Friday, August 24, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
A friend of my girlfriend’s from Germany has come to stay. Yesterday we were talking about my work.
“That children’s show you wrote? It is still on in Germany.”
“Oh, that’s great.”
“Ja, it’s very popular. All the kids love it.”
“That’s really nice to hear.”
“Me and my friends watch it as well. It’s very funny.”
“That’s great. I love putting little jokes in that grown-ups will appreciate as well.”
“It’s – how you say? A cult?”
“A cult? Really? Wow.”
“And all the toy shops are full of the toys.”
“That’s fantastic – maybe they’ll even make some more episodes.”
“Ja. I hope so. You could say that Germany loves Spongebob.”
Which would have been the most amazing thing to hear... if I had written Spongebob Squarepants instead of a completely different show, one of whose characters bore a slight, superficial resemblance to one of Spongebob’s friends.
Perhaps I could show her my Fawlty Towers videos and tell her which ones of those I wrote.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
For the past eight months I have been wondering what sort of a father I will be. I was still wondering at our first ante-natal class yesterday. The only other father there was Keen Dad, who was asking more questions than all the mothers put together. I like to think of myself as a New Man - I've certainly flicked through a couple of my girlfriend's magazines about babies and stuff, but this guy sounds like he's been conducting his own medical trials on the long-term effects of different feeding methodologies.
I try to think of a question to ask that will make it clear to everyone present that I too am going to be a great father. I think so hard that I knock a glass of iced water all over the doll that the midwife has been using to demonstrate feeding techniques.
I try to make a joke: "Oops! I think your baby's wet itself."
"I can see we're going to have to tell Social Services about you", jokes the midwife. At least I think she is joking.
Perhaps being a father is like being an actor - bad dress rehearsal, good performance?
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Once more, the bath mat sends a message from the afterlife. I initially thought that it was a trick of the bright evening sun - a glint of blue that made my heart skip, even though I knew that it could not be my old friend. Like when my beloved cat died, and every time I saw a certain cushion on the sofa out of the corner of my eye I thought it might be him. But the spirit of the bath mat has actually managed to turn a small rectangle of the pavement just to the left of where it spent some of its last days on earth blue. Blue - the very colour that the bath mat used to be, in its physical form. It is a sign.
There can be no explanation other than that this is proof of the afterlife. I should have put a bet on with William Hill and won £1m like this bloke. But when you have contact with the afterlife you are beyond earthly concerns such as money - what price the joy of knowing that the bath mat lives on and we will one day be reunited in a heaven with no street sweepers? The fact that Thames Water have gone around the surrounding streets spraying all stop cock covers blue so that their employees can identify them and work on them is just a coincidence. Remember that I know all about coincidences.
This is a message from beyond the grave, and we should all heed it.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
I am achier than Billy Ray Cyrus's breaky heart. My back hurts like that of my village's coalman in the 1970s and my knees are sorer than Monica Lewinsky’s (note to self – try to think of some more up-to-date references), but I have laid the kitchen floor.
All the kitchen furniture, including the fridge, is in the living room. There is still tacky glue everywhere so we have to wear plastic bags on our feet when we cook, and I’m fairly sure that the cooker is stuck fast to the floor, which will at least be a good excuse for never cleaning behind it again.
The biggest difficulty was that once I'd opened the adhesive and started spreading I had to finish the whole job there and then, so it wasn’t until 1:30am that I laid the last strip. Aching, I removed my sticky clothes and washed my hands, peeling huge wodges of tacky glue from my fingers and was just about to go to bed when I found a sticky problem. My DIY jeans had their knees ripped years ago, which meant that my bare knees were now completely covered with dried glue.
I’m quite a hairy man, and despite stoically not complaining about the back pain at anything less than three minute intervals all day it just hurt too much to pull the glue off. (Ladies - please don't bother trying to trump me with any “You don't know what pain is till you've had a bikini wax” stories. It is a well known medical fact that men's knees contain more nerve endings than women's loolahs.) I tried opening the freezer door and freezing it solid like chewing gum so I could chip it off, but other body parts were in danger of becoming brittle as well. There was only one more thing I could try...
And that, darling, is why you found me in the shower at 2am this morning shaving my legs.