PROXIMITY MAN

"Nice dog," I observed as we swung into a parking space. "What is it, Spaniel or something?"

“Labradoodle," came the correction from the dog experts in the back.

"Oh. Nice though."

The dog was emptying itself from the car in front of ours, controlled by the smallest and palest of three children who, in turn, were controlled by a couple who looked like they too were on the way back from a relaxing self-catering holiday in an idyllic corner of Scotland, i.e. tense and irritable.

EVEL EYE-PAD

I remember the night in 1976 when it came to a head. We were out on our bikes when dad came home and I was called in. I knew I was in deep trouble. As usual it was Dad's job to mete out the punishment. But first, the crime: 

“He’s been out all day playing with his friends,” Mum began. “He hasn’t touched that Eye-Pad once, or been anywhere near the couch. I told him after his lunch to go and lock himself in his bedroom in a sultry and withdrawn manner, but he wasn’t having any of it. Next time I look, there they all are outside again, running around in the sunshine." 

1 DAY , 2 FLIGHTS , 5 SHIT EXCUSES

07.55: Shit Excuse No. 1

The pilot’s taking on that smug 'aren’t I a star' tone of voice because he’s flown us to Stansted airport ten minutes quicker than he had to. You hear it first somewhere over Norfolk when he says "Cabin Crew prepare the cabin for arrival," with a slight lilt and rising intonation that actually says 'this really is a piece of piss you know.' By the time he orders the crew to "disarm doors for arrival” the smugness has blossomed into a full blown 'God, I’m good at this. Sometimes I surprise even myself.' 

But his next announcement is a little less triumphal. It transpires that, although he’s really rather fine, some of the people with whom he is forced to associate have failed to live up to his standards. Big time. The ground crew have been taken totally by surprise by his over performance, and are still trying to find a set of steps to get us off. So, through no fault of his own, we’re stuck, and the extra time generated by his flying prowess gradually wastes away as we stand in a line waiting with our coats on. All of which prompts a number of questions:

#KILLFATHERSDAY

I'm watching my children perform a touching and entirely spontaneous act of love and admiration for their mother, presenting her with an assortment of thoughtful gifts and cards. Only they didn’t buy them, I did. And I’m watching them through the sites of a sniper rifle trained at their pretty little heads, which was the only way I could persuade them to take five minutes out of their terribly busy schedules to do something for someone else for a change.

My wife expertly feigns both surprise and delight, pretending not to notice the little red dot that darts back and forth between their foreheads.  She comments on the fine workmanship of the hastily thrown together card they made him make in art class - probably at gunpoint too. Afterwards the cards, flowers and chocolates are arranged in a fetching display on the mantlepiece, where they remain as a tribute to the fact that we have once again negotiated our way through the emotional minefield that is Mother’s Day.

CAR TROUBLE

I’m having car troubles. Not the mechanical variety - I wish!  No, it’s much more complicated than that. More of a relationship thing. I’ll try and explain.

It’s a nice car, blue and quite attractive. You could call it a head turner - the women-folk definitely go for it. And I loved it too to begin with. It was like no other car I’d ever had. Great personality, great fun. And reliable too - or so I thought. But I guess the signs were there at the very beginning. I just chose to ignore them.

ANGEL ROAD

This morning I was sat next to a German couple on the Stansted Express. The guy, who was sitting opposite, was talking a lot. And in a way I was finding impossible to ignore. So I found myself listening to every word, even though I couldn’t decipher a single one. From his voice I formed a mental picture of him, and it was Christoph Waltz.

Eventually I looked up from my iPhone to sneak a proper look. And guess what, he looked exactly like Daniel Craig. For a moment I was terrified. Imagine that: the mind of Ernst Stavro Blofeld inside the body of James Bond. Retreating back into my phone, I wondered why I was instinctively afraid of Germans. Especially ones that looked like 007.

ON ICE

Ranulph Fiennes is sawing off the end of his own fingers with a fretsaw. 

It was all going so well. Well about as well as pulling a half-ton sledge across Antarctica at -40º can go. Nothing too much to worry about, just the usual chronic crotch rot, ultraviolet facial burns, gangrenous toes, frozen eyeballs and, of course, gradual and inevitable bodily deterioration, dehydration and starvation. All in a day’s work for Britain’s greatest living explorer.

SPACE SHODDITY

Posted 12th February 2016:

Big week for Space.

Turns out Einstein was right after all (note to self: never doubt anyone called Einstein) and gravitational waves exist.  The thing is that they always had to exist because of his theory of relativity. It’s just that now they do. Thank God.

So how did we finally find them? Well, we invented a machine that can detect things that are so small, and happen so quickly, that until recently we were happy to conclude they weren’t there at all. Things less than a thousandth the diameter of an atomic nucleus apparently. Now I’m no expert (despite having the Guardian App on my iphone) but I’m guessing that’s pretty small.  Small to the point of not really mattering.  

GUITAR SHOP MAN

When was the last time you went to buy a new car and came back convinced that not only do you not deserve one, but that you can’t actually drive?  Never, I’m guessing. Because dealerships don’t tend to hire wannabe Schumachers to take you for a dozen circuits of the carpark to demonstrate the how well the suspension and braking systems works at 120mph.  And it’s as well they don’t, because if they did a good number of us ego-fuelled menfolk would ditch the car and rely instead on ridiculously expensive racing bikes and tight lycra outfits to get from A to B.  Which of course we don’t.  Much.

RECOVERED

I’m being Recovered.  Processed like a piece of lost luggage, or a suspicious package, by an elite group of highly trained individuals with walkie-talkies, bright yellow waistcoats and passes round their necks that give them access to absolutely anywhere.

The family huddled next to me seem to have been in Recovery for much longer than I. Days possibly.  They look malnourished and worn out.  The children are tearful and listless. The mother comforts them as best she can.  The father is clearly exhausted, asking repeatedly for information.  When will they get help?  When can they leave?  Or at least I assume that’s the kind of thing he’s asking because it’s not in English.  And the Recovery Team only talks in English.  And only into walkie-talkies.