Last night was that most beautiful and rarest of things. Mrs Doff was out with Baby when I got home from work, which allowed me to have an entire hour to myself! Furthermore, they'd exhuasted themselves having a day of activities, meaning that Her Indoors was in bed by just gone 10 and he too was asleep by 10.30! I'd struck gold! I had the run of the flat, beer in the fridge, an endless supply of entertainment on the internet!
I guess it was 10.45 by the time I was in bed myself.
....
My youth seems to be gone, c'est la vie. There is great comfort to be found in memories though, and who amongst the early internet cognisceti could forget schifty-five?
Yesterday, the baby awoke from his slumber in his moses basket to see my ugly mug staring down at him. I've never seeen anyone look quite so fucked off in all my days- his face is becoming more and more expressive, which is brilliant for us parents since we can get more of a gist of how he's feeling (and how much our parenting is messing him up), but seriously- he gave out an almighty roar of irritation. Up to now, all of his noises have been happy (small noises) or sad (crying). This was his first foray into expressing real anger and I'm terribly proud.
Speaking of terribly proud, we've been obsessing further over the boy's shit recently, as he's started getting incredibly bad tempered when he can't poo. You or I would have the common wit to go and eat some fibre and have a cup of tea, but this little git* takes it out on us instead. Imagine my pride (and intense relief at the prospect of a happy, quiet baby) when this morning he had a giant poo. Just wonderful. Less wonderful was the fact that as soon as I took his nappy off and wiped away most of the poop I was confronted with a FOUNTAIN of shite pouring from this boy's arse. There are fewer sights in the world more unsettling than an arsehole opening up to allow passage of matter. Fine if you're watching scatporn, hell perhaps even desireable- but panic inducing when you're tasked with cleaning it up. On it went for what felt like a lifetime- a nappy on the ground next to me, filled with really smelly crap, a changing mat in front of me, covered with really smelly crap, an infant smeared to the knees in really smelly crap on the mat (wearing a grin like a cheshire cat) and a totally unhelpful Mrs. Doff laughing her tits off watching the scene of devestation unfold. The place stank and as he ALWAYS does as soon as his nappy comes off the boy started peeing.
This is even more terrifying than the poop, which at least stays mostly confined to the immediate baby area, but the pee, Christ, it goes everywhere! If he's packing a little stiffy it goes straight up in the air, soaking his clothes . If not, he piddles into his own face, which while hilarious, is a bit of an indignity best to be avoided. So yeah, as soon as the peeing starts a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. So I did. I grabbed his knob. I pointed it down between his legs to control the flow direction and contained the situation as best I could. I ended up with pee and poo all over my hands, but when the alternative is the sound of him screaming because his eyes are full of piss I consider it a job well done. Anyway, drama over I got him dressed and went off to work- apparently he's been lovely today. I like to think I've made the day better for smallDOFF and Mrs DOFF through my efforts. That's me, a ripe old age, just doin' the best I can...
Flogging Molly-Float. I may have used this song before in one of my songs-of-the-week, but fuck it. It's a goodun.
A few weeks ago, before Baby doff was born I said that I'd never want this blog to turn into some sort of baby diary. I've read a load of blogs, and as they're little more than little glimpses of another person's life, it's inevitable that you'll see the influence of thier day to day life on thier writing. This wasn't something that I really appreciated until having a kid. Like I say, I never wanted this blog, sparsely updated as it is, to turn into a baby thing, but nothing else really seems to exist anymore!
I didn't want to copy other bloggers and get into frenzied paroxyms over when the baby had last shat, for example, but here I am- it's coming up for 11pm and the baby hasn't had a crap in 24 hours. Mrs doff is in tears, I've resorted to drinking and frantically massaging the baby's stomach in the hope that we can tease out a shite. I can't focus on anything else! WHERE IS HIS POO???
Babies really are all consuming. I had no idea. To calm myself down I've turned to a recent song-of-the-week composer, because I have come to love him and his beautiful voice. It's magnificent Canadian Stan Rogers again, and this song is called Northwest Passage. According to one source (a youtube comment- possibly not the most viable of sources) canadians voted that this song should replace thier national anthem. Eh, I'm no canadian, but this song makes me know the pride of being one.
Baby Doff was born on 24/1 amid much fanfare and celebration. He's now 15 days old, and I'd estimate that he's had about 90 shits so far- he's his father's son. He's also a voracious feeder, prone to incomprehensible bouts of hysteria, and his body is covered in a sort of thick downy fluff- in these respects he's very much his mother's son.
Though I must admit, I'm not sure what all the fuss is about labour. Mrs Doff seemed to get on fine, and I sat in the delivery suite with her eating peanuts and doing the sudoku in The Telegraph. Normally I do the one in The Times, but as this was due to be a red-letter day I thought it might be nice to spread my wings a bit. Pleasingly I finished the difficult one in about half an hour; would have been quicker but Mrs D started getting a bit shouty and needed some lucozade. She kept muttering something about an epidural, but seemed to calm down a bit when I popped a grape in her mouth (a cold one! I'd brought an icebox!)- the midwife made some encouraging remarks at this stage which may have been the catalyst to Mrs D's relaxation, but I'm not so sure. There are few things more soothing on this blue planet of ours than the carress of a cold grape across one's tounge. Unless you've got sensitive fillings.
Satisfied that things had quietened down enough to allow concentration, I embarked on the crossword in The Times just after 5, but sadly I wasn't able to complete it. It was the nitty gritty end of the afternoon's activity and a mere 45 minutes later a small purple thing erupted from my partner's mimsy and released a triumphant roar. In truth, it was very emotional- dismal jokes about getting the puzzles done in the broadsheets aside, it's quite an extraordinary and emotive sight seeing your partner go through such distress and pain- the whole pregnancy thing seems a bit 'other' I think to most men- you see your partner physically changing, but it's hard to rationalise the fact that there's another person developing inside her, and you can't get to grips with the scale of the changes that will take place in your life until you see the very physical aspect of labour and hear the first cry of your child; see the utter relief on her face as she holds him for the first time and then draws you in for the first cuddle all together- a family where once you were just a couple.
I decided against posting the saturday footy match reports here in the end. I quite like keeping my various social groups separate- colleagues don't meet old friends, old friends rarely meet family (especially since an old friend teased my Mum about her fanny in the pub last Xmas), saturday footy people dont' meet anybody, and of course Mrs Doff is only allowed out of the cellar when I'm quite sure that the authorities are not in my proximity.
With that in mind I started another site, http://saturdayfooty.wordpress.com/ where I write up the reports. This has the added bonus that I can allow the people I play with access to the site where they can upload images of us playing footy and write their own reports etc. Sadly, none of the fucking prats have seen fit to do so and I'm left to do all the donkey work. Should have seen this coming really. Workshy arseholes.
...
A song for the week seems in order. How about this? Streetlight Manifesto with a saucy little scamp of a song; Would you be impressed. Cracking video;
This is a new thing- I'm going to start writing match reports for the Saturday game I play in. I wrote one and there was a small amount of interest from the guys I play with, so that seems like reason enough to stick it here.
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The orange team romped into an early 4-1 lead against a sieve-like lemon-bibbed defence. Our 3 African strikers playing some beautiful interchanges, and our rearguard (marshalled by the imperious Andrew) were stalwarts- totally impenetrable, apart, obviously, from the time that they were penetrated.
Perhaps inevitably though the orange’s energy levels waned and they were unable to sustain their early brilliance. Emboldened, Barry left his defence to its own devices to take a starring role up front for the lemons, proving his versatility as both goal scorer and provider.
Confidence in tatters, the oranges went completely to pieces and soon found themselves on the end of a royal humping, going on to lose 6-4. Frankly, they were only saved further embarrassment by the waning light.
It was a dismal capitulation and an affront to the orange team shirt.
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Song of the week? Well. Given my paucity of posts this might as well be song of the 3 monthly interval. This is Manu Chao, with Bongo Bong. He's a French singer of spanish origin who sings in loads of different languages. The Weed (who will be known as Mrs DOFF going forward. I think the mother of my unborn child deserves better than to be known as The Weed, strangler of all life) has a bit of a ladyboner for him.
It's quite funny- if we stick this on the stereo our boy starts kicking around in Mrs DOFF's womb. I'll have that boy listening to some proper music, I can tell you.
In April 2001 I was apprenticed to my Dad as a skinner. The skinners were one of the early livery companies in the City of London, and guild membership meant that you were allowed to practice that trade. Other guilds include the goldsmiths, the silversmiths, barbers, mercers (merchants), fishmongers etc, and it was thier job to regulate thier trade. Anyway, I completed my apprenticeship in 2008 and we've finally got round to going to London this week to accept my freedom of the guild.
I am now allowed to practice the trade of selling furs! Hooray!
Naturally, I'm not going to do this because OMG I just luvvvvvv animals ♥♥♥♥♥♥, but this company has been running since the fourteenth century- it is a very very old Old Boys Club, of which I am now a paid up member.
All terribly exciting, and I am a terribly posh person of notable standing. Ladies? Form an orderly queue. I'll be with you in due (inter)course.
*peeeeeep*
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song of the week this month is Stuck by Frowser. I'd never heard of these guys, but one of our engineers runs a pub out in Aylesbury and Frowser came and recorded thier video there a few weeks back.
Its Saturday morning, and I'm lying in bed surrounded by a cloud of fart gas. I have a problem anus.
Song of the week? Rawhiiiiiiiiide! A quintessentially American song, written of course by the Russian born Dimitri Zinovievich Tiomkin. Pity really, sounds like it should have been written by someone called Chuck Wrangler or Mike Hunt.
The Weed is up the duff! Fingers crossed it won't come out wearing a postman's uniform.
Of course this means that there will be many exciting developments in our lives. We'll buy a house, get a pet (currently on the list of pets to get- a cat, a dog, chickens, a running duck, a rabbit, a ferret, I'd quite like an owl. We're going to have a) no money for the kid or ourselves and b) a hell of a lot of shit on our property. We may have to scale down the menagerie a bit), and become a proper family. It really is quite amazing.
But I think it's important to recognise the most serious aspect of this turn of events. This may end up turning into a blog about things the kid (working name- Keith) has done, and I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with that. I mean, I don't want my work to lose it's edge or gravitas.
That said, I'll have loads of new shits to write about, so all's not lost!
Song of the week is Barratt's Privateers, by Stan Rogers. Not a classic choice, but a great song- and they're having a fucking grand old time singing it!
I read an interview once with Sting's wife, who said that he sometimes listened to himself on his mp3 player when at dinner parties.
What a fucking tool.
Anyway, this guy, Shawn Farquhar, is a card magician and is frankly amazing. He does the following trick along to 'Shape of my Heart' by Sting (bellend). He has to be fair written some cracking tunes in his time.
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