NASTY

"You want to donate?”

The cashier nods down to the collection box on the counter and fixes me with a startlingly intense stare. Do I want to donate? That’s a question I wasn’t prepared to answer when I stepped into WHSmiths for a White Americano and packet of Extra Strong Mints for the youngest.

The people in the line are watching, judging. The youngest is watching, judging too. But also I guess looking for guidance on what to do the next time someone in a shop asks him if he wants to donate. The truth is, I don't. For some reason the disdain I feel for people I don’t know asking me for money far outweighs any compassion I might feel for the poor and needy. Especially when they’re wearing yellow ears. But she’s still staring, and it doesn’t look like the transaction is going any further without an answer. Which means a dozen people’s day has been halted as a result of my callous indecision.

MOLLUSC

Our final afternoon on the Greek island of Kefalonia, and we’re snorkelling around a cluster of giant mushroom-shaped rocks sprouting from the sea opposite Ithaca. Apparently thrown by Cyclops at invading pirates. As if being half blind is an excuse for not tidying up after yourself. Anyway, they’re great to jump off and, especially when the sea is calm, the most photogenic objects on the island. Which means I take the same photos of them every time we’re there, in the mistaken belief that one of them will be perfect, and I will look at it often, even though it’s exactly the same as the last, and I won’t. That’s the problem with always having a high quality camera in your towel bag. When you have the opportunity to preserve that perfect moment for all eternity you tend to take it, thus missing it completely.

The eldest lets out a gurgled exclamation and points down to a huge snail moving surprisingly quickly over the rippled sand below. With the magnification effect of the water it’s hard to tell how big it is, although it looks about a foot long. It’s decided that I’ll dive to get it, having the biggest lungs. Also we’re all slightly worried it might be dangerous.

MINEFIELD

What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Then it kills you.

I’m sat staring at a laptop, fingers poised, frozen in a trance of helplessness and despair. I have approximately 30 minutes to write a short essay on the challenges facing the trucks used by aid workers in a location of my choice and how they are overcome. Or rather, the youngest has. But he’s got his head on the table and is blubbing quietly to himself. The Britain’s Got Talent Live Final is on in half an hour and he wants to watch it. Live. Far more than he wants to write about overcoming the challenges facing the trucks used by aid workers in a location of his choice.

As someone used to tackling the absurdities of government tenders, I’m no stranger to answering seemingly unanswerable questions to impossible deadlines. But nothing comes close to this. You see, this is not something I was ever expecting I’d need to know about. Let alone write a short essay on, with pictures, in time for the Live Final of Britain’s Got Talent.

KNOT GUILTY

"Go on then, tie him on."

The secret of being a successful adult is to only do things you can do. This is particularly important for people who, for example, build bridges. Or fly aeroplanes. Less important for those of us who don’t do anything that really matters to anyone else. But still quite important in so much as if you want someone to give you money for doing something, it really ought to be something you can do.

Consequently, very few adults do things they can’t, particularly when there’s someone watching. We leave that to the kids. For example, the fact that not a single kid in the class can sing in tune does not detract from the sick-making appeal of the Christmas carol concert. In fact it makes it all the more sick-full. The fact that a kid can’t draw doesn’t stop you pasting its artwork all over the fridge. In fact if it could draw, we’d probably be much less inclined to exhibit its work, on the grounds that being able to do things should really be left to us adults (and we don’t want the little brat to develop an over-inflated opinion of itself do we).

CENTENNIAL BUG

As a rule, I think you should understand what something is before you commit to looking after it for the rest of its life. For example, last year the youngest wanted a pet so I bought him a Roborovski Hamster. On the misapprehension that anything with ‘hamster’ in its name would do the job. Turned out it's too fast to handle and sleeps all day. And keeps the rest of us awake all night by spinning its wheel at an rpm that would put a supercharged V8 to shame. In short, it’s very bad at being a pet. But that’s not its fault. Because, it’s excellent at being a Roborovski Hamster. And what more can you ask of any rodent - or anybody for that matter - than being itself, well. Undoubtedly the fault was mine.

And it looks like I’ve never understood my children either. Because an article in the paper has just told me what they actually are. Turns out we’re not the same species, which accounts for a lot. They’re something called Centennials; 21st century super beings descended from late breeding Generation X’ers (like us) and our beloved successors, the Millennials. 

Who have had their day it would seem. Fine by me, never liked them anyway. Moping around with their suspicious-looking tubs of homemade super juice. Nibbling bird seed and whinging on about terrorism and not being able to buy a house. 

Anyway, now they’ve got something else to worry about. They’re about to be outclassed by Centennials, and I’ve got two of them.

PRIMARY 1 NAILS IT

Here it comes.  I brace myself as the conductor-cum-child-herder raises her hands to call the primary choir to order.  It’s time to unleash the cutest thing anybody has seen - at least since last year’s carol concert.  It’s time to forget the stress and endless 'to do' lists that mark the irrevocable descent into Christmas.  Forget for a moment the on-going pressure of locating, securing, hiding, wrapping, hiding again and covertly depositing the small mountain of gifts gradually converging on the house from all four corners of the globe. The audience holds its collective breath in a state of anticipatory rapture.  This is it, the pay off.