An Edible Garden

Playgroup starts fifteen minutes before Dylan wakes up from his morning nap. We’re always a little late but this week is worse than usual. I take Dylan to Vassell’s Park in the morning and when he’s so tired he’s sleeping on his feet, I take him home for food and bed. An hour and a half later and it's time to leave. We have one foot out of the door when the phone rings: it’s my mother-in-law and she’s phoned us by mistake. I hang up and discover that Dylan has adopted his code brown emergency* pose. I change his nappy in the hall (without removing his trousers or shoes) and ask him to climb into his pushchair. Still half asleep, he refuses to leave the house, so I have to manoeuvre him outside. I close the door behind us, but not before Dylan’s managed to squeeze his fingers between the door and the frame. His wail is enough to let me know we’re going to be very late.

Dylan hasn’t slept through the night since I left work and it’s beginning to take its toll. He’s up most mornings around 5am because it’s too light or too hot or because the birds are too noisy; and we could probably cope with this if he wasn’t waking up through the night as well. We have a blue, floor-level nightlight on the landing, which shines through our bedroom door against the wall opposite our bed. A few nights ago, around 2am, I opened my eyes and in front of me was the shadow of an eight foot humanoid with a disproportionately large head. And it was moving. In the middle of the night, when I’m half asleep, this is not the sort of thing I want to have to deal with. Then Dylan says ‘Mummy?’

He's talking more and using new words every day. He's singing nursery rhymes. He has an idea of the alphabet and can count from one to ten in his own, unique style. He won't always chew his food but he does tidy up, sometimes on request and sometimes who knows why? And he's building good relationships with his family and friends. The speed at which he's growing up is incredible. But he's still testing boundaries and I guess he will be until he leaves home. He sticks his tongue out to announce forthcoming naughtiness and waits to see what we're going to do.

The sunny weather changes everything. It starts with the Harbourside Festival, where I’m part of Ant Noel’s Peabody Choir. Nearly everyone in the choir is a local singer-songwriter and this event has a wonderful sense of community and friendship. And Ant's such a great songwriter, it seems everyone knows the words to his songs. It’s my third year of singing at the festival and, as I vaguely recall explaining on BBC Radio Bristol afterwards, it’s also Dylan’s third year in the audience, even though he’s only two. This year, he’s amongst the first to dance, he joins me in the choir and he manages to persuade around twenty members of the audience to part with their helium balloons so he can set them free and wave as they disappear. There are times when he's the main attraction.

(Photo by Holly)

The garden has come alive. We don’t see the foxes anymore but a family of frogs have moved in to help us keep the snails at bay. Dylan’s sunflower has done its thing and everything else is growing with conviction. The tomatoes and potatoes look healthy; and we’ve eaten rocket and various other lettuce leaves, as well as cabbage and a single new potato (I forget the variety but there are more on their way), but the highlight must be the courgettes. Or rather the courgette flowers.

I mention the courgette flowers to my mum and she tells me they’re edible. A few days later, Holly’s dad arrives with a belated birthday present for me: Hugh Fearnley-Wittingstall’s fantastic River Cottage Veg, and the first page I turn to is a recipe for deep-fried courgette flowers stuffed with ricotta and herbs. I vary the recipe slightly; using mascarpone mixed with grated goat’s cheese and home grown chives and apple mint; but the end result is still delicious. My efforts are finally paying off. Thank you for the book, Vince & Jacqui.

When we eventually make it to playgroup, it's time to take the kids to Page Park. It’s me and an army of mothers pushing buggies along the high street. Dylan knows Page Park well, including the water feature, and he’s drenched from head to toe within minutes. He’s the only one—the other children are content to stay dry—but he’s having so much fun I haven’t the heart to stop him. Several minutes later, I look up and Ellie’s son, Lucas, is jumping up and down in a muddy puddle. I smile at Ellie and say ‘You have no idea how happy that makes me.’

A few days later I have a gig in town and there’s a four year old girl watching her father sing with one of the other acts. She’s quite rightly mesmerised by her dad’s performance. Her mum says she’s mostly lovely but occasionally she’s a “little madam”. I tell her I could say exactly the same thing about Dylan.

And, in sentiment at least, it would be true.

*Holly's words



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Trainspotting for Boys

Me: Grrrr.
Dylan: Mum?

The night before Dylan’s birthday party I get a call from an old school friend. Last year he brought a gazebo to Dylan's party but this year his wife suggested they bring their bouncy castle. Naturally I assume I've misheard; nobody actually owns a bouncy castle. Nick explains that a few months ago, they were looking to part with an old fridge and someone offered them the castle in exchange. Everyone should have friends like Nick and Abigail.

The week of Dylan’s birthday starts with a trip to see a stream train, Tangmere, on its way from Bristol to Bath. All boys love locomotives at some stage of their development and Dylan's granddad still does, so three generations of Stanley boys head out to a field near the railway line. The train steams through on time and Dylan is delighted. Afterwards, Dad comes back to ours for egg on toast but Holly’s been making meringues while we were out, so Dad has breakfast while Dylan and I have something much sweeter.

On Monday I walk Dylan to nursery, expecting the worst, but he knocks on the door, waves to the kids through the window, says ‘Hello’ to the girl who lets us in and then disappears off to play with the toys. He hardly even says goodbye. How things change.

Tuesday is Dylan’s birthday and there’s no shortage of presents, including his own table and chairs, a trampoline and a police car buggy. He also gets a kitchen set and his own toy vacuum cleaner, so he can be more like his daddy. Perhaps his most useful present is a Gro-Clock; it's a bedside clock that glows blue when he’s supposed to be in bed and yellow when it’s time to get up. Dylan works it out all in a matter of minutes and he hasn’t been into our room since. Fantastic.

On Wednesday we go swimming, although these days I’m a spectator. I’m sitting on the  steps watching Dylan make his way to the deep end to crash a swimming lesson. I’m not sure about this. All the other kids are staying close to their parents but Dylan’s so confident in his armbands, having me around just slows him down. At one point, he actually swims properly, with his bum in the air and his heels breaking the surface as he kicks. I’m so proud I want to cheer. After swimming, it’s home for a good long sleep, followed by an afternoon of playing in the garden with his cousin Logan. It’s a near-perfect day.

On Thursday, Dylan is treated to a rare visit from his Grandpa, who has brought him a toy train set for his birthday. Health issues have prevented Dylan from seeing his Grandpa anywhere near as much as either of them would have liked, so it’s an afternoon to be savoured, and the best place for that is soft play, where Dylan insists we all join in.

On Friday, Dylan spends the day with his Grandma while I tidy up, vacuum and mop the floors, dust the surfaces, clean the kitchen and bathrooms, wash the bath mats, iron the clothes, buy the rest of the groceries for Dylan’s party, rearrange the furniture, tidy up the garden, bake a cake (for Holly to ice) and cook homemade burgers and chips for tea. It’s a long day but the phone call about the bouncy castle makes it all worthwhile.

On Saturday it rains. I’m in the kitchen, heating the pizzas and pasties, bhajis and samosas, and I’ve completely lost track of when I put things in the oven. I’m winging it, judging everything by its appearance and taste and hoping I don't poison everyone at the party. Nick is helping, as is my sister Felicity (Auntie ‘Flea’ according to Dylan), who chops vegetables for the dips. Holly’s turned the front room into a playroom for older kids and the back room into the main party area, and both rooms have been overrun with toddlers. I'm trying not to think about it. Then I notice that Nick and Flick are missing, and I’m about to complain when I see the castle in the garden. It’s perfect. The kids are lined up along our patio windows, staring in wonder. Seizing the opportunity, I say ‘nobody’s allowed outside until this room is tidy’ but it’s already too late. The doors are open and the kids are gone.

Everyone’s tired the following morning but Tangmere is coming through again and Nick and his son Joshua want to see it so we're off. Joshua and Dylan keep each other entertained in the back of the car, the train is dead on time and there’s bacon and eggs to go around when we get home.

Finally, my boy is two years old. Somehow we survived.


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Rock & Roll Heart

(Photo by Holly)



The last time I saw Springsteen in Manchester, I ended up proposing to my future wife and spending my salary on a ring. This time I go with my sister in the hope that it will be cheaper. It should be a three hour drive but it takes nearly twice as long because of heavy traffic and torrential rain. It doesn’t matter because it’s a brilliant gig with numerous highlights: The E Street Shuffle, Save My Love, the ’78 tour version of Prove it All Night and a lovely solo performance of The Promise. I finally make it home at two o’clock on Saturday morning, conscious that I have two gigs of my own later that day. Dylan doesn’t know this. He wanders into our room at quarter past two and won’t go down again until five.

Rain. There’s not much I can say on the weather front that hasn’t said already. In what is likely to be the only summer I spend at home before retirement, June has had the highest rainfall on record and July won’t be outdone—we’re due a month’s worth of rain in the next 24 hours. If it’s okay, I’d like to shout at somebody now.

Rain. The garden is doing its best. We’ve been getting up to half a dozen strawberries a day and Dylan likes them enough to steal them off my plate. The courgettes have beautiful ochre flowers and some of my tomato plants are beginning to bear fruit. The best part of the garden is watching Dylan: every time we go out he checks the strawberry plants and apple tree, and then he transfers the pots from the Grow Rack to the table, just like he’s seen his daddy do. Last weekend, while Holly was mowing the lawn, he followed her around with his toy lawn mower. The lawn looks great and it was a real team effort.

Rain. I haven’t been as adventurous with my cooking as I’d like although I did make red-cooked chicken thighs in the slow cooker last week and they were pretty good. I’m making one of my all-time favourites tonight: Toad in the Hole with three types of sausage, roast potatoes and salad (including homegrown radishes). Bad weather demands good food.

Rain. I played a few gigs in the week following the Springsteen gig, including a headlining set in a rain soaked marquee at the Pucklechurch Revel. The lovely Pucklechurch crowd of maybe five hundred or so were there for the beer more than the music, but we won them over and I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a gig so much.

Rain. It’s hard to feel inspired when the weather’s so bad but I guess it makes it easier to stay indoors. I’ve submitted the first draft of my Communications project and the feedback has been pretty encouraging. Sadly, I wasn’t one of the winners of the Nottingham Short Story competition but I’m not giving up just yet: I’ve entered His & Hers into the Sean O’Faolain Short Story competition and six tiny stories into the Earlyworks Press Flash Fiction competition. I’d cross my fingers but it makes it harder to type.

Rain. The last time I went to Paris for a couple of days was twenty years ago. It was grey and uninspiring then and it doesn’t seem to have changed, despite the pre-recorded tour guide’s assurance that it is a deeply romantic city. We’re in Paris to catch Springsteen’s 4^th July show at Bercy Arena. It’s the gig of my dreams but we leave the venue at the start of the encores so I can be sick in the hotel next door. I’m dehydrated—without air conditioning it was about forty degrees in the arena—and I’ve drunk too much water. It was a great gig though, and the highlights before we left were 4^th July Asbury Park (Sandy), Darkness on the Edge of Town, Because the Night and a moving solo performance of Independence Day—one of the great father and son songs. Unlike me, the Boss shows no signs of slowing down.

Rain. The following day, Holly and I head to the Eiffel Tower and take a drizzly boat trip along the Seine. Holly buys a chocolate éclair; I buy something called a gland and a meringue the size of Dylan’s head. That night, with Christina Aguilera providing the soundtrack to our evening meal, I tell Holly that she is beautiful, no matter what they say, and she hits me on the head with a spoon. Paris is, indeed, the city of romance, but I miss my boy and I’m ready to go home.

Dylan’s changing all the time. He’s more appreciative of his grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins; his vocabulary is growing; he’s been jumping in muddy puddles and last week he swam* across the diagonal of the pool without any help. He’s giving more kisses, more cuddles, and when I ask him if he wants to be tickled he says ‘I do’ and lies down in preparation. I have a feeling this is the calm before the storm. After all, he’s going to be two on Tuesday.

And I’m in charge of his party.


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*Imagine someone riding a unicycle, then take away the unicycle and put them in the water.