendid two-dimensional Father Christmas model that featured The B's head (Santa hat and all) and boasted fully-operational hinged arms and legs.

The highlight - for me, at least - had to be his cardboard Tio, this a traditional Christmas character from Catalonia that he has been learning about during his Spanish class. 

Tio - so The B has informed me - is a log (one that boasts human facial features, it seems) that one spends the festive season feeding fruit and nuts. Come Christmas Day, it is considered good form to use sticks to beat him senseless until he spills his contents. From his gaping bottom.

It's not something that I intend to practice here, but at least I've learnt something. Having a school-age child during these last three months or so has been a lesson to us all . . .

Building bikes and bodging brakes . . .

Mechanical engineering has never held much appeal . . .
I can just about tell one end of a spanner from the other. But figuring out anything that is much more advanced than that tends to leave me baffled.
Had I realised that I'd need such skills to assemble the bikes that Dr Z and I have bought The B&G for Christmas, I'd have tried harder to steer them towards alternative gift choices.
Using the Ikea-style (that is, bewildering) instructions provided, I managed to attach the wheels to the frames without too much difficulty. The handlebars slotted in quite easily, whilst the seats didn't cause me too much trouble.
I figured at that point that I'd almost cracked it . . .
Big mistake. I had failed to factor in the brakes.
One of the few parts of the bikes that the manufacturers had bothered to assemble, I'd just assumed that the brakes would work. In hindsight, that assumption seems naive.
Mechanically, the brakes were operational in all aspects other than their ability to slow the wheels. This being chief amongst their duties, it left me facing a sizeable problem.
I spent quite some time fiddling with them (loosening and tightening random nuts and bolts, stretching cables and, as the instructions advised, hitting things with a hammer (this I am quite good at)) before I started to make progress.
The end result is that the brakes are better than before, but they're still not perfect.
In order to address this issue, I intend to advise The B&G to avoid steep hills and hope for the best. Beyond that, there's not a lot more that I can do.
The next challenge is to gift-wrap The B&G's bikes in time for Christmas. In this field, I also have limited skills. On reflection, I think it might be best to leave it to Dr Z now . . .

Festivities, Fenwick's & a fake Father Christmas . . .

There's no avoiding the fact. Christmas is coming . . .

The countdown on the kitchen blackboard is showing there are just 16 sleeps to go and the festive frieze that accompanies it (a seasonal tradition here) is fast nearing completion.

This morning, Dr Z and I took The B&G to see Fenwick's Christmas display, an institution in these parts. Yesterday, The B's school staged its festive fair, Santa's Grotto and all.

Needless to say, the excitement is reaching an unbearable level . . .

Despite all the madness, there are occasional pockets of calm. On Friday, having retrieved them from the loft, The G and I spent a nice quiet hour sorting through the Christmas decorations. This afternoon, The B sat at the dining table and filled in cards for all his classmates. In total, there are 29. His application has put me to shame.

The house is decorated, all except for the tree. Yesterday, Dr Z dispatched The B and I to choose one (this being a job for the boys). The B tried to persuade me to get the tallest one there; I refused on the basis that a) the ceilings in our house aren't quite high enough; b) our car isn't quite long enough; and c) Christmas trees appear to be quite expensive. In the end, we settled on a nice one from the mid-sized range, £35, nice needles, optimal branch distribution for effective decorating. 

Right now, it's in the garage, 'acclimatising'. The B&G don't get this concept. Come to think about it, I don't either.

Never mind, there's lots to keep us occupied, not least The B&G's impressive coughs and colds and the continual quest to keep our Calpol supplies topped up . . .

The B's health problems, incidentally, didn't prevent his participation in the school Christmas performance. He remembered his line, although his theatrical debut couldn't quite be considered faultless. You see, his shepherd's head-dress slipped down over his eyes at some point between the dressing room and the stage and at no time during the proceedings did he think to make an adjustment that, to Dr Z and I (and even The G), appeared quite obvious.

Despite this, the performance put us all in a festive mood, although it seems as though some in The B&G's midst are not quite convinced about this Christmas lark . . .

Yesterday, whilst queuing for the grotto, one of The B's classmates looked up at his dad and enquired as to the authenticity of the Santa Claus awaiting us.

'Of course it's the real Father Christmas,' the dad responded, trying to sound as convincing as possible.

The boy thought about this for a moment.

'But it looks like Rob,' he said.

The dad looked a little panicked.

'Of course it's not Rob,' he scoffed, although at this point he sounded less believable.

The boy craned his neck and looked into the grotto.

'It sounds like Rob,' he said. 'He has the same shoes as Rob too.'

It was, of course, Rob. Fortunately, not knowing Rob, The B&G remained oblivious . . .

Snow, sledging & having a heart attack . . .

Earlier this afternoon, I took The G out sledging . . .
Perfect conditions - sufficient snowfall to ensure decent speeds, but not enough to hamper our progress. I pulled, The G directing operations from the in-sledge seat.
It took around 20 minutes for her to get cold and for me to start experiencing mild chest pains. Returning home at this point seemed best for all concerned.
Back in the house, we began to remove our sodden clothing . . .
'I'm worn out,' I remarked as I helped her take off her bright pink boots.
The G thought about this for a moment.
'Me too,' she said.
Strange. I didn't realise that all that sitting down and giving orders could be so tiring . . .

Gold, frankincense and Calpol . . .

Shepherd Three is on standby . . .

You see, with just 24 hours to go until the school Christmas performance, Shepherd Two is struggling.

It's not stage fright. It's not his line, this having been memorised for several days. 

It's not even the costume (even if he does think that his school-supplied shepherd garb is, and I quote, 'a little bit strange').

The B is relishing his theatrical debut, even more so since discovering that his best friend has been cast as a sheep. The issue is his health . . .

It's not serious, just the usual cough and cold and fluctuating temperature. Nothing unexpected, this. It is Calpol Season, after all. 

He might splutter through it (and this might make his performance a little more authentic). But I suspect it'll take much more to prevent him from taking to the stage . . .

Starting school: It's The G's turn next . . .

This time last year, we had no children at school. This time next year, we'll have two . . .

This impending change in circumstance has been brought into focus in recent days due to the fact that - after putting it off for quite some time - Dr Z and I have, at long last, applied for a school place for The G.

Looking at her as she is now - The G, that is, not Dr Z - it's difficult to picture her being packed off to the classroom as soon as September.

Having said that, I thought the same about The B 12 months ago and now, less than one full term into his educational career, it's impossible to imagine him not going to school.

Things tend to change so quickly, it's no surprise that it's proving so hard to keep up . . .

Double success and The Disruptive Influence . . .

The B has earned his first swimming badge . . .

Correction: The B has earned his first two swimming badges. 

You see, with two sessions still remaining of his current round of classes, he has been deemed proficient enough to have passed both this stage and the one that (under normal circumstances, at least) follows it.

The result is that, in addition to skipping an entire level on the swimming ladder, he returned from the pool last night clutching two certificates and a brace of sew-on badges. He's feeling quite pleased with himself right now and with good reason. I'm also delighted that he has so impressed his instructor . . .

That said, the best bit for me has to be that The Disruptive Influence - a child bent on causing chaos and doing his utmost to distract the other children in the class at all opportunities - hasn't reached the same standard and, as a result, isn't going to be fast-tracked through the stages like The B and several other in-pool peers.

This is good because: 

1) His ill-discipline tends to rub off on the better-behaved children in the group.

2) I've been proven correct, having told The B on innumerable occasions that, because he always messes around so much, it's going to take The Disruptive Influence longer to learn to swim.

3) I don't like him.

Be it at soft play, in the school playground or at certain pre-school activities that The G and I enjoy, such children are often present, doing their best to spoil our fun; that The B has left The Disruptive Influence trailing in his wake is - to me, at least - worth far more than certificates and badges . . .