Goading Goths & other fashion faux pas . . .

The B&G don't do fashion . . .
The G does like a nice dress and prefers her clothes to be pink but in the main, they'll both go about their business clad in just about anything (or nothing, depending on the season).
Increasingly, however, they've begun to take an interest in how other people are attired.
There's not a lot that The G likes more than to get really close to someone in the supermarket and bellow, at the top of her voice, 'Look at that man's trousers, Daddy!'
Tact, I'm afraid, is something else that The B&G don't do.
In recent times, The B has taken this to another level. You see, whilst out and about in town the other day, we encountered a fast-approaching group of Goths.
Nothing unusual in that, you might think, although their leader was rather striking . . .
Tall, straggly-haired and pale-faced, his full-length trench coat, enormous boots and black lipstick caught The B's eye in particular.
His brain struggling to decipher the image before him, he shrunk against me, terrified, before squealing the immortal line, 'Daddy, there's a witch!'
That the curiously-clad character in question was still well within earshot - and that his peers proved merciless in their mockery - meant he was a fashion victim in more ways than one . . .

Luke who . . . ?

Yesterday, The B and I watched Star Wars . . .
It was his first time.
I hadn't thought that we'd get to this sort of stuff quite so soon. But he asked and, having consulted one or two friends and countless compadrés on the Twitter, the consensus seemed to be that he had, indeed, reached the required age.
So, Dr Z and The G out shopping, we sat down and, having overcome the initial confusion that our Star Wars Box Set being on VHS video caused, gave it a go.
It's proper rites-of-passage stuff this, although I didn't expect him to last the course. To me, Star Wars is an action movie. To a five-year-old whose limited attention span is notorious, there is, as he informed me after 10 minutes or so, an awful lot of talking.
He liked Princess Leia (Carrie Fisher he found rather attractive) and enjoyed the music at the Cantina in Mos Eisley, even climbing down from the sofa to do an alien-style jig.
He thought C-3PO was a lot like The G in that he tends to go on a bit and doesn't always make sense. Throughout it all, however, he had quite a loose grip on the actual plot . . .
Come the conclusion, for instance, I asked him if he thought Luke would be successful in his mission to destroy the Death Star.
He looked at me, a confused expression on his face.
'Who's Luke?' he asked.
This I explained to him, but still he looked baffled . . .
There followed a short period of contemplation.
'What's the Death Star?' he enquired.
To his credit, he sat and watched the full film, all two hours of it, and, as the closing credits began to roll, he delivered the ultimate endorsement.
'Can we watch the next one now?' he asked.
I agreed, although, having found the process to be quite tiring, we both decided that, although The Empire will Strike Back, it's going to have to do it at a later date . . .

The over-amplified DJ & the over-sensitive ears . . .

The Valentine Disco didn't go quite to plan . . .
The B's first such social engagement took place last night - an hour-long event, in the main school hall, that started at 6pm. Due to his regular swimming lesson, we didn't get there until 6.15pm. The time upon our arrival home was 6.20pm . . .
For the record, it took us around three-and-a-half minutes to travel back.
So, all in all, not an overwhelming success, the problem being the volume of the music and the over-amplified DJ (think Jerry St Clair from The Phoenix Club, just much louder).
The B has never liked loud things - we encountered similar issues last weekend when, during the Chinese New Year celebrations, someone thought it'd be a good idea to start letting off firecrackers - so really, there was always a good chance that the disco would be a bit of a non-starter.
Still, as I led The B towards the exit, I must admit that, despite having spent all week dreading it, I felt a little sad that, thanks to his over-sensitive ears and chronic exhaustion, he didn't get the chance to join his friends in taking part in an event that he'd been looking forward to all week . . .

Joyless gymnastics and the £2 problem . . .

 

The G's gymnastics class has taken a turn for the worse . . .

The problem is the price.
It's not that it's too expensive. Quite the opposite, in fact.

You see, in making their excellent apparatus available for just £2 a session, the organisers are suffering an unforeseen side-effect. The issue is that gymnastics is, in addition to being far more fun, a great deal cheaper than the average trip to soft play . . .

This has led to the class becoming overrun with children far too small to engage and, worse, parents not seeking acrobatic instruction for their offspring but interested in little more than unburdening themselves from energetic infants for 60 minutes or so. 

The kids in question allowed to run riot, the result is total chaos and occasional carnage. This is disruptive at best, dangerous at worst.

I'm not claiming that The G is Olga Korbut or anything but, like several other junior gymnasts in attendance, when allowed to focus on the techniques that are being demonstrated, she is showing a willingness to learn and a natural aptitude for a sporting pastime that has captured her imagination. Such is the disorder, her progress is slowing.
This is, sadly, just one more example of a feckless parenting style that drives me to distraction, and an all-too-common case of the few spoiling something for the many.
It isn't often that I feel the need to complain about something being too cheap but for this, for The G's sake, I'd be glad to start paying more . . .

Swimming shorts and senility . . .

There's no doubting the fact that I'm starting to get quite old . . .
Physical and mental, the reminders are becoming rather too regular for comfort. Chief amongst these are the so-called senior moments that I've begun to experience on an increasingly-frequent basis.
The G calls these 'Daddy's Mistakes' and tends to find them quite amusing. The latest example of misplaced marbles, however, didn't leave her laughing.
On Mondays, we go swimming, just The G and I, the overly-officious receptionist at our local leisure centre having made it quite clear that she doesn't consider me competent enough to look after two children in the pool.
On this afternoon's evidence, she might, perhaps, have a point.
You see, having got The G changed and packed all her clothes away, I reached for my swimming shorts, only to realise that I'd brought The B's instead. Given that the size in the label is age two to three, they're a touch on the small side even for him. I did consider it for a moment, but there was no way on Earth that I was ever going to squeeze into them.
The G, her annoyance all too obvious, tried her hardest to persuade me to put them on and damn the consequences. I might be growing ever-more senile but even I retain enough of my faculties to realise that this could never be considered a good idea - hence our decision to go back and try all over again tomorrow . . .

Our multicultural weekend is muy bien . . .

Unprecedented levels of multiculturalism are being enjoyed around here this weekend . . .
Earlier today, The B attended his Saturday Spanish Club for the first time. It was, as he informed me afterwards, muy bien.
Tomorrow, we're heading into town to participate in the Chinese New Year celebrations. Having spent recent days working on countless craft projects on this theme at school and nursery, The B&G are both rather excited about the prospect.
On Thursday, The G used several gallons of paint to make a red envelope (the exchange of which is, I'm informed, a Chinese custom at such times), whilst The B's school bag was full to bursting with dragons and masks and other such goodies when I emptied it last night.
They're both relishing tomorrow's parade through Chinatown, with the scheduled Dragon Dance the thing they're most excited about. I like traditions as much as anyone else, although if I'm honest, I must admit, I'm just hoping there's going to be noodles . . .

Deciphering dried toads . . .

The handwriting of some of the staff at The G's nursery is dreadful . . .
This is something that I must remember to take into account whenever I attempt to decipher the sheet upon which her morning's activities have, allegedly, been detailed.
I forgot today, when - at first glance, at least - it appeared as though The G had enjoyed her time playing with dried toads.
Upon closer inspection - and after quite some time poring over the illegible scrawl presented to me - I realised that it had been dried foods and not dried toads that had so captured her imagination (this still a strange pastime but one better than the alternative).
Given that The G had, at one stage, expressed a desire to use said material to make a filling for pies, it came as quite a relief to discover that there hadn't been an amphibian in sight . . .

Speaking Spanish, misunderstanding martial arts . . .

Having taken everything at school in his stride, The B has decided that the time has come to add some extra-curricular activities to his schedule . . .
I decided last month (a little unfairly, perhaps, having not consulted him on the matter) that he didn't want to sign up for the after-school football club.
But, when he came home the other day, adamant that he'd like to spend his weekends attending a local Spanish class, we felt that it'd be wrong to deny him.
The B loves his language lessons and, when the teacher responsible for capturing his imagination told the class that she had started an after-hours Spanish Club, it was inevitable that he'd be amongst those clamouring to sign up.
He has his first class this weekend, after which, he has informed me already, he's keen to sample some more out-of-school action.
Next on his list are the martial arts, although he doesn't really understand what such things entail.
The other day, after school, he told me that his best friend attends a taekwondo class . . .
'I want to do that too,' he said.
I asked him to explain taekwondo to me.
The B thought about this for a moment.
'I think it's a bit like tennis,' he said.
For the time being, all things considered, I think we'll just stick to the Spanish . . .

Pinkness, pizza & going to the pictures . . .

Earlier today, The G had a friend over to play . . .
Pinkness galore, The B and I made ourselves scarce. Girls' day in, boys' day out. Time for an adventure.
First up, The Metro into town and the cinema (The B's first-ever trip to the flicks), The Lorax on the big screen, a special kids' event, £1 tickets for all. Pizza Hut for lunch - another first, this - The B eating his own body weight in thin-crust Hawaiian before beating a path to the Ice Cream Factory.
Back at home, The G was relishing being the host, for once getting the chance to set the agenda and indulge in some unbridled girliness, free from the occasional disruption from an overbearing older brother.
This was the main reason for taking him out, although the chance to spend a little one-to-one time with The B - something that, since he started school, I don't get to do very often - was just as appealing.
The plan worked and I'm pleased to report that a good time was had by all. That said, I've rarely felt fuller, so much so that, some six hours after leaving Pizza Hut, I still feel fit to burst . . .

Late nights and social lives . . . .

Our evening routine is long established . . .

Bedtime is 7pm. It has been for as long as I can remember.

This might sound a touch early, but believe me, The B&G have no problem retiring at such an hour. 

Indeed, so exhausting do their days tend to be at the minute, that it's far from unusual for one or both to be tucked up, content and semi-comatose, from 6.45pm onwards.

This routine suits us all. This routine is, however, going to be challenged in the coming days. I blame The B's fast-developing social life.

You see, next Sunday, he's due to attend a classmate's birthday party, a soft play-type affair, that isn't scheduled to conclude until 7pm. Five days later, the school's Valentine's Disco is due to finish at the very same hour.

Bearing in mind that, after both events, we'll still have to travel home, put The B in the bath and go through all our usual night-time rituals (stories, soft toys et al), I'm not sure when we'll get him to bed. Quite how he'll react to this rude interruption to his regular routine is anyone's guess, although truth be told, I suspect it'll do us all some good to loosen up a little.

The organisers of the aforementioned disco (The B's first such social engagement) are planning, as a concession to the parents, to rig up a makeshift bar in the classroom adjoining the main hall. I have a feeling that trade is going to be brisk . . .