My Favourite Ever Bond Girl

Monica Bellucci in Spectre - extraordinary beauty highlighted wonderfully by her setting, all made plausible by her age, class like that takes time

Commitment-phobes and Equality

There is nothing more unattractive than a person on the look out for something better than the best they will ever get. And nothing more attractive than a person happy in punching below their weight.

Bad Day At The Office

After an intense and deeply unpleasant hearing, despite the positive nature of the proceedings, the Judge managed to bring the IRH forward by a week, thus bringing most of the agreed directions forward by the same. It was difficult to understand what the problem was that the Judge had with the local authority, he kept referring to paragraph 7 of the last order, this is merely the timetable for the child as it was then and does not seem to warrant the severity of his spleen. The Judge almost held me in contempt of court for trying to explain why the advocates at the contested ICO were not the advocates in front of him at this hearing, often breaking into what I can only describe as low level screaming followed by mumbled gesticulating. Despite my best efforts and pleasantries, the Judge seemed unable to look me in the eye as he tore strips off me for not having e-mailed the solicitor with conduct's case summary and draft order two days prior. As we went through the order I was made to read out the Judge’s dictation like a badly behaved schoolboy. I was told to speak up on several occasions despite practically shouting, the Judge however chose himself to mumble into his bench. I wondered whether the Judge may suffer from Aspergers or OCD because nothing could warrant such a level of public and unnecessary bullying, such of the like I have not experienced for over a decade in this profession.

Nobody Else's Fault

I'am not the type of person who looks to blame anyone, I'am the type of person who instead looks towards myself to establish if I have been in anyway the cause, and if so, how I can rectify it.

Politics

Stay out of politics, you get misinterpreted and misquoted to suit the agendas of others, it's a messy business for dishonest cowards.

Accreditation

You can't improve on perfection, but unfortunately there's always some imperfect c#nt has to pretend to know what you do, assess you on that something they don't do themselves, and then charge you for it so they can rubber stamp you.

Pill Dealing Glasto Vamp

1998 and my first Glastonbury experience, I am unafraid and adventurous, the ‘neck it now and I’ll see you on the other side’ mentality. Funny how you go from immortality to morality in a couple of decades, still, there will be no mid life crises here, but let’s not get bogged down with the other side of this tale, nor the setting of the scene neither. When you first get to somewhere like Glastonbury and it’s all new to you, I mean the experience as a whole, often you’re still in early adulthood, spreading your wings with the goal of other things, you’re outside the confines of your teachings, and you end up somewhere like that, well, quite simply it just blows the cap off. Exciting isn’t the word, it’s beyond exciting. I’m sure that not only do experiences such as that define who you become, certainly for several years thereafter, they also stay with you as part of the mind, and I don’t mean just memory, I mean within the brain’s physicality and the formation of the mind. We get what we are born with, and then there is the fine tuning. On the Thursday night, you get the tent up, you find your feet and you explore. I always struggle not to overdo the first night of any weekender, but I just get so excited, I still peak early even now, despite approaching forty. The air’s thick with music, laughter, people, and just all manner of things all around. The cockles are warming from the cans and the cannabis, so off you pop to explore the site. From the tops at night it looks as big as a city, everything’s lit, the ferris wheels, roads, shops, bars, theatres, restaurants, high rise constructions and giant marquees. There are tents, and tents and lights for miles sparkling from the model’s outer zones. Herbal highs, mixed with drinks aren’t half bad, aiding a night’s blend into the sublime and causing its swift progression towards disappearance. We float about thinking it all in, absorbing the sights and the sounds, it’s the most extraordinary people watching ever to behold. It was then, out of the blackness of the deeper night a shadowy figure cut the flashing ambers away out in front then disappeared again. Things had begun to quieten down, or at least in the central business district they had, many were returning to their little camping communities, many migrating to the healing fields for the light show at dawn chorus. A man with porcelain complexion illuminating his face appeared amongst us, he’d come out of the invisible cusp of the unlit sidelines, and in full view so suddenly of my compadre and I. The gentleman’s clothes were most prominent, they appeared realer than real, set off only by the brightness of his face, this was no smoky silhouette, this was drug taking at its best. Beautifully decked out in a black velvet three piece with red silk lining and white silk dress shirt, a silver watch chain linked the pockets of his waistcoat and his collars rode high against his neck and down to a plunging chest line exposing some serious silver and antique artefacts adorning a pale torso, all finished off with a long black velvet coat, fitted like a glove but split with tails. His eyes were brighter than those of my compadre’s and thus no doubt mine, despite us being higher than cloud nine as his body language guided us in to a huddle. Glinting with pleasure he slid a length of hair from his cheek, then out into a neatly gloved hand came a gilded silver snuff box, which when opened exposed a single tiny white pill stamped with the bold red outline of a heart, ‘taste?’ He asked. Indeed we did, bitter, sour, crumbling and then melting, I’d heard the worse they tasted the better they were, ‘like some?’ he asked, ‘yes,’ I replied, ‘then come with me.’ We both followed, ‘only one of you,’ so my compadre held back. I was taken through a nearby exit gate and into a parking zone, it was a smaller parking area, probably more exclusive, but I couldn’t say where on site. A blood red Ferrari sat on the front row, it was his, ‘jump in,’ he said, it was a luxurious capsule of calm in a field of shit. The transaction was charming, you’d think I was buying a Rolex in Knightsbridge, I probably wasn’t even buying enough to have made the three minute walk worthwhile for him. Still, it was as if he knew.

The Tight Man

The tight man's cloak is to allege his flaw of others.

Tuesday Evening Chase

As I crossed the back street in the shadows, three teenage boys were exiting the mouth of the Trans Pennine Trail behind the houses parallel to Didsbury Road. They languished slightly on the footpath, looking undecided as to whether they would eventually head up to Didsbury Road or not. They hadn’t seen me, at least not until they heard me calling the dog to stay close as I crossed the street to enter the trail from which they came. I went past them, concentrating on ensuring the dog entered the mouth of the trail. It wasn't until they doubled back that my heart sank. I hadn’t gotten a good look at them, I tended to keep my head focussed on where I was going prior to any threat being initiated. I’d say they were mid teens maybe, all dressed in black tracksuits with black hoods. At that age, certain lads in certain circumstances can make the worst kind of decisions, often on a whim. I know I looked an easy target, unsuspecting, drainpipes, over conditioned style-less geek fro. As they rounded the mouth of the trail my nearest exit was now blocked, there were two more exits, the first 200 yards away into a housing estate, the second, 300 yards away, the last 100 yards of which would take me through a lit underground tunnel to the Metro Station. The lead boy was in the middle, and as he crossed into the trail I noticed the glint of something very unfriendly looking slide into his right hand in the last of the light from the backstreet. I reckoned it could either be a knife in a sheaf, a cosh, or worse, it was difficult to tell. Whether these lads were looking for a victim to try out their new toy, were bored and just fancied a fight, were planning to mug somebody, or whether it was some kind of gang initiation I don’t know, the Met can make a lot of places accessible to a lot of people. Whatever was going on and whatever they were packing, I was not sticking around to find out, I have a three year old daughter that I need to look after. So I took to my toes, but unfortunately, so did they. My heart didn’t sink again though, it went off like a firebell, my legs got up to speed so quickly that the G-force my torso pulled as it caught them up strained a few lower back muscles. The cold air was forced upon my lungs as though being drawn to feed a blast furnace, and the adrenalin injected thighs pumped at full tilt for about half a minute. I reckon Usain Bolt would have struggled to stay with me. Although my aggressors did to an extent; stay with me, shouting after me, at least until I tore through the opening into the fantastically lit housing estate. They never came round that corner, unlike the dog thank goodness. I was on edge then until I came back round upon Didsbury Road with burning lungs and a sore back. It was busy on there, lots of cars, shops and takeaways, the buzz hit me then, it was like being a kid again, growing up on a middle class street trapped in the middle of Botcherby.

Lights On The Nith

The little motor was running well by the time I hit the meandering bends of the A701, I’d left Manchester before lunch and had made good time up the M6 into Dumfriesshire. My windows were open to cool the car and the pollen swirled about me. The sound of bird life burst in from time to time, bustling from within the bulging hedgerows and verges. It was one Hell of a day, maybe a bit too good for the fishing, I’d have to see, as long as there was enough water in the system there was always a chance of a migratory fish, it was to be more of a scouting trip in any event during the day, I’d fish seriously once the sun was gone and through the night. There wasn’t far to go when I hit traffic, of the slow moving dairy variety, so I jumped out and took a leak. I’d been speaking to Doogie, the bailiff on the Dalswinton Estate throughout the week, I’d found the fishing on the internet and had initially gotten through to the frightfully posh Lady Landale who had then put me on to Doogie. I’d been searching for some fishing on the River Nith first and foremost, it had been prolific for sea trout and word had it, might still hold a few at certain times of the year. I’d been hoping to meet up with Doogie straight away, so he could show me the fishing maybe, and I made directly for his house once the cows cleared. It didn’t take long to find his gaff, what I later discovered to be his son’s restored Mark 2 RS2000 escort along with a very smart looking woman sun bathing on a deck chair parked out front. I introduced myself to the lassie; she explained she was Doogie’s wife; he was down at the river somewhere, so I paid her the twenty quid for the fishing and went on my way. After driving into the immediate grounds of the stately home by accident, I got back onto the main road and eventually ended up following signs marked fishing, the final stint worth of directions came from a couple of estate farmhands at the foot of their brand new six figure tractors. The estate was really well kept, every house, cottage, barn and out building, all wonderfully maintained and painted in the same pale magnolia with pale green windows, doors and detailing. The family made a significant annual income from the wind farm planted on the marshes above the estate. I came out at the red iron arch of the Fortrack Railway Bridge at the end of the bottom beat, recognising it from the internet, then drove up river to the car park at the Ellisland Pool. The river looked beautiful, crystal clear and glistening, there was a good pace and depth to it despite the clarity; a perfect fly water. A sheen of iridescence shifted across the upper layers of the fast moving riffles with a golden haze shining in the air just above it, this was water meeting light on a symphony of different levels. I loved the place immediately, it just felt and looked fishy, the runs and the lies were all there to see, it was perfect for holding and guiding moving fish. Venturing upstream I came upon the ‘Scouts Flat’ section of the river, at the bottom of the deep pool, just before the water speeds up and plunges over a wide gradient of rocks and stones I saw some movement in the water and a glint of silver. It was a salmon, and it had got itself lodged in the shallows, stranded mid way up the rapid between some big stones, it had taken an unusual run, there was a deeper run bypassing the shallows on the far side. My heart leapt and I bound down to the water’s edge and in, the cool water came through my trainers instantly and gathered my trousers around my ankles. I got down stream of the fish so as not to startle it; there was clearly a lot of life still in it as it intermittently fought and thrashed against its predicament. The next time the fish went still I dipped my left hand into the water and slipped it under the fish’s flanks, letting the weight of its head rest on the flat of my fingers exactly as my right hand clasped the tail and lifted an eight pound hen out of the water. What a beautiful gleaming silver torpedo of a specimen, I can’t say I wasn’t tempted to keep her, but I don’t like to kill any fish, let alone a hen laden with eggs, I made that mistake as a boy and this was my chance to put it right. So I waded up the rapid as quickly as I could, my trainers struggling to find grip over the cobbles in the strength of the current. We made it though, unharmed, and I released her gently into the darker slower waters above. Watching her gliding into the depths like a missile, the silver bar became a shadow and was gone. I walked up a little way more until a very nice house came into view, but I was eager to get back to the car, I hadn’t eaten and wanted to get my salmon outfit built and fishing, when there is one fish in the system there are usually more. I could learn the river best on my own simply by getting into it and getting on with it. I’d wade the lot before dusk and hope for a salmon, then give it a breather before getting stuck back in with my sea trout set up after dark. On my way back to the car I met Doogie’s under study, a lad called Kevin, what a smashing lad he was, a couple of years younger than me, but born and bred in the area, he’d fished it from boyhood and knew the beat inside out. Kevin was walking his dog with his Mrs, but they doubled back to his Jeep so he could show me what flies to use, he even ended up giving me a couple and agreed to come down a bit later to fish with me. I was grateful; it can be dangerous fishing after dark on your own, even when you know the water, maybe even a bit too fool hardy if you don’t. I fished the afternoon away, it was glorious, even took a snooze on the river bank after a few swallies from my hip flask. Not one fish hit the line, so I took the salmon gear down just as Kev was arriving in his Jeep. He told me he’d spotted Doogie up at the top beat and to jump in, we’d go and have a blather and take a look at that beat, turned out I’d been fishing the lower beat and there was more fishing to be had. Doogie was in the process of cutting down all the fern, grass and weeds along the river bank at ‘The Shank’ area of the top beat, just above the lovely old stone fishing hut where we parked up. The guy was a machine; he’d been grafting none stop all day and had cleared a hundred and fifty feet or so of path of about four feet wide into something about three or four feet deep in thicket. He was using a machete, a petrol strimmer and a lawn mower. His sleeves were rolled up and he had a good base tan from his work covering some gnarly old muscular forearms. Despite his dark hairs, he struck me as being somewhat older than his wife, the sort of age that might have killed his city equivalent were they to undertake such a level of graft in that heat. He approached, and Kev introduced us, there was a sparkle of wit in his eyes which, wrapped in crow’s feet and matched with upturned mouth and leaning head suggested a man in humorous mood, he was, and in clear need of some chat too, the stories began. After the fishing tales, came the ghost stories, and the wit was replaced with an absolute sincerity as he ended every sentence with, ‘your honour.’ The stories were simple and believable, they related to the old house on the estate for which he had been the care taker during the time folk had lived there, it lay vacant and derelict now for obvious reasons. Others were about a pool on the river called, ‘Dead Man’s Hole,’ just downstream of the very same old house. The one that stuck in my mind though, related to Ellisland Farm which was on the other side of the river opposite where my car remained parked. There was a graveyard below the farm and an old stone wall left of its borders that protruded out onto the river bank. It was there, sitting on that wall that Doogie would regularly see the love of the ‘Bard of Ayrshire’s’ life, initially and then eventually, ‘The Belle of Mauchline,’ Rabbie Burns’ wife, Jean Armour. Rabbie had been keen to make a living out of farming, although without much success, though he did scrape more together farming than he did writing remarkably. The night was very dark, but clear, what light we got came from the stars and occasionally our head torches as we tied on alternative fly patterns or untied the knots that magically appear as if from nowhere in the dark, despite looking like requiring a deal of time and concentration to create. We started back at my car above the Ellisland Pool and fished down upon it. It’s remarkable how the world comes alive at night, just in an entirely different way to the day, sounds are amplified, and the eyes play tricks on the imagination, and the imagination right back on the eyes, Doogie’s stories of course do nothing to help all this! I sense Kev’s movements and then hear him upstream, I give my eyes time to adjust upon him and notice he is pointing up at the sky, ‘can ye see tha Adam?’ He says in his borders Scottish accent. I look up and see nothing but stars, I don’t know what I’m looking for, Kev’s persistence as we continue to fish down the pool causes me to keep looking up, despite the risk of losing my footing in a fast flowing river. I climb out at the bottom of Ellisland and head for a cup a tea, Kev isn’t far behind me, he’s excitable about something as he approaches. Pointing up I follow the direction of his finger tip until I see what looks like a very low satellite moving at the speed of an aircraft across the sky. Accept it isn’t an aircraft; there is no sound and no flashing lights. Neither is it a satellite, satellites don’t just stop, hover for a few seconds then completely change direction on a half penny, this was insane. Kev told me he’d been watching lights like this since he was a boy heading home from the pub, he kept it to himself though, a mate of his hadn’t back when they were boys and had been the victim of a tabloid story and internet video for which he still got ribbed now. For the next half hour we watched more and more of these lights traversing across the skies, often in pairs, occasionally in threes. They appeared to be communicating with one another, coming together, flying in sync and then shooting off in different directions. The really odd thing though was when a commercial airline came through the mix, of which there were quite a few. The lights would stop instantly, not get too close and then travel away from the aircraft. It was time to give the beat up a go so we took a drive up in Kev’s motor to ‘The Shank’ and walked Doogies new path up to the ‘Ash Tree Run’ and fished down through ‘Edge Chasm’ and ‘Royal Stream.’ It was while on the shillies at ‘Royal Stream’ having a sandwich that Kev spotted some eyes in the wood on the other side of the river. The strange thing about them was that the eyes were forward facing and quite spaced apart, at first we were thinking it could be another fisherman, but got no response to our greetings. We couldn’t fathom what this creature staring back at us might be, still looking intently, the creature was joined by another pair of eyes which appeared alongside it from nowhere, then another, and another, until the whole of the wood opposite was full of about 15 pairs of eyes, all staring back at us. It was so spooky that all we could do was laugh at them. We stood on the other side of the river laughing while 15 pairs of eyes looked back at us blinking. The whole thing quickly became disturbing, although neither of us would admit it, but both of us found ourselves packing up and heading for the car. Back at the bottom beat we started at the top and fished the ‘Policeman’s Pool.’ Kevin fished below me this time, he seemed to have an inert sense for spotting the lights in the sky and we watched a great deal. Tow such lights began heading directly towards us from the south, there was a faint one travelling higher up and a much brighter one travelling directly below it, indeed it was so low and so much brighter than anything else we’d seen I couldn’t take my eyes of it. They came in so close that the tree line on the far bank eclipsed them for a time, only the lower light then came back into view, directly above us, I would say no more than two or three hundred feet up. It was dimmer than it had been. I waved as you would do at a helicopter at that height and it must have hit full beam or something because it very quickly became very bright indeed, lighting up the river for a hundred yards upstream and down, it’s light became a white bar across the river in front of me as a car headlight might. Then it shut off, and as it did so I could see right into it, in the same way you can see into a light bulb as the last of the power is burnt off and the silhouette of filaments is disclosed. It reminded me of the shape of a wire lantern I’d bought in China, I did not see it for very long, it may have been a three dimensional hexagon or octagon; the skeleton of the structure was opaque, it was difficult to work out how big it was without knowing the altitude, but it was bigger than anything man made that it could perhaps be mistaken for. That was enough for us both, we got off the river, went back to my car and drank some whisky. Kev left for his bed, he had a shift the next day, I on the other hand lay in the fishing hut to try and get an hour’s sleep before dawn. I couldn’t though, and watched the last of the stars arc overhead and vanish via the windows in the shed, and the ridiculously long trains came out of the magnetic mountains behind rumbling over the Fortrack Bridge pulling lead. There was no sign of Jean Armour as I packed up to leave, though I was certain her eyes bored into the back of me when I wasn’t looking, so much so I ran away in the dawn leaving a few bits of tackle and a cup. A couple of years later, having fished with Kev many times since on the Nith, those lights remain up there, apart from Doogie that is, the sparkle in Doogie’s eye is gone. Doogie eventually killed himself after his step daughter broke it to him that her mother, his wife, was having an affair with a local drug dealer half her age and quarter his. He’d tried the first time he heard to gas himself in the escort, she broke it off. When he learnt the next time he made sure and blew it off. Kev blamed himself for a time, he said he should have known, kept an eye on him, seen him more, but he’d seemed himself, seemed okay. I suppose he was a storyteller to the end, only this time telling a version of himself, and it couldn’t have been further from the truth. It’s not always easy to spot the signs in a man who needs to take pride and maintain dignity despite it all, no doubt such traits made it harder for him to deal with it all; adding to the fires of the smelting pot in his mind as opposed to opening the release valves onto the shoulders of another to cool away in the Nith. One thing for sure, he wasn’t in his right mind, nobody who kills themselves is, and it can’t therefore be a sin in my book, so God rest your soul Doogie, if that’s what you want.

Talking Nettles

The Crescent Pub, Salford, a boozer in which Marx himself would take a drink in his day, was our usual starting point for a gig at the St Philip’s Church or the Islington Mill. We are skint though, so after a pint on Bexley Square we head to the offy to get some cans and plant ourselves elsewhere. We end up on a patch of grass next to the main road outside Salford University, just down from its Museum and Art Gallery. We pick a spot and sit looking over the trees that line the sheer embankments towering over the Adelphi Weir on the Irwell. A few cans and the banter is flowing as quickly as the booze, it’s a nice sunny evening early summer, and the last of the commute snakes away with the smoke of the Amber Leaf. My youthful bladder benefits me for some five or six cans before I need to infiltrate the bushes for a pee. Upon so doing I manage to fight my way through the dense thicket into a small secluded clearing beneath the tree canopies. Shafts of light stream through the shifting breaks in the foliage above, pouring on to a carpet of flowering nettles standing straight and tall, heavy and regimented, ordered like a battalion on parade, evenly spaced, squared and true at the flanks. The tips of their heads all bow slightly towards me. I could not but speak to them, I introduce myself and explain what I'm about to do, they begin to move from side to side in complete unison, I speak again, they move forwards and backwards in response, not a breath of air is breaching the clearing, not a single other leaf is moving. I turn and take my wee against the brambles instead.

Parenthood

Parenthood defies logic, defies nations, defies space. It defies all possibilities, religion too. It makes a passive man more dangerous than the devil.

I Can Handle The Truth

Striving to be good, to do the right thing, but it's not always easy when you're told mis-truths.

The Daily Race

If you're on a crusade, you don't get paid.

Modern Parenting

It's the people, not the pay packet.

Robin

The state of mind can be the best thing in the world, and the worst.

Nurture of The Beast

You deal with arseholes long enough, if you're not careful you start to become one, it's the nurture of the beast.

Don't Ever Let The Bastards

Forgive me, I am a reflection of the people I have been dealing with over the last few weeks, they have ground me down and I'm angry about it, angry because they are shit, and now I am too.

Answers

I drank too heavily and took drugs in early adulthood, I was of course negatively judged and misunderstood during this period, indeed I still am off of the back of it from time to time, but there was method and good reason behind the madness, there still is - escapism from a badly run world full of bad people, but mostly the thinking on the same. You party on a rotten apple, you have to make it look artificially beautiful and fill it with artificial love. The world as it is still upsets me now, but I guess with age, the anger, the will, and the dreams subside, you get world hardened by the way it is and settle in.

Cunts

Being a lawyer is about facing a daily barrage of anger, argument, arrogance, arseholes and ego's. Needless to say I wholey dislike my profession.

Calella

last year seems like yesterday, next year will be tomorrow.

To ISIS

I love.... God, Allah, fishing, people, country, drink, philosophy, food, family, environmentalism, compassion, sustainability, innovation, exploration, space, equality, empathy, literature, sunshine, music, science, art, adventure, love, friendship... Want to kill me, good luck with that.

Human Condition

People - the most argumentative, violent most competitive group of spirits I have ever met, let's just wipe each other off the face of the planet.

To Snowden's Quote

If you care about free speech, then surely this is counter to the right to privacy and it is more important that we live in a world that does not in fact require the right to privacy. What is a freedom to speak out if you have to stay private?

Remember Bobby

An arm can be a serious weapon in the right hand.

Evolution again

Evolution within the animal kingdom, fine, I get that, but we're a whole different animal again, the void is too great surely, and there's nothing in-between. We don't just adapt to habitats, we make them.

Evolution of Man ctned...

We are still evolving after all; we are getting better at being human, and long may it continue, for there is a long way yet to go. Maybe when we get there, maybe that is when the game will end.

Evolution of Man ctned...

Only look back when you no longer put your best foot forward.

Game Over

I can no longer believe in evolution, not when all I can see for our future is extinction.

Seeing Deeper

Consciousness is but a spell, downloaded from afar into a biological shell.

Lights On, Fresh Strawberries In The Bin

Drilling sanctioned under the Arctic, running out are we? It'll be fine...Greens got so few votes it can't possibly matter.

Young Lads Today!

I don't think any of these young lads have any idea what's on their arms up town. I can only thank the good Lord that the best grabbed my arm after I awoke.

We're All Just As Bad As Each Other

Can good looking service be forgiven for having bad manners? Yes, but one must reciprocate by staring at their better assets by way of compensation.

Died That Day

Ever think that you might actually have died that day, indeed died many times before, but that the stream of consciousness that you perceive as your life is what keeps on. Maybe the dead you, leaves behind the grieving, while the live you takes them with, unbeknown to all.

Vampire Pregnancy

There is a wooden door in front of me, it’s not treated, or at least it hasn’t been for a long time, the weight of it has pulled out the frame and loosened the hinges over the years, so it leans slightly forward at the top and to the right, and pushes inwards at the bottom and to the left, like a bowing man of some years, coming forth to greet those who darken him. I reciprocate and shake its only hand, the door falls open and I pass on through, not having seen what it is I’m stepping into nor from where I came, it could have been a door in space for all I knew. I see a series, or channel of cramped rooms extending out in front of me; the rooms are all different shapes and sizes, from small to very small, despite adjoining one another. The walls are made out of the same ancient wood that made the door, the only door, for there are doorways going through the walls of the rooms as you would expect, but also, as I go deeper, there are doorways through some of the floors and ceilings from time to time as well, but no more doors within them. It looks like one long shack in favelas, added to over time by either knocking through into neighbouring shacks, or building with whatever was available to create extra adjoining rooms whenever possible, adding to the depth of this winding twisted ram shackling corridor. The cold is breathtaking, it hurts as I go further, as though acting as a warning not to go on, but I see the far end of a bench on the left hand wall in the next room, until then the rooms had been empty, as I go on, a figure is disclosed in the middle of the bench, knees up to the chest, huddled under a light tan cloak. I can make out the peak of a hood. I’m above this figure now and the smell is horrendous, it is worse than death; it is similar to rancid Pont l’Eveque. I go to draw the hood back, and as I do so the head lifts. Very slowly a pale yellowing feminine brow moves up to face me, she is very weak, completely defenceless. I do not see her face, for my gaze is unwillingly drawn to hers. Whilst the whites of her eyes are bloodied and black, the corneas are pastel emeralds and yellows that mix like a gas nebula. She speaks in my mind, ‘You must go. You disturb the incubation of my child. I will give birth soon and must rest. My protector sees what I see.’ With that she returned to her original position and a sound of rustling came from the room above, there was a doorway in the ceiling through which the rustling began to intensify until it was deafeningly loud in my head. I had to get out of this fast and woke quickly, there was the face of a fierce old man in a similar cloak to that of the woman, he yielded a stick and shouted after me as I was drawn backwards, the sides of my field of vision stretching away from him as I went, like being drawn back in a catapult into the realms of the waking. It is better to have this dream out of my head now; to get it down helps me with this. If I was to tell you how difficult it has been to write this you would pity me; several times it has deleted itself right in front of me, several times it has failed to save, several times the computer has crashed. I even now have a handwritten draft before me also, it reads word for word, just incase.

Civil Servant

6:00am in the pitch black on a cold winter’s morning at Brampton railway platform, a tiny little stop in the woods outside the small market town of Brampton in Cumbria, previously voted the best place to live in England as a lottery winner, in some pole or other, but also renowned as having had the highest number of murders per capita that year, there aren’t many capita, indeed three less that year. I’m waiting for a train to take me across to Newcastle, it’s on the opposite coast of England but only takes an hour; it’s the part of the UK that looks like the waist of a burlesque dancer. My lectures start at 9:00am at the Northumbria University. I’d been lodging with an artist in Jesmond together with her fifteen year old son up until the week before, it hadn’t gone well and so I was staying with my folks for a little while until I found new digs in Newcastle. They'd moved out to Brampton after my brother and I first went to university. Most of the time I got the 685 bus back and forth, but it stopped so often at the string of little towns and villages connecting the coast to coast that it barely got out of the lower gears, besides I had to be on time for once that morning, exams were looming. There was one flickering amber light above the end of my platform, if you’d come from a lit area and straight into this you wouldn’t have noticed it until your eyes adjusted, but mine had, having walked down the minor unlit country road to get there. There was nobody about, at least I hadn’t noticed anybody, it was silent, not even the stirring of a bird or the rustling of any leaves, the air was completely still and very cold. I waited, young and unafraid, in my neck of the woods. A match struck in the darkness, it came from the backside of the platform only five or ten metres away. I looked behind me and saw the glowing embers of tobacco brighten gently and quickly as a steady draw of oxygen passed through and then dimmed off, to be followed by the unmistakable smell of cigar smoke. I didn’t know of many people who smoked cigars any more, especially at that hour. A walking stick came forth first, followed by a short immaculately dressed fellow. He wore a beautifully fitting three piece suit; complete with watch chain and large high soled black brogues which were so well polished they shone up a treat, finding every wave of available light. He came towards me, and in one steady movement, put down his briefcase very carefully, his daily paper on top, then rose whilst removing his bola hat and bid me good morning; his hands remained full, now with his hat in one, and the cigar over the handle of his walking stick in the other. His hair was jet black, brylcreemed down and combed to within an inch of its life, not a single hair was out of place. He had a very unusual face, perhaps a man in his forties but who looked older than his years, exaggerated features, and a posture which was suggestive that he might be doing battle with it. I have never come across manners such as his, his address towards me was completely formal. A civil servant no less, travelling across to his offices in Newcastle, although still living with his mother in Brampton. She required his ongoing care up at the big old house, I didn't ask which one. His voice was BBC, slightly more old fashioned than current, he struck me as a creature of meticulous habit and routine, I’m sure even when engaging in fleeting pleasantries with those he had not met before, whether scruffy students or dignitaries. This man was of another era. We stood together looking up at the trees above the opposite platform waiting for the dawn; the train approached all noise and light out of the dark. I had no idea what a civil servant was at the time, I would ask him if we were seated close by and the train was not too busy, as I hoped would be the case. I followed him onboard, there were more people than I had anticipated and I came up against a friendly guard from whom I needed to purchase a ticket. I didn’t see where my companion had found a seat, nor did I see him again at Newcastle, although I did look out for him, indeed, I made that same journey many more times and I never saw him again.

Red

Twelve or thirteen years ago now and I was on a commuter train home from London to High Wycombe, it was packed with strangers as usual, nobody knew the people with whom they’d been thrust to within such close proximity, so nobody talked. Those standing rubbed up against each other and looked down one another’s noses. I’d been late for the last train so managed to get a seat. Facing towards me, on the other side of the aisle, sat on the outside seat of a table of four was a very attractive redheaded lady, she was quite a bit older than me, possibly in her early forties, but drastically attractive, a truly superb looking woman . Her hair was long, layered and flowing, just a tint towards the red side of auburn, she wore a pristine beige rain mack with the belt drawn tight to subtly reveal a most acceptable physique, ever so slightly curvaceously sleek, a professional looking woman who no doubt kept herself looking good in her city suits, her shoes revealed the suit I could not see, her bag the rest, this was a sexy sophisticated beautiful woman in her prime and she literally could not keep her eyes off me, to the extent that it wasn’t just me who became mesmerised by her display. If she worked her hand through her hair and then gave me a sultry look from with under it once, she did it a hundred times, and from all different angles, she was horny as Hell and she didn’t care who saw it, she wanted me and she couldn’t have laid it on a plate any thicker. She was married too, quite a rock. Now, in those days, I was just a boy really, a boy from a small northern city starting out in the biggest southern city and petrified. The man that became of me after a drink then, or soba only as much as twelve months later, would have disembarked that damn train with her, even if it wasn’t my stop. Even if she’d merely been having a little fun and knocked me back immediately, even if I’d had to wait for God’s knows how long for the next train, just on the off chance. I could have met her every desire whenever or wherever she damn well liked, there and then in a secluded corner of the station, the toilets, car park, her car, a hotel, her home, she could have used me anywhere she liked, but I didn’t get up, and she never knew, and all this time it’s a loose end. I learnt from it though, such things play a part in the people we become don’t they? It also played a part in Alexander McQueen’s film, ‘Shame,’ it seems he must have been on the train.

Sandpit Politic

If an ugly personality snares you, and takes you into their midst, and if you allow for it for fear of reprisal, cut loose immediately, for they are a parasite latching on to your soul. It's how they work, without people around them to dominate there is nobody to listen to their poison, and so they are nothing, and that's better for everyone, including them.

I'll Be The Judge Of That

I never judge anyone or anything, not even the devil, not until I am fully canvassed. I would always require a meeting first, to make my own mind up. I guess I have trouble trusting hearsay. I have my upbringing to thank for that.

Some People!

The end of a long hard week of argument and I arrive home, peer through the window of my front room and jump up and down pulling faces. My baby daughter soon sees me and climbs up onto the chair to jump up and down with excitement and giggle back at me. I open the front door and walk in, by which time she’s made it into the hall and charges towards me, I squat down and we embrace, she withdraws and tells me all about her day, my day is now forgotten, almost, I just need beer and dry roasted peanuts to completely rid me of the tension. Seeing as its Friday I agree to take Annie with me to the shop so she can choose a sweetie, off we go to the Co-op round the corner, me still suited and booted. As we enter, Annie takes a wheelie shopping basket from the pile and sets off pulling it behind her into the shop, it’s bigger than her, but she likes to be in charge of the shopping. The staff at the tills grin at her, those on the floor look on with slight anxiety, they all know her well. As usual, what should have been a couple of items becomes half a dozen as negotiations go her way, until finally we make it to the till and I realise I have forgotten something. I ask the lad on our particular checkout to serve other people while we go back in for something, we weren’t in any hurry, he agrees and places our items to one side. Unfortunately, Annie gets away from me, unwraps a Kinder Egg on the floor of the sweetie aisle, and there is chocolate shell and foil everywhere, by the time I prise Annie away, clean up the mess as best I can, find what I’m looking for and get back to the checkouts, there’s a queue of about four or five people for the two manned tills, so I join the end of it with Annie under one arm. As I do so, a woman in her sixties, who is almost finished at the checkout opposite my items, turns to me with absolute venom and almost hisses, ‘ This is your fault, you’ve caused this queue.’ I see red, all week I’ve had to argue with people in our professional capacities, yes it gets personal; yes it gets unreasonable and fraught with accusation, and now I’m faced with it on my weekend. I cannot abide argument or confrontation, especially in my personal life; I get quite enough in my work, so I avoid it like the plague after I’ve clocked off, I find a jolly demeanour, forgiving nature and impeccable manors work a treat for this. However, sometimes it cannot be avoided, and I’m no wall flower when faced with an unfounded attack. Calmly and firmly, I reply that the queue has in fact nothing to do with me, I'd made it very clear to staff that they were to serve other people whilst I went to get something I’d forgotten. ‘No you didn’t, you didn’t make it clear, and now there’s a queue,’ she spat, despite her having been nowhere near when I'd made it clear. By this time my fellow shoppers and some off the staff were shaking their heads at this vehement woman while smiling sideways sympathetically towards me. She reminded me of the people with whom I have to deal in a professional capacity almost daily, the people with whom I have to bite my lip not to destroy, that wasn’t necessary here, so I knew exactly what I wanted to say, she got it eventually, for her, and for every other fucker who fucked me off at court that week. I gave her one last chance, ‘Please, I don’t want an argument, I’ve argued all week and now it’s my time with my two year old.’ I couldn’t believe the silly old bats response to this, ‘I’m not arguing,’ she snapped. I didn’t point out that she was now arguing about whether we were arguing, instead my speech was as follows, and this goes out to all the other ignorant bastards out there; ‘A person of your years really should know better, it saddens me that you should have so little empathy that you cannot see that I’m a working father, on my own, with my arms full of shopping, a two year old in tow, just trying to do my best and keep life upbeat. Not only that, but for the sake of a few minutes you have spread your vent and negativity, and with a child present, shame on you, you miserable old goat, for God’s sake go and get help or top yourself, it’s better for everyone.’ I remained upset for some time after, but I sincerely hope she did too.

V Day Story

Valentine’s Day 2014 and I’m meeting my fiancée in town after work, I’ve got tickets to see the Nutcracker, a big bunch of flowers and the biggest card I could find, easily the best part of an A3. I finished up early so took the Met from Bury into central Manchester with a view to having a few beers in the Weatherspoon’s around the corner from Sam’s work. I managed to get myself a table and plonked myself up there, unconsciously spreading my flowers and card across it. Having supped three pints and being well on through my wait for Sam, I noticed quite a lot of disturbance at a nearby table; they looked like young professional types, probably just having met on a career development course and, given an early finish, decided to go to the pub. The girls were attractive, so I did find myself looking over from time to time, and certainly more than could have been deemed innocent people watching. I soon clocked the fact that I was clearly one of their topics of conversation. They obviously thought I looked handsome and were daring one of the girls to come and chat me up, there was certainly a lot of smiling and giggling in my direction. Eventually, the tidiest of the girls approached, she began talking to me, finding out about me and being very friendly and nice, I was in, perhaps I still had it. I was completely oblivious to the garish red card and flowers set out in front of me; pulling out a whole holdall of charm on her pretty little arse. Eventually, when the devil flashed across my mind, she asked me if I had been stood up! I explained that I hadn’t, I was waiting for my fiancée to finish work, that she’d be here any minute, and so, if she wanted my number she’d better hurry up and take out her phone. She laughed, exclaiming that they’d thought I’d been stood up was all, I looked across and they were all grinning in my direction. The nosey bastards, I’d been duped; they thought I was a loser and it hadn’t even dawned on me that I might look like one, even become one. So I guess the moral of the story is, if you’re out on a Valentine’s date and you’ve got a bit of a wait, either hide away your paraphernalia, or get there on time, oh, and keep your libido in check.

Smile

As long as you do your best, that's all you can ever do, then if it all goes wrong it isn't your fault, it's just the way it is.

Nobody Knows You Better Than Yourself

For years I thought I wasn't practical, because that's what they told me, then I tried something practical.

Jumper

Last night me and everybody else walked past a rather sorry looking homeless man in our thousands on the commute home past the NCP on Oxford Road, I heard him say, 'Not one soul has stopped. The shitty reality of humanity.' 1 hour later somebody had jumped off the very same NCP. I can't help thinking it was the same man. God rest that poor soul whoever it was.

No Longer Tapped

I gave up the news a few weeks ago to improve my well being, it worked, but when I do catch the odd second by accident I note it continues to be almost a bragging session of death and destruction, surely hearing that everyday whilst being powerless to do very much about it must cause desensitisation, but then I accept we need to hear it, provided it's true, but I have to say sticking your head in the sand for a bit really cheers the soul.

The Coffee Mad

It's just fucking weird buying a coffee, and even more weird actually socialising over one, I mean wtf is that all about - weirdo's!

Changes Are Afoot

This world is so messed up that I'm afraid I'm in danger of sounding like the bloody news. The news, which gives us a sense of urgency about which we can usually do nothing; damn depressing.

The Uncalm Before The Storm

Either we forgive, or something has to give.

Black Death

Boko Haram... Total Shell?

Charlie Hebdo

Freedom of speech has to be across the board, in no way ambiguous, or hypocritical; one rule for all - there are no rules. If it means we have to learn to ignore or just lighten up even, then it has to be worth it. Learnt that a school me.

British Petroleum

BP....Bumper Profits. Surely there's enough in the coffers to keep on the little guy for the rainy days, the fat guy needs to get used to losing a a few pounds anyway, ready for the renewables?

New Beginnings or Beginning of the End

Having watched 'Angry, White and Proud' last night, my conclusion is that the real enemy is anger, on both sides. Let it go, all of you, and let's work together to save the one common thing we all need to survive; our planet!

Exhausted

I know they say it did us no harm, but there must be three times more traffic on the roads since we were exhaust height, many of them diesels now too, (apparently the worst for young lungs). Seems we'll have to take the big diesel car everywhere now to keep out of it, bloody catch 22 tragedy.

Only Born

12th February 2012 There is actually an app now that tells you when to have sex in order to have the best chance to conceive. Squirty cream helps also. 19th February 2012 Missionary concern. 27th February 2012 - Nesting I have taken the day off today to take delivery of our new double door shed, the last one having ended up six doors down in the ginnel after a freak cyclone, its contents strewn across the neighbours’ otherwise totally unaffected gardens. I had requested that the shed be dropped off during the AM, the alternative option being the PM, Monday to Friday only that is. Business idea – ‘man with a van, delivers when you can.’ So, I rise uncharacteristically early and clean the house while I wait, afraid to even take the rubbish out back in case I miss the door. AM comes and goes, then passes completely into PM. I phone Sam at work, she has the shed company’s details, I ask her to call them to find out what in the Hell’s going on. Twenty minutes later, Sam phones back, the man with a van is at a funeral and the shed cannot be delivered today. Livid is not the word, so I request the shed company’s telephone number. Sam requests that I do not fly off the handle; the company is a small man and wife team. Calm, controlled, articulate, reasonable but clinical, I advise wifey that I have taken the day off in order to take delivery of, and then build the shed. I further advise wifey that I have been waiting all morning and might have waited all day had we not contacted them. Did people outside the shed industry not have work or private life commitments? I agree to take delivery of the shed later that PM. The shed arrives about mid PM, only two hours light remain, it is too heavy to lift into the garden all packed and wrapped. I remove the packaging and carry the shed into the garden in pieces. I ask the delivery man whether he has ever put one up, simply to gauge the level of my mission, he defensively blurts out that he is not helping and leaves. Upon opening the instructions I immediately read that every piece of wood must be treated prior to assembly, I have no wood treatment, the Heavens open. I establish after some time and significant anguish that the instructions I have are incorrect and for a different type of shed. So I begin to piece things together as best I can, breaking several drill bits, several screw heads, losing many nails and discovering that the roof panels and the floor panels have been omitted from the kit. I decide to at least make what is already botched together resemble a shed by putting the window in. I pick up the glass pane, note its very light weight and fragile feel, immediately realising that I am going to break it, I take extra careful care. I slowly put the glass in place, clip in the beading, hammer the first nail through the top of the beading to hold everything in place and stand back, the glass dislodges, slips to the floor and shatters into a million paw cutting pieces. Night falls, as does more rain. Consult shed company website, they supply 3000 sheds per month and are consistently reviewed as having the easiest sheds on the market to erect. Sam arrives home to Grizzly Adam, the most useless excuse for a man on record, the man who cannot abide not to succeed, never knows when to quit, and thus takes an awful long time to eventually fail, and all the more epically for it. A man who is so tenacious and then subsequently upset by lack of success, that not to complete a task becomes heartbreaking, despite regular practice. Not really a proper, real practical man. ‘So did you get my text?’ Sam asks, I look dumbfounded, ‘Why didn’t you answer?’ I have no answer. ‘What do you think? Are you worried? Are you scared? Is it not what you want? Why haven’t you answered?’ The text she had sent at 3:35pm read as follows; ‘Hi babe, how is it going, has the shed arrived yet? I have to tell you something as I can’t concentrate. You know how we were talking about possible dates yesterday? Well, I think I may have worked my dates out wrong. I will check again when I get home but I think I might do a test tonight. I had to tell you as I can’t think about anything else. X’ So the Clear Blue kits come out and my heart leaps around, excitement is predominant, but there is also the disbelief that somebody has actually contemplated having a baby with me, let alone looking likely to have gone through with it. A tiny part of me may well have made it all the way there, to join a tiny part of her, in something we had made together, something living, our own tiny being. So we dash up and down the stairs and eventually settle close to one another on the side of the bath. Huddling around a stick that Sam just peed on, it doesn’t just turn blue; it instantly beams with a vertical bold blue line. We run downstairs and sit looking at it, disbelieving, ore struck and silent. We repeat the process and read and re-read the instructions several times. We sit around two identical sticks in the front room, still not believing, ore struck and silent. My camera is close to hand, so I try to capture the moment. So as to ensure that I do so, I take tens of photographs of Sam in every expression, with sticks, without sticks, on phone, off phone. 1st March 2012 – First Doctor’s Appointment Today is the first visit to the GP in the company of me. I ask a lot of questions about what’s safe to eat and what isn’t. The GP is a youngish woman with a student in tow. She was no doubt the clever girl with frizzy hair; she has a red face and is of medium to heavy build, a sensible older sister type. She works out how many weeks pregnant Sam is and recommends a website called, ‘Emma’s Diary.’ This is a daily guide with information contained on which foods to avoid, what bodily functions take place, symptoms to expect and baby development. There is no doubt that Sam will be confirmed as pregnant she tells us, the home tests nowadays apparently being incredibly sensitive and reliable. Two positive tests was a sure thing according to the doc. We find out about the role of the mid-wife, a little about the various scans, exercise and what activities can still be undertaken during pregnancy. We ask a little about the birth procedures, my view being that if Sam wants drugs, then by God she will have them, I blame nurture for my predicament, not the drugs! I ask about the possibility of a water birth, I’d heard the NHS was offering that option now. The good doc is happy to inform us, but then perturbed when I explain that there is a good chance the child might have gills. According to ‘Emma’s Diary’ the little being is by now looking like a tiny tadpole, we name him, Terrence the Tadpole. 18th March 2012 – Mothering Sunday We are delighted to announce the second coming, that’s Jesus 2 to you two. Decide to wait until Mother’s Day to announce it to the mother’s on my side. I do so with a big bunch of flowers and a customized card to my mother, announcing that she is to be a grandmother again. My Grandmother on the other hand, I send a box of chocolates of course, with the news spelt out on 32 chocolates with fondant letters on top. I speak to mum and dad on the phone, joking that both Sam and I have very busy lives and that those lives have to take precedent over the kid, we will therefore be looking to offload it as much as possible. 20th March 2012 Gran phones, the chocolates having been delayed. Gran’s elation is somewhat humbling; I am on the train whilst I speak with her and am finding the conversation extremely poignant and deeply happy. I am lost for words and silence becomes me on a couple of occasions as my mind locks in smile and emotion. I enter a sort of happy trance, as if caught in a spell of elation or semi hypnotised by the kindness and genuine warmth of response for the news. 21st March 2012 I don’t mind learning the sex of the child before birth. I don’t mind if it’s a boy or a girl - that is not my call; it is the decision of fate and is made without me. I am simply happy to embrace what I cannot control. I am however concerned that knowing the sex may cause an attachment that could cause difficulty if anything went wrong, but I guess practicality outweighs that argument, not to mention Sam. For some reason I know, and have done since the start that Terrence is a boy. Sam would like a girl to go shopping with. Trevor once told me that to determine the sex of your child you must think either boy or girl at the moment of ejaculation. I know I did this but I cannot remember which one I chose. 22nd March 2012 Sam’s sense of smell has become ultra sensitive, she says, ‘I was lying in bed, and as soon as the front door opened I could smell that you’d had a kebab.’ There was a hall, a staircase, a landing and a bedroom door between us. They say that because a foetus contains the same cells as their mother, their thoughts are connected, hence the unusual cravings. I argue the same is the case for the father. 23rd March 2012 Mazza texts me a picture of a van in front of him on the motorway, it is lettered up; ‘ADAMSON.’ Timeless Sam’s Nan, Annie, dies during the course of the pregnancy; we decide to name the only born after her if it’s a girl. Before her death, Annie used to say to her pregnant granddaughter, ‘You can drink what you like, just make sure it’s not too strong, why not have a nice Gin with a little orange?’ 23rd March 2012 – First Scan We go for a special private eight week scan today. A bit earlier than your standard NHS scan, just to re-assure Sam that there is nothing to worry about and everything is as it should be. The Bridgewater Hospital lies in the underbelly of where Moss Side meets Hulme, right under the imposing loom of the Manchester Brewery, and just around the corner from the more traditional looking Hyde’s Brewery. I enjoy the smell of hops, beer and gun powder in the spring sunshine. So we meet the being/Terrence the tadpole in Moss Side next to a couple of breweries in a tiny flash hospital with a very secure forecourt full of Jags and Beemers. Forms, of course forms; forms form society and without forms society can’t do shit. The admin officer wants to know Sam’s height in centimetres. Sam is on the loo as usual, so I make a hasty and educated guess based upon my own height. I state it confidently and authoritatively, not forgetting that because of all the forms, without bullshit in the world, things would break down. She laughs at first, what man would possible know that of his female partner, however, upon seeing my assertive face, she quietly jots it down. My guess is that my guess is wrong; she is right on that I am sure, but then I am right to shit her, to do so is essential to move on. We soon go in, the nurse is so lovely and well spoken it hurt. I’d have been taken in by it had I not just witnessed her viciously bully an ugly black receptionist. Sam clambers onto the bed and the mid-wife, or possibly doctor, asks me to sit close and says, ‘if you can slip your pants down to just below the navel for me.’ I pretend to oblige. Heartbeat as strong and as clear as an Ox, 1.80 centimetres in length, new name; ‘one hundred and eighty!’ There he is, all curled up and fast asleep on the floor of a great empty cavern. He looks cosy, comfortable, content and protected, tight up against the buttress of his empty Cathedral’s supporting wall. To think that part of me had made it into there, and to still be alive now with part of Sam, amazing, if just a little nauseating too. The feeling is hard to put into words, a very strong feeling, very difficult to articulate, a feeling that a wonderful life experience is beginning to unfold, right there to see. Sensing our emotions the hard sell commences, the nurse and the mid-wife tag team in an attempt to sell us more procedures and healthcare, but the information amongst the barrage of sales is good and the process important – making a direct and physical link between the imagination and the reality of the matter. We have met now. 24th March 2012 We announce the news to Gus, Dee and Hattie over a pre-arranged Skype call. Dee shows off her own bump, their second girl due in just seven weeks. Sam is relatively lucky with her symptoms, the only significant hardship being no Friday night wine, somewhat of a religion over the past couple of decades. Gus has just the solution, placebo drinking – fixing Gin and Tonics with plenty of ice and lemon, on occasion with a little Gin, on occasion without, the trick being never to announce which is which. They also suggest the online Chinese gender test, it having correctly predicted the sex of their own two. We undertake the Chinese test after the call, it predicts a boy and suddenly the prospect of looking like less of a geek whilst playing with radio controlled models seems likely. 5th April 2012 Take the grandmothers to be, out for tea; Damson’s no less, Jude on route to Dubai. We discuss names and whether or not we have come up with any. Sam and I have already anticipated the prospect of such conversations and agreed not to tell anybody about our serious ideas, just in case they were frowned upon, or worse, copied, (there is a baby boom amongst friends forthcoming). So, on the basis we do not share a surname, and on the basis we are not completely certain about the sex, we decide upon the unisex combination of our first names, and dead pan, we announce – ‘Sadam.’ Later that evening, my mum told us of parenthood, ‘In my day as young parents we just didn’t drink, I was scared to, just in case we would have to take the boys to hospital.’ Sam responds, ‘Oh its fine, nowadays we just get a taxi.’ 21st April 2012 The Bridgewater Hospital’s hard sell fails; we opt for our 12 week scan at the notorious Stepping Hill Hospital. He won’t stay still and is driving the radiographer nuts! I take a ticket from the machine to collect our photograph, extraordinarily enough, its ticket number one hundred and eighty, although he is now six centimetres. At no point do I get the feeling he is in fact a she. The picture isn’t very good. 18th June 2012 Twenty week scan today, so I’ve taken half a day off. We’re called in, this is the big one. They give us the option to learn the sex so we take it. Our student mid-wife, who has been assigned to us on account of Sam being low risk, struggles to pin point the sex, the baby is wriggling a lot and won’t stay still, nothing new there! While Sam is up an about baby rocks off to sleep, but as soon as Sam lies down baby wakes up for a play! The mid-wife in charge has a go, she fairs no better. Eventually, after I have seen what I think is a willy several times, they make out what they believe to be a line. They check again whether we want to know, we agree, I know now anyway. The mid-wife explains that the line would indicate that we are having a little girl. I fall silent in disbelief. 2nd to 3rd November 2012 Sam’s due date is tomorrow, but something is afoot, she keeps having shooting pains up her bottom and it isn’t me. We’ve decided to go for a curry for tea; we’ve heard it can get things moving, in pregnancy too. We go to the Swardesh restaurant in Didsbury as a treat; it’s quite a nice one. Sam gets a strong pain as she climbs out of the car, not like anything she’s had before. The restaurant is packed and we haven’t booked so we have to wait for a while near the back of the restaurant in the toilets, kitchen and bar area, and in a bit of a queue too. Sam is clearly heavily pregnant and looking likely to drop at anytime, I thought it might spur people on to let us in front of them in terms of being seated at a table, instead it only gets her a seat in the queue, courtesy of the waiter. Sam is having all kinds of strange goings on and pains, she is convinced that it will be tonight, I am convinced she is already in labour, I offer to take her home but they clearly both want their curry and we wait it out. We are seated near the front of the restaurant close to the front door which is rather fortunate. For the first time ever, following an awful lot of starters, Sam orders a very hot curry; it might even have been some kind of posh take on a Vindaloo. We knuckle down and tuck in, I allow myself one beer, a small bottle to wash down the food; it’s going to be driving duty for me tonight, no doubt. We go to bed as soon as we get in, it’s about 9:00pm; Sam is in quite a lot of discomfort generally and may be having contractions, we count the time between the pains, there is too much time and not enough consistency. We’d been advised at the ante-natal classes to remain in the comfort and familiarity of our own home for as long as possible to avoid any stress, but also the possibility of having to be sent home again. Indeed, advice had been that it was better to get through as much of the labour as possible in your own home and that there would be a mid-wife available on the end of the phone whenever required. They advised us that to help with this it was a good idea to do something to take Sam’s mind off what was going on, such as cooking. So I took her downstairs and made her watch three episodes of Robson Green’s Extreme Fishing back to back. It seemed to do the trick, she watched intently whilst we timed the pains and she controlled her breathing, the times between the pains still did not suggest they were contractions and there was no sign of her waters breaking. I went to put a fourth episode of Extreme Fishing on, it was great being able to rattle through so many and get them deleted from the planner, Sam put up her arm and said, ‘Right, I don’t care if these aren’t contractions, they’re getting stronger now and I need to go to hospital, I want to go now.’ I agreed and dashed into the kitchen to make up a picnic, something that the fathers had been advised to do at this stage to delay going to the hospital for a bit longer, but also to sustain both parents to be through what could be a long and energy sapping period. I know that Sam is at the end of her tether and that I should be getting to hospital now, so I didn’t mess about, rattling off a few rounds of cheese and pickle sandwiches and grabbing a bunch of bananas, ‘Now, I need to go now,’ she shouts from the living room. I dash out to the car, get her started and the heaters on, I run back in for some water to douse down the frozen windows and then wrap up her ladyship and walk her slowly down to the passenger door, splitting it open like a time machine freshly back from November 5th 1955. Gently, carefully I lower Sam in and then get the door shut quickly to let the heat build. That good old VW Polo 1.4 automatic, over a decade in age and still it starts first time, not only that but as I clamber in it’s already getting warm. There’s nothing on the roads and we’re at the hospital in no time, warm as toast, talking freely and excitedly all the way there, between pains of course, which are still too far apart to be contractions. I park in the car park right outside the maternity ward and slip a note in the widow, ‘Baby coming.’ We’d been told by the mid-wife this would ensure free parking so you didn’t have to mess around finding change, getting a ticket and then coming and going to top up the meter. We walk in and take the lift up to the third floor where we meet a mid-wife; they are expecting us because we’d phoned a couple of times to be told that Sam was not yet having labour contractions. The mid-wife was packing us off home again, but just before we left, possibly in order to gauge when we might be back, she measured Sam’s dilation. To everybody’s surprise it was ten centimetres, Sam was into advanced labour, she wasn’t going anywhere and there was now a sense of slick, calm professionalism about things. Sam remains on the bed whilst they make our birthing suite ready, we’d been shown round previously; each suite had a little kitchen area, bathroom, CD player, chairs and of course the multi-functioning bed, the special addition to our particular suite however was the ensuite birthing pool. We’d opted for a water birth if possible. We are transferred in and encouraged to feel at home, Sam preferring to stand, bent over with her elbows and forearms on a table, they start to fill the birthing pool, it’s massive, so better to start now. I understand they intend to call our student mid-wife, we are her case study so she has requested to be with us whatever the day or time. Sam is doing well, breathing well, finding her stride, finding a rhythm, but struggling to manage the great waves of pain that increase with intensity and take her to the brink of being overwhelmed with each contraction. Calmly and reassuringly, the mid-wife asks Sam if she would like a little gas and air, we both agree. The gas and air is an instant hit with us both, Sam asks for some rave music, I oblige and hook up to Spotify. I had prepared numerous playlists for the occasion, from the calming and soothing sounds of whales and spa music, to the uplifting and nostalgic storytelling sounds of our lives, all out of the window for ‘Rave Generator 2’ and ‘Get Ready For The Rave Alert.’ Not a genre of music which Sam has listened to before, but I had, intently for many years, and mixed with the gas and air I got where she was coming from. Between contractions Sam developed a technique which made her look like she was running through the pain, like she was tackling things head on by sort of running on the spot whilst bent over a table listening to hardcore dance music and toking on gas and air. She could have been on an invisible step machine set to ‘Everest’ taking hits of oxygen, all in perfect harmony to the multiple beats. This was going on for some time, there was something wrong with the hot water supply for the birthing pool - there wasn’t any. Eventually, we lower Sam into the pool and get down to business. Annie’s head is showing, a little crown matted with loads of dark hair already, she is still contained in her waters, the mid-wives,’ who are not that busy tonight take the view that there is a chance that Annie is looking likely to be born in her waters, something which is thought to be extremely rare and lucky. There is now a period of stale mate and nothing is happening, whilst Annie continues to show no signs of distress whatsoever, because there is no movement, a decision is made to burst the waters and get Sam out and back onto the bed. By this time, between us we’ve done two and a half large bottles of gas and air. For the next few hours we have a good heave ho, but not so much movement, Sam is an absolute trooper, she’s ditched the gas and air and grafts like crazy. The mid-wives can see the effort Sam is putting in and they are all willing her to do this on her own and without the need for the lower levels and the doctors, and drugs for that matter. Annie remains calm throughout so we keep going. By the end there are four mid –wives, two on one leg, one on the other leg with me, and another bohemian type massaging her home mixed essential oils into Sam’s feet. We’re all cheering Sam on as she tries between lying on her back and flipped over on all fours. By this time Sam is past caring about her dignity and yet maintains it none the less, for there is something magic happening. At the lead of a rather hoarse and good honest practical sort, no doubt from the old school of mid-wifery, we chant and shout and encourage Sam, we tell her that each contraction she is having will be the last and exaggerate how far out Annie’s head is. This goes on for an hour or so and I really feel for Sam, she had put everything she had into her final push at the start of this hour thinking that would be the last, there had been many more of equivalent magnitude since and she was by now getting exhausted. The old mid-wife knew this and on the next push, she made a snip and out explodes our Annie, all folded up into a tiny package, but then her ears pop out, she straightens up and her limbs just come out of nowhere, I can’t believe that she’s come out of Sam, you certainly couldn’t get her back in there. She weighs 8lb 1oz. Sam and Annie are eventually placed on the ward after we have a few visitors clutching pink balloons. 3rd November 2012 We are spending the rest of day in the hospital. Sam goes off to the toilet and leaves Annie in her tiny plastic crib. I can see the dark brown profile of her little face from the other side of the bed, her eyes are closed, and she looks warm and snug in her tiny white hat but incredibly fragile. I stare at her and feel connected. Later in the day I give Annie her first bath in a sink under the guidance of a mid-wife, she is barely longer than my forearm and seems to weigh less than an 8lb Salmon would. Annie cannot be discharged until she has had her hearing tested, and her first poo and wee, just to make sure nothing is blocked or tangled up in there. She has her first and last feed from Sam; the antibody serum that if the cosmetics industry could bottle, we none of us would ever age again. We check Annie’s nappy regularly, she has weed, and her small brown rubber like cork has discharged from her bum, so the brand new seal is now broken, but no poo yet, so she’s set to stay in overnight. I leave late evening after Sam is set up with some television and the two of them are in their PJ’s. I drive home on cloud nine but ready for some sleep, the texts and well wishes are flooding in. Rich had thought we'd been partying because of the tunes we'd been playing in the early hours, they'd been coming up on my Facebook page throughout the night, it been linked in to my Spotify account. 4th November 2012 As soon as my eyes open I’m wide awake and almost bursting with pride and life. I normally take ages to wake up, gain my senses, become fully alert and fire on all cylinders, not today. I’ve already packed a bag and the car seat is fitted in Sam’s car ready for their collection. I get an incredible text from Sam saying, ‘Morning daddy, we have slept well and cannot wait to see you.’ I levitate to the car and clamber in; the soundtrack is carefully selected for the home coming. Annie has a poo when she sees me; her hearing has to be double checked, but she’s signed out. I drive very slowly and carefully all the way home, Sam sits in the back with Annie, it’s an amazing time. Once home we take Annie out of the car, tie her balloons to her baby seat and carry everything in. The neighbours all gather to meet her on the doorstep and wish us well. Once inside we put the sleeping Annie down in front of the sofa on the foot stool, light the fire and tuck in to a Champagne picnic of soft cheeses, seafood, pate, and all the things Sam hadn’t been allowed to eat for the last nine months. We drink two more bottles of fizz and Annie doesn’t stir, just sleeps like an angel - bliss. 8th January 2015 Thank God she is. Nature knows me better than I know myself, I was always meant to have a girl.