Friday, 9 November 2012


Picture the scene. It’s early evening and I’m just finishing work. The missus phones wondering if I’m nearly home yet and to, ah yes, report that the Bairn has made it to the top of a climbing frame in a play park. This is not the call of a proud parent who feels their offspring has a future as a telegraph pole repair person.

It turns out the frame, covered in rope ladders, is quite tall. More than twice as tall as Wife-features. So our little person is aloft and mummy is unable to retrieve her.

Do I get her to jump? Er, no, I suggest. Isn’t there someone else there - an adult - who can help?

In the end a kindly grown up offers to catch the Bairn if Wife-features climbs up and lowers her down.

To add to the laugh-or-you’ll-cry situation I find out the missus had been attempting to hail passing cyclists thinking they were me, speeding superhero-like home but not realising the need for an en route rescue.

So, if last week you were barrelling quite the thing along Fisherrow Links on your bike wondering why a woman was waving at you while a small smiling child peered down from a swaying perch, sorry. Just my family.

It has now given me a great comeback for every eventuality.

For example:

Wife-features: I’m feeling a bit poorly.

Me: Oh dear. But at least you’re not dangling our child from a dangerous height like a bad Michael Jackson impersonator.


Wife-features: We need to change the light bulb in the stairwell.

Me: I’ll get a ladder. Maybe we could put the Bairn up it. You know how much she likes heights and darkness.

Then again, maybe I’ll let it lie. After all, she might retaliate with her arsenal of Green Dad shame stories including Cream Carpet Lasagne Disaster and Early Shift Hangover Bailout.

Maybe we’re even. For now…

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