tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248602222024-03-07T21:59:48.798+00:00Tired DadTired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.comBlogger326125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-21204070747379743002019-02-21T20:19:00.001+00:002019-02-21T20:19:55.400+00:00Routine<div class="MsoNormal">
“You can’t hear the dog or anything can you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My new next door neighbour and I meet in the back lane. I’ve
long decided that he and his other half seem quite pleasant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No I can’t hear a thing. The walls are pretty sturdy I
think.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He seems happy with this and I return to my home after
putting the bins out. We both know he isn't talking about the dog.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Sunday routine (all times are approximate and do vary) of
my new neighbours consists of:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10.00am – 11.00am: Not for a full hour (that would be insane) but at least
twenty-to-thirty minutes spent giving each other ten-nowt.
Vocally. My word they thoroughly make the best of it. On the day of our Lord no
less.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
11.00am – 12.00pm: A good hour of acoustic guitar strumming
and soulful man-singing. He’s feeling understandably chilled and wanting to
express his inner-self.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
12.00pm – 1.00pm: Mid-eighties power ballads blasted at more
than usual volume. I assume this is the choice of the lady of the house after
having to tolerate a solid hour of ‘man-feels’. Usually consists of Fleetwood
Mac. Some Peter Gabriel thrown-in to mix it up a bit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1.00pm – 2.30pm: During summer months this involves the lady
of the house sitting on her patio in the back yard speaking very loudly to who (whom?) I assume to be her mother in a broad
Wiltshire accent. Subject of conversation tends to begin with “I’ve had three
bottles of rose already”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2.30pm – 5.00pm: What I only assume to be Call Of Duty or
similar being played on whatever console with a full hi-fi kit – it genuinely sounds
like the Gulf War is happening again next to my sitting-room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5.00pm – 8.00pm: General dog yapping as I imagine it’s not a
fan of human heterosexual sex, gaming, appalling guitar strumming,
binge-drinking or power-ballads and could do with a bit of attention before everyone
passes-out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8.00pm – Rest Of The Week: Peaceful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if I'm honest it would grieve me but I quite like them and I genuinely think
there are probably worse ways to spend one’s Sundays.</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-41746092968742378692019-02-01T21:00:00.001+00:002019-02-01T21:17:27.544+00:00I Nearly Died And Everything<div class="MsoNormal">
Of the many things I find wearing about open-plan office work
it’s the ‘tea run’. Committing myself to making a dozen hot beverages
for people with which I have only a fleeting relationship several times a day
only to receive a half-filled mug of unsatisfactory tea on ill-judged occasions
that I then discard is not my thing.<br />
<br />
As such I refuse to be involved in the whole routine. I don't make tea.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>My Boss: </b>How’d it go at the hospital?<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me: </b>More a follow-up than anything really. I’ve got to go
back next month…<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The conversation goes on for a while and I learn that my insufferably Fussy Colleague had
called the ambulance.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>My Boss:</b> It was good she did really. From what I can gather
you’d be dead otherwise. If the paramedics hadn’t took you to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Critical</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Care</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place>
I mean. One time her fussing-on was a good thing.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me: </b>Oh. Yeah. Spose. [I look through the glass window of my
boss’s office at Fussy Colleague, busy faffing around and making everyone’s
life tiresome for no good reason] You could say she saved my life.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We discuss other stuff for a while and five minutes later
I’m sheepishly stood at the end of Fussy Colleague’s desk.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me: </b>Hey.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Fussy Colleague:</b> Mmmph?<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> So. Ehm. Fancy a cup of tea?<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>F.C:</b> [Without glancing from her screen] No, Dave’s just made
me one thanks.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me: </b>Oh. Ok.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whatever, I tried.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-4650431168658610122019-01-25T20:44:00.001+00:002019-01-25T20:44:44.648+00:00FragranceI walk into the domain of Reception Karen.<br />
<br />
Anyone who has worked in an environment with customer-facing colleagues know that they run the company. Nobody knows it but they do. They can make your life very easy or they can make it hell.<br />
<br />
Reception Karen has a dozen teenage children (not really but close enough), looks better than anyone half her age and takes no shit from anyone.<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> Oh it smells nice in here.<br />
<br />
<b>Reception Karen: </b>Yeah I've just farted so I've sprayed a bit of Impulse around. So you know - if it smells nice in here it's not just 'air' you're breathing-in.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Me:</b> Oh. Ok.<br />
<br />
Obviously I adore her.<br />
<br />
<br />Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-65563900395374356232019-01-11T19:52:00.001+00:002019-01-25T20:08:19.088+00:00"We’ve put a tube in your penis." <div class="MsoNormal">
Ok, I think to myself. All considered, I'm pretty relaxed about things.<br />
<br />
"I'm going to pull it out now." The gentleman speaking to me is wearing a white tunic with blue epaulettes. I gaze at him with curiosity.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It might feel a bit odd.” He says. And he is quite right.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s probably best you try and pass some water straight
away – do you think you can make it to the toilet on your own?”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tell him that of course I can, get out of bed and
immediately stagger sideways and would have crashed into the wall if he hadn’t
caught me. Unbeknownst to me I hadn’t walked in several days. He applauds my
attempt and physically guides me to the en-suite bathroom.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How did that feel?” He asks afterward.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A bit weird.” I admit.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry I took your patient for his jar whilst you came to do
his bloods.” He says to the nurse who’s waiting by my bed to plug a new bag
into my cannula and to take my blood. When they’ve stopped grinning bashfully at each other the nurse looks at me.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wow, good job on your face.” She says. It’s not a bad face
to be fair, I think to myself. A few
hours later I see my reflection and understand what she means. And it takes
something before a nurse is taken-aback.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the next few days I learn to walk again. My front teeth
hurt like hell, as does my throat. And it’s all a bit vague if I’m honest. I
sleep a lot, eat some genuinely dreadful food and see members of my family who
all have that “hey everything’s cool” look on their faces that you employ when
you visit a family member in hospital and you’re worried sick.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look at the puncture-wounds on my arms. There’s over a
dozen in total. They must have tried everything before they intubated me, put
me in a coma and connected me to a ventilator. It was that or “lose me” I’m
later told.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My face is horrific; my right eyeball is entirely black from
the trauma. I was only under for a couple of days, but it takes a while to get
used to not being unconscious. It’s some time before I’m allowed home. The trio
of central-casting stereotypical doctors – Absurdly-Handsome Doug Ross,
Ill-Tempered Quick-Talking Brown Man and Charming John Malkovich The
Seen-It-All-Before Consultant – are not in a big hurry to let me go anywhere.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d been at work when it happened - my head had hit the edge
of a desk on the way down and bled as only head wounds do. It had frightened
the life out of my colleagues, all of whom had been lucky enough not to see
someone suffering an epileptic seizure before. With all the blood and
everything they all thought I’d died.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But had I not been there, no-one would have called the
ambulance. Had I not been in the newly-created <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Critical</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Care</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place> I was taken to
there would have been no medical team to deal with the fact that I suffered a
second seizure that lasted over thirty minutes (too long).<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I’d be dead.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Otherwise things have been cool.<span style="background: white; color: #545454; font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-32260990780273772992017-11-17T20:27:00.002+00:002017-11-17T20:27:54.971+00:00Small MomentsNine years ago, and I am meeting my son and daughter of a Saturday morning.<br />
<br />
I have not dealt with my recent break-up with their mother very well and I'm late. I'm also visibly hung-over, disorientated and have travelled twenty miles from the awful shared-house that I have had to move in to.<br />
<br />
We all meet at neutral territory not far from their new house.<br />
<br />
My two year-old son looks me up-and-down.<br />
<br />
<b>Son: </b>[Puzzled] Where’s your ship?<br />
<br />
I stare at him bleary-eyed, my tongue and fingers feeling too large, my face burning.<br />
<br />
<b>Son: </b>[Unsatisfied with my silence] Mummy said you’d finally got your ship together.<br />
<br />
His face is the blank, puzzled innocent canvass of a child.<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> [After hugging my son longer than necessary] Let’s go and have some fun.<br />
<br />
It’s the small moments that stick.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-21303422889322179502017-10-09T19:40:00.003+01:002017-10-09T19:40:59.427+01:00I Kill A Dog.<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh my God I’m going to bloody kill that dog.” I think to
myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Three weeks previously – myself and half-a-dozen residents of
my terraced street and that of the parallel street are gathered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The general consensus of the meeting seems to be that
Something Has To Be Done. That seems sufficient for me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A week later and still the unidentified dog howls. From
seven in the morning until eleven at night. Including weekends. It’s not the
howling as such – that reverberates around my house and that of every other
person on my street – it’s the two seconds when the dog draws breath leading
one to believe it has stopped. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I work nights.” Says one man on
the lane a week later when another gathering of the aggrieved takes place in
the lane. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I just get up again at nine.
There’s no point with that noise. I’ve not slept in a month.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I’ve got two babies. We’re going
mad.” Says another. There are now a dozen gathered. They don’t have pitch-forks
but may as well have.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I’ve considered grinding-up a
month’s worth of my epilepsy medication and whatever else I can lay my hands on
and mixing it with a pound of mince and finding the bloody thing and feeding it
to him/her if I could figure-out where the dog lived.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“It’s your landlord’s sister at
number nine who owns it.” Says Tony Next Door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I beam at the assembled masses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Leave it to me.” I say. I make a
phone-call ten minutes later.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I’ll have a word,” says my
landlord “It’s been an ongoing thing and it’s causing a load of friction
between her and her husband. That’s been why they’ve been putting the dog
outside. It’s been tearing the house up when it’s alone if they leave it in
when they’re out. They’re trying to find a new home for it. They had no idea
this was happening. This has probably brought things to a head to be honest”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I believe the problem to be solved.
I tell my landlord I can find the number of someone I know who has a re-homing
service if need be. Imagining the high-fives and fist-bumps I shall receive on
my way down the street the next day I go to sleep. It’s another day before I
pass the phone number on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Thanks for the phone number,” my
landlord texts me “but I fear it’s a bit late for this dog. They’ve had it put
down.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The street is very quiet.</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-75751038777897631122017-09-06T22:12:00.001+01:002017-09-06T22:12:30.527+01:00Boat Trip.<div class="MsoNormal">
The city I have an unusual love/hate relationship with offers
boat cruises on the river that grew it, up-and-down the length of the city and
under it’s seven bridges. As my Favourite Son and Favourite Daughter are
staying with me for a rare few days I decide we should take the cruise. It’ll
be ‘fun’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We board the boat and take our seats. Curved Perspex glass
serves as a roof and we’ve a table seat next to the windows. All is well, although
eleven-year old Favourite Son is a bit jittery. He’s only ever been on a ferry
before - which is essentially a small town with cinemas and amusement arcades
and everything. This is a boat, and each swell of the river, each movement of
the passengers, each change in the wind can be felt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Favourite Son is terrified and we both know it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A group of ‘boys on tour’ join the vessel. There’s about
eight of them, all at least six-foot tall, reeking of testosterone and bravado.
Their accents are from out of town – Essex by the sound – and they’re probably
on a stag weekend. This city is a destination’ for such people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They settle themselves.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is there a bar? There better be a bar mate.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah there’s a bar mate, settle down.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This feels weird mate, it’s rocking about I don’t like it
mate.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s fine mate don’t worry.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah mate I don’t like it neither this isn’t right”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mate this is all over the place.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mate settle down yeah”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The diesel engines start and the whole boat shudders.
Favourite Son grabs and hugs me for the first time I can remember. I’d love to
say I told him that a person can never be brave unless they are scared but I’m
not sure I did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Boys On Tour are troubled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh mate this ain’t right”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mate see if you can talk to the guy. Get a refund or
summink. I ain’t doin this mate. This is mental.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mate I don’t even care about no refund. Let’s get out of
here. This ain’t normal.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They all disembark, reeking of fear. The cruise starts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a gorgeous day, the river sparkles, the wake we leave
is hypnotic as we look back on it. The city is beautiful when seen from the
water. There is a recorded history of the city narrated over speakers, a
steward brings us tea and refuses my payment for reasons known only to himself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We return to our starting point after a couple of hours.
Favourite Son beams at me, seeming inches taller.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can we do this again?”</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-64818909097003707212017-08-20T19:07:00.003+01:002017-08-20T19:07:33.878+01:00I Step Out Of The House Into A David Lynch Film.<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I haven’t been outdoors in some time for tiresome reasons.
It’s already dark and snow is falling amidst the streetlights making everything
seem a bit odd.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Needing the proximity of people I go to my local public
house. It’s empty aside from the landlady and her tiny son who sits staring
into a device of some sort and jumps and yelps strangely. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A man comes in. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The child jumps and yelps.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Alright Tired?” He says.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you well?” I say as a default. Fully aware, a
split-second later, that his wife had recently died and I’d spent some time
consoling his son on a similar subject a week ago.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, you know.” He shrugs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The small child yelps and jumps. He has the face and gait of
an adult man despite being about six years old. The place is silent otherwise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I quickly begin to down my drink as an unfamiliar couple
with a small dog enter. I just want to be somewhere else, go to the nearby
‘super’ market and return to the safety of my home. Rolling a cigarette, I go
outside and am greeted by a regular with his own dog, which is adorned with
LEDs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We briefly say ‘hello’, I return to the bar to see the two
dogs fighting – one of which is adorned with LEDs, the small child yelping and
Whitney Houston wailing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I finish my drink and touch the bereaved man on the arm as I
put my empty glass on the bar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I meant to say that I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m pretty
sure you’re sick of hearing it”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The child who looks like a man yelps and jumps.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I am Tired, and thank you.” He says.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After negotiating the terrors of the bland super-market I
make my way to the exit. I am stopped by a man a full foot shorter than me. I
am not a tall man.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How old are you? Fifty?” He asks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s out of nowhere. I’ve not even raised my eyebrows at
him. And I’m not bloody fifty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No. What? You?” I say.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Me? No. I’m seventy. Going home. Read the paper [gesturing
the morning newspaper] and that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’s four-foot tall at best and is an old man in the body of
a ten-year old. It is the strangest thing I have ever seen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He turns and stares at the wall and does not move.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I leave I glance back. He hasn’t moved and is still
facing the wall.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not for the first time, I vow never to leave my house again.</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-44969707496650054012017-07-04T20:38:00.003+01:002017-07-04T20:45:16.807+01:00Doppelganger.<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s an Easter family gathering at my Mother’s and it’s
all getting hectic with children, dogs and cats.<br />
<br />
My twelve-year old Favourite Son and fourteen-year old Favourite
Daughter are staying with me for a rare week away from their home with Their
Mother four hundred miles away. Also present are my sister, her
beginning-to-crawl twins, one of my brothers with his toddler son and daughter
and two cats, three dogs and three other adults.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I retire to the kitchen to escape the chaos and help my
mother with dinner preparations. After a minute or two I return to the the
living room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For an instant Their Mother is there as she glances at me
over her bare shoulder, raven-haired and her face – as it always is in repose – absurdly beautiful and looking as though she were plotting murder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My tongue fills my mouth and tastes of metal and my brain
feels too big for my head. It’s only a split-second and she immediately becomes
my Favourite Daughter again and looks away. My finger-tips and toes feel a bit
odd.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later, and my sister and I are smoking a cigarette in our
Mother’s garage – my sister is in her thirties and still believes our Mother
doesn’t know she smokes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“God though, isn’t Favourite Daughter starting to look
like her mother now?” She says.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I hadn’t noticed.” I say.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My fingers are still tingling.</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-22920465109326563812017-06-10T23:18:00.003+01:002017-06-10T23:18:22.854+01:00V<div class="MsoNormal">
Three months ago.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m in the biggest comic-book shop in the North of England.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My son and daughter are browsing the Manga section, I’m in
Graphic Novels. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They saunter over.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Favourite Daughter: </b>Oh it’s that Anonymous dude.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’s looking at the cover of Alan Moore’s V for Vendetta.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me: </b>No. They just adopted the image. The story is about a
totalitarian England the government of which don’t tolerate anyone who is brown
or gay and don’t allow any form of popular culture and the man here – V – makes
it his business to destroy that government.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Favourite Daughter:</b> Sounds like my kind of hero.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Favourite Son:</b> [Overhearing] That Trump idiot would hate
him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> There’s an actual TARDIS over there…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They look at my like I’ve lost my mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My son is twelve. My daughter is fourteen.</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-78106659546281243742017-03-11T20:37:00.002+00:002017-03-11T20:37:27.276+00:00Bars.<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t remember a great deal of my early childhood but
something that sticks with me is my mother arguing with my father about a
household health and safety issue.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One that involved my early death.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Potentially.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My father was a working-class man living in the North-East
of <st1:country-region w:st="on">England</st1:country-region>
in the 1970s. A man of his calibre would leave the house before I woke to do
manual labour all day and then spend his time in several public-houses
propping-up several bars until they closed at which point he would go home fully
expecting his dinner or ‘tea’ to be on the table.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a child I would be stood on the windowsill of my bedroom
with my hands at the top of the window hoping for a glimpse of my father as he
came home at midnight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Double-glazing did not exist at that time. Leaning on a
window could cause it to break.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother ‘pointed-out’ to my father that this was quite
dangerous. I don’t recall the conversation too well but I knew that she was
saying that if he came home at a sensible hour and spent some time with his son
I would not risk my young life just to witness him stagger up the path to our
front door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know how that conversation went but I do know that
my father hammered some bars of wood over the inside of my window.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The wood was untreated and wasn’t pleasant to the touch –
I’ve no idea which of his friends he’d got it from or indeed where he’d sourced
the hammer or the nails. But I remember the hammering and that it was a weekend
before twelve in the afternoon when the public houses opened. And I remember my
bedroom having bars on the windows.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lateral thinking at it’s best. </div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-74346615140244636362017-02-10T22:03:00.000+00:002017-02-19T21:40:43.826+00:00I Solve A Mystery.<div class="MsoNormal">
The envelope is good quality, stamped and has been beautifully written in a hand <a href="http://tireddad2.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=mystery">I half-recognise.</a> I'm not familiar with the post-mark.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The street-name is similar to mine and the postcode
is incomplete. It’s addressed to a Mr. D. Surname.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://tireddad2.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=Mr.+Daniel+Surname.">This feels familiar</a>. I look-up the street-name on the envelope – it doesn’t exist.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Bugger this” I think and open the envelope, aware that I am
committing some sort of ‘thing’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Inside is the flimsiest of of those 'self-published' greetings cards, with feasibly the worst Warhol-wannabe
bullshit print upon it. The publisher has plastered “Happy Birthday Day Danny”
in the most basic font across the worst area of the most dreadful attempt of
‘art’ I have ever seen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Within is the handwritten message –</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wishing you the best</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With love</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dad & Fleur</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Xxx</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Fluer’s artwork) “</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I study this for a while. We’ve all received cards like
these – cack-handed attempts at artistry from imbeciles sponsored by
partners/parents who are blind to their every failing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve even sent them. Good quality Christmas cards
illustrated by my seven-year old son featuring a young, beardless Santa
brandishing a burning golden sword toward a supplicant bearded older Santa
discarding his gloves in defeat into a pile of Christmas debris. Another
illustrated by my ten-year old daughter involving anime-style reindeer and
dolphins because why not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Obviously <i>they</i> were actually <b>really</b> good. I wouldn’t have sent
them to people otherwise. This is something different.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look at this card. “From Dad & Fleur”. The ‘Dad’ in question is obviously proud of ‘Fleur’ and the recipient is not a child. ‘Fleur’ is not the recipient’s mother. Or any other direct family member.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look at it some more. And I’m not sure what the story is.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I do know that if I had a sister so uninterested in my
life she couldn’t be chewed to remember the family surname and who thought a
cheque was a genuine gift I’d not be happy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if I had a father so dreadfully passive-aggressive he
would send me the tablature for the worst songs on earth and then also send appallingly-cheaply made examples of his new wife’s lack of artistic talent to an address
he couldn’t even be bothered to verify then -</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d have disappeared off the face of the earth as well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-44787348705880601452016-11-30T20:00:00.000+00:002016-11-30T20:06:51.771+00:00Aaah, More Work ‘Frieend’. <div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah why not” I reply to the skype message, because I work
in the sort of business where people communicate in that manner despite sitting
ten feet away from each other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t particularly ‘fancy a beer’ with Counterpart or anyone
else but I’m trying to be nice. So long as he doesn’t start banging-on about
his dead kid again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Counterpart:</b> It’s nice in here yeah? Beer’s ok as well. So.
I’ve been on Tinder and that…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some time passes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> Right. Why? What is that? Is it a sex thing or
something?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>C: </b>Nah not really it’s just a hook-up you know?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I <i>don’t</i> know, but I’m just glad we’re not talking about his
dead kid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>C:</b> Just to see if I’ve ‘still got it’…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I start laughing. Then look at his face. He’s being serious.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me: </b>Oh. Sorry. Ok.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>C: </b>You’re not exactly a film star you skinny twat. So anyway
I start seeing this girl...she’s no looker or anything…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He shows me a picture on his phone of a beautiful young
woman. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>C:</b> But, y’know…..so we’ve been out a few times and I’ve seen
her and her son when me and my daughter had some free time and her mother
didn’t know…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> [Head reeling] Err, do you think that’s really…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d much rather be at home and I don’t really want to hear
about someone committing sort-of-adultery whilst making his daughter
borderline-complicit. At least he hasn’t mentioned his dead kid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>C:</b> …but I’m thinking I might not be so fond of her as just
want to be with her son. You know? Because of what I’ve lost? You know? I’m
thinking I might only be seeing her because I’m falling in love with the son I
had who never lived.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I finish my drink and stare at the wall. A long night
beckons.</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-37030422514884344752016-11-12T21:28:00.002+00:002016-11-28T20:46:04.614+00:00Ghost Of Christmas Past Part 2<div class="MsoNormal">
By definition, you don't really see a crisis coming. Certainly not a mental and/or emotional one. They tend to wear the most nondescript clothing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dinner at my mother’s house has become something of a ‘thing’
each Thursday. I’m not sure how it started but it punctuates the week and it’s
always good to catch up with her news of the allotment committee. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After which her husband and I discuss the world in general
over too many drinks in the conservatory whilst my mother makes dinner.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all have a chat and a drink first. The subject skirts
around upcoming yuletide festivities.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Mother’s Husband:</b> …But that was a funny Christmas morning
last year though, eh?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My ever diminishing number of regular readers will remember
that <a href="http://tireddad2.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/ghost-of-christmas-past.html">last Christmas</a> I met and spoke to my father with whom I’d had next-to zero
contact in nearly thirty years. We had a pleasant chat with the result that I
felt rather content for the bulk of this year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Mother’s Husband: </b>Your Dad turning up! And he DIDN’T EVEN
RECOGNISE YOU! His own son!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> What?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother gives her husband the sort of 'look' I’d grown accustomed
to in childhood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Mother’s Husband: </b>[Quite drunk and not noticing The Look]: Yeah!
After he’d been chatting to you he came into the kitchen and asked your Aunty H
“who that bloke was in the sittng-room”
he’d just been talking to! Amazing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother kicks her husband’s calf. He notices THAT, looks
at her and then at my face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Mother’s Husband:</b> Oh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I light a cigarette in silence. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some time passes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>My Mother:</b> It’s lasagne tonight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> Sounds great, thanks.</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-34186792368318615112016-09-29T12:32:00.000+01:002016-09-29T12:32:08.745+01:00Ahh Work ‘Friend’.<div class="MsoNormal">
It started fairly innocuously. After a mere six weeks at my
new job I am promoted and become the manager of my new colleagues. This causes
some consternation amongst some, many of whom have worked at the company for
years. Stuff them. Empathy is not one of my ‘big things’. My counterpart in
another department is also bumped-up. After a couple of weeks he feels we
should go for drinks after work and ‘discuss things’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the first hour or so things are fine. We discuss work
like normal people. And then things get a bit ‘not my area’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Counterpart:</b> I’m so committed to this company. That’s why
I’m staying here. My wife is moving away you see. For her work. Taking our
daughter with her. For her job. She’s doing really well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> [Unsure of how we got here] Oh. Mmm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Counterpart: </b>I’m not worried. They’re my life. I know she’ll
be loyal. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> Ok.<br />
<br />
<b>Counterpart:</b> [Showing me pictures of his daughter on his
phone] It’s all for her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me: </b>Totally. [I glance at a photo of him and his daughter
looking happy] Erm. Are you sure you’re making the right decision? I’m quite a
stubborn man myself and looking back on some things…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Counterpart:</b> I know she’ll be loyal. She isn’t ‘that sort of
person’.<br />
<br />
<i>Poor bastard</i> I think to myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> Right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Counterpart: </b>We had another baby you know. Before. He didn’t
make it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh for fuck’s <b>SAKE</b> </i>I think to myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Counterpart:</b> He lived a month and a half. We named him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He tells me the name. He shows me pictures on his phone. The
child is full of tubes. <i>He looks like a fucking cyborg</i> I think to myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> Mmmm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Jesus Christ,</i> I think myself. <i>I just fancied a drink.</i> <i>I
didn’t know I’d have to deal with some 'dead kid and impending marriage break-up' nonsense.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Counterpart:</b> We haven’t slept together in two years though
but it’s not that sort of relationship.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh for God's sake</i> I think to myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> Anyway my bus is in ten minutes so…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Counterpart:</b> Oh mine too! We get the same one!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> [unaware of this] Splendid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">He tries to hug me when he reaches his stop. We settle
on a firm handshake</span>Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-11975085529202436112016-09-19T12:37:00.000+01:002016-09-19T12:37:03.738+01:00New Job.<div class="MsoNormal">
“I hope things have gone alright.” I think to myself as I
leave the plush building that houses the company that I now work for.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s the end of my first week. It’s important to make the
right impression and to ensure that people feel they can successfully work with
you. I hope I have done so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I reach into my right-hand suit pocket to take out my
cigarettes and a lighter. As I remove my hand a shower of at least two-dozen
PostIt notes drop from my pocket and drift down the street. Instinctively I
scamper to collect them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My new office is on one of the biggest ‘party’ streets
within one of the biggest ‘party cities’ in the north of <st1:place w:st="on">England</st1:place>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grab one PostIt. Upon it is drawn a massive
cock-and-balls. Without thinking I collect a few more. They feature similar
illustrations. A theme is emerging. I become the recipient of some cheers from
early-evening revellers who have also observed this thematic street-theatre.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Discarding my quest to collect the rest of my
stationary-based gifts I get my bus home and review the remainder of the
PostIts still in my suit-coat pocket.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some are rather throw-away although some feature the classic
three droplets of spurting ‘liquid’. A few even have hairy balls. One in
particular features nothing but the word ‘PENIS’; obviously in case I were in
any doubt as to what the other illustrations represented.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Things seem to have gone well.” I think to myself.</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-66324377764232441312016-08-31T18:16:00.000+01:002016-08-31T19:41:49.510+01:00I’ve Got To Find A New Job.<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Tom The Accountant:</b> I’ve no idea why Boss has even asked you
to speak to me about this. I’ve no idea. Only he could have done this. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m at work and am angry. Not your low-level ‘oh I’ve put
the recycling bin out but it’s actually refuse collection day’ angry but actual
laser-guided cut-glass steely-cold ‘don’t even look at me funny I will kill
you’ angry, the sort of anger that would frack gas from the core of the planet
without all that need for chemicals and such. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tom The Accountant knows it and knows it’s ‘well above his
pay grade’ to deal with a swivel-eyed skinny madman who looks like he is about
to get himself in the news.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He wisely tells me he’ll ‘look into it’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ten minutes earlier:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> [Brandishing my payslip, which has had twenty-five
percent of my salary deducted under the heading of ‘sick leave’ despite my not
being unwell in the past month] Explain this. Now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Boss:</b> [Rattled, one eye desperately looking out of the door
of the meeting room] I’ve no idea. I can tell you’re really angry –</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> Angry isn’t the word.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could turn the office upside down with a glance. I’m
beyond anger – a place where I’m so eerily calm a mere look could take
someone’s head off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Boss:</b> The fact is I don’t know. You’ll have to speak to Tom
The Accountant about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tom The Accountant is employed by the shadowy venture
capitalists that fund Boss’s company.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me: </b>I will. As he’s here today.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Boss:</b> [Suddenly panic-stricken, clearly forgetting that
today was the day that Tom actually comes into the office and is in the next
room] Oh, erm, yes. Ok.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some time passes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m again in the meeting room with Boss.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Boss:</b> [ Having had a few minutes to regain some calm but
still rattled by my thousand-yard stare] I may seem like a hard boss but I’m
actually a good guy. I mean, all this – </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He makes an expansive gesture to take in what I assume to be
the whole enterprise which once consisted of a mere twelve employees and now
consists of only Unfeasibly Young Zac, Methodical Mike and I, the xbox 360 that
is kept in a cupboard and only taken-out to show strangers what a ‘fun’ company
we are and the coffee table he has from the local charity shop ‘on trial’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Boss:</b> - may make me look like some sort of Alan Sugar-type
but I’m actually ok. So I’ve paid you your salary short-fall out of my own
pocket. Because I’m good like that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning I send him a text message from my mobile
phone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Good morning, it’s me. Shan’t be returning to work. All the
best for the future.”</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-10797181717799109272016-06-19T20:37:00.002+01:002016-06-19T20:37:41.368+01:00Young Writers.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Indulge me. Young Writers run – amongst other things –
writing competitions which are often taken-up by the English departments of
schools nation-wide. Recently the theme was ‘spooky stories’. Favourite
Daughter’s school was involved, and OF COURSE her entry was chosen for
publication. A tale that had to be told in ONLY ONE HUNDRED WORDS. It was
published in a book entitled Spine Chillers that people can ACTUALLY BUY. It’s
got a BLOODY ISBN NUMBER AND EVERYTHING!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her tale is below.</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-88910703346064223832016-06-19T20:36:00.003+01:002016-06-19T20:36:46.866+01:00Dead, Alive or Insane?<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I see spirits. Remember being an infant in bed with
heartbeats pulsing thick beneath you? Or them reaching out from your ceiling,
hair wringing their necks? It was real for me. I was left in an asylum before I
could remember. I could see the corpses in every room – how they died. Spirits
stay. Why won’t they leave me? The birds caw like victims. Fog rolls. ‘I’m sick
of it. Kill me.’ OK. I don’t know if I’m here or insane, but it’s dark, I’m
motionless. I hear spectral laughter, it won’t stop. Is this my waiting
punishment for killing?</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-55260126078942210912016-06-19T19:46:00.000+01:002016-10-01T20:31:15.930+01:00Reading, Writing and Stories.<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s another Father’s Day and I sleep late. I feel I’m owed
it after a long working week following another - the bulk of which was spent in
a strange city in an unfamiliar apartment with colleagues I eventually dreamt
of murdering. But that is another story.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have oven-chips for breakfast <i>because I can</i> and spend the
bulk of the day in my pyjamas for the same reason. I open the Father’s Day
cards that have arrived in the post on time in the first instance I can recall.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drink tea and smoke cigarettes and stare out the window.
After finally dressing and going to the shops I re-read the story my daughter wrote.
And then finish reading the graphic novel I’d bought as a treat for myself
whilst hanging-out in the local comic book shops with my son and daughter to
feed their manga obsession when they visited only two weeks previously. The
memory makes me chuckle recalling their laughter when I tell them a story one
of my employers related to me about his language problems whilst living in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Japan</st1:country-region>. But that
is another story.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I speak to sister on the phone and we tell each other stories before finishing the story I’m reading and think about the
novel I’ll almost certainly never begin.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I write this.</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-56675626528070731312016-03-25T13:00:00.000+00:002016-04-09T22:02:16.404+01:00Conversations With My Boss #3<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I am once again alone in the office. I am beginning to despise
Methodical Marketing Mike and Unfeasibly Young Zak who have once again left me
alone in the office with our boss.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">He is – as usual – behind the ridiculously large screen of his Mac
wearing earphones and watching youtube videos but I know it’s only a matter of
time. Time that he saves for me, for some reason.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">His head moves from behind his screen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Boss:</span></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">[One eye staring sternly at the server
room but the other staring at me] There was a phrase when I used to run a
recruitment firm in<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I’ve checked with Companies House. He never ran a business in<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>.
He ran a recruitment firm in the north-of-England city we’re currently in. By
‘run’ I mean ‘into the ground’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Boss:</span></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">…which was “Never pitch the bitch”.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>.
I don’t like the phrase. It’s SEXIST.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I stare at him in silence. I have things I need to be doing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Boss:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But in a way it’s true. I’d never sell to
women.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Some time passes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Boss:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Or Pakis.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Some more time passes. I stare at his good eye without blinking. My brain does cartwheels in my skull.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Boss:</span></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">They’ve got ulterior motives. All of them.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">“I’ve got to find a new job.” I think to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-66734268538733111412016-03-20T20:19:00.001+00:002016-03-20T20:19:23.435+00:00Conversations With My Sister #2<div class="MsoNormal">
Some time ago.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>My Sister:</b> Have you bought a bin yet?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realise that it’s going to be one of ‘those’
conversations.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> What?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>MS:</b> You know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> [Lighting a cigarette and feeling weary] I really don’t.
I’ve got a bin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>MS:</b> For the bathroom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My bathroom is used for a number of very key functions in my
life – household refuse disposal is not one of them. I frown at her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>MS:</b> The children. Favourite Daughter?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> [Exhaling a plume of cigarette smoke] And?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>MS:</b> She’ll be coming to stay with you soon?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shrug. These are established facts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>MS:</b> [After gazing at me for awhile] She’s thirteen now?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stare at her some more. I know my daughter’s age. I don’t
see the connection between that and the need for additional refuse receptacles.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We stare at each other a bit more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> Oh. Riiiight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sister nods with a “fuck me, finally” look about her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> I should probably buy a bin with a lid for the bathroom.</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-59832835932580034222016-03-04T17:30:00.000+00:002016-03-04T17:30:07.146+00:00Conversations With My Boss #2<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a freezing cold morning here in the North of England.
The office I work in has a temperamental heating system that has yet to
kick-in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My boss enters. It’s nearly ten o’clock. Early for him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Boss:</b> Brisk this morning. Days like this I’m glad of the heated
seats in my Porsche. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He twirls the key-ring around his index-finger.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s an eighteen year-old 911. It cost less than a Ford
Mondeo. The unopened letters from the car finance company are piling-up in his
in-tray. But it’s still a Porsche and he still thinks it’s a big deal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Boss:</b> [Sneering at me] Does the bus you get to work have
heated seats, Tired?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> No. No, it doesn’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He winks at me and goes to make a cup of the Marks and
Spencer instant coffee that no-one else is allowed to drink.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ve got to find a new job.” I think to myself.</div>
</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-52234976458142000732016-02-25T17:30:00.000+00:002016-10-01T20:34:28.140+01:00Growing Pains #2<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s just after Christmas. I don't see my son and daughter 'as much as I would like' so I’m overjoyed to be home with them after
an eleven-hour round trip to collect them from their mother, who inconveniently lives four-hundred miles away. Of course, we’re in our local chip-shop. I'm not fucking making dinner after all that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Chip-Shop Lady:</b> Eeeh well was <st1:place w:st="on">Santee</st1:place>
canny ta yee pet?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My daughter looks at me with panic in her eyes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me:</b> Was Santa good to you this year?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>My Daughter:</b> Oh. Right. Yeah. Totally spoilt. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looks at me. I nod my approval. All is well and she
receives some free stuff.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some time later.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My children are on the upstairs landing of my house. I've taken a spare moment from removing tissue-paper from the pockets of their discarded jeans before I put them in the washing-machine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Favourite Son:</b> Is Daddy really going to make us watch that
Stars Wars or whatever film with us?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Favourite Daughter:</b> Dunno. We’ll just tell him he can watch
it on his own and we’ll go shopping and have some lunch and get the bus back to
his house if he’s still in the cinema. We do it at home all the time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>FS:</b> Yeah. He’ll be all “Ok son”. With his accent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>FD:</b> God it’s not as strong as most people around here.
Remember that lady in the chip-shop last night? I had no idea what she was
saying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They’re unaware that a two-up two-down terraced house is not
the place for private conversations. I go back to putting their dinner on plates.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And decide that maybe they’re a bit too old for me to be
still holding their hands when we cross the road.</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24860222.post-22371017336165857542016-02-18T17:30:00.000+00:002016-03-19T19:58:52.548+00:00Work Night Out.<div class="MsoNormal">
Methodical Marketing Mike, Unfeasibly Young Zak and I are suffering. It’s a work ‘Christmas Do’. Consisting only of us and unwanted Boss.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boss has given us each a Christmas card that contains a bonus £100
in cash. It’s out of character and we’re surprised.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are eating in an unbearable restaurant that serves
mountains of smoked meat of doubtful provinence on metal trays – without plates
– accompanied by big glasses of beer in handled glasses that inexplicably have
jam-jar tops making them almost impossible to drink from. It's the choice of our Boss, as it's cheap and he believes it to be 'hip'.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m already irritable and the clientele of twenty-something men
sporting full beards, immaculate side-partings, sleeve-tattoos and check-shirts
loudly discussing the forthcoming evening’s “bants” is not helping.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We retire to a nearby bar for cocktails as beer is no longer an option - all of us feel
sick and bloated following our consumption of tourist-bait hipster food. Boss has to return
to the office for ten minutes to check ‘something’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We decide to ‘do one’ and lose him, because we have become fifteen year-olds again and that’s what we now do. We're not proud of ourselves but the man is unbearable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boss rings Zak who promptly bottles it and reveals our
location. MMM and I are furious. After a while Boss joins us.<br />
<br />
"Trying to lose me were you?" He loudly says, jokingly.<br />
<br />
Silence reigns. Zak, Methodical and I glance at each other, our shoes and our phones.<br />
<br />
We stand with Boss and look out
of the window of the bar and watch a Twix wrapper float by and discuss the
outrageous changes in confectionery prices over the years until Boss finally
goes home out of sheer boredom and the three of us begin to enjoy ourselves.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Come January we examine our pay-slips and discover the £100
wasn’t a bonus and had merely been a cash advance that had been deducted from our
normal salaries - money we could all have made use of after Christmas.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ve got to find a new job.” I think to myself.</div>
Tired Dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01463536844672270826noreply@blogger.com3