Monday, 17 March 2014

A Boris in the Cabinet and a Frisbee Through the Rugby Posts


Sprung must have sprung. Today turns out to be Shorts Day. Yes, the bicycle commute has been full-breeked since probably October. In the wind it’s flippin’ freezing so long-sleeved tops and a hat are still required but the excessive hair on my legs means my calves can sook up some much missed vitamin D.


I set hares running, startle the horses and upset the apple cart, all with the perfectly reasonable suggestion that it’s unclear if cycling provision will be improved for communities along the A9. Motorists are getting three thousand million of earth pounds thrown at them (I would say us but we’ve been two years without the Ford Focus now) while cyclists are getting zip.

I can’t help wondering what things would be like if we had an equivalent of a Boris in the Scottish cabinet to really drive cycling up the agenda. Cripes, what a thought.


The countdown is on to the Bairn’s fifth birthday. Tonight the invites were written for an afternoon of cake and games. Gone is the earlier idea of a dead baby mammoth cake and instead the party’s to have a Wizard of Oz theme. Oh my!


To the bath! I still have flashbacks to giving the Bairn her first bath. A tiny child, a nervous new dad and too much baby oil. It was a terrifying ordeal - for me anyway. Since then bath time has evolved through various forms, from bubbles and giggles to spelling with foam letters and complicated rescues involving cartoon figurines. Tonight I find myself reading a newspaper while the Bairn washes her hair. I feel a small sense of loss. This seems far too grown up. I lob some squeezy toys into the water and a squirt fight ensues. That’s better!


So, Wife-features is easing herself back into the wacky world of work. As a result the Bairn is entrusted to/runs rings around one of her friends’ mums for a few hours a week. Today is my first experience of picking her up from her friend’s house after work and she simply won’t leave. She’s burrowed in like a beautiful tick. I takes me half an hour to extract her from the premises and I have to explain to her that I won’t tolerate it next time. It’s lovely to see her making such good friends but it’s also good to be clear about the need to do what dad says, especially when he has to get the tea on!


A day of disaster. My normally peachy scone-making technique goes pear-shaped. I fail to add enough baking powder. Please don’t tell Paul Hollywood.


To the park! The sun is out and the skies are blue. The Bairn persuades me to spring for a new Frisbee and I get pretty puffed out as we take it in turns to skim it over the bar of the park’s rugby posts. We did this before but with hula hoops. I suppose one day I should tell her these aren’t real sports but until then I plan to enjoy my status as Champion Flinger of Round Things Over the Big White H in the Park.

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