If the 'Shoo' fits

Dylan has always been fond of animals—it’s something we’ve encouraged since he was born. A few weeks ago, we were walking home from the railway path and we saw a dog with its owner. I take Dylan over to say ‘hello’ but, instead, he says ‘Shoo!’ This is what I hear. ‘Shoo dog!’ Over the next few days and weeks this same message is shared with the cats and birds that visit our garden, the fish at the aquarium and the horses at Horseworld. We blame his grandmother.

 
I’ve finished my diploma. Towards the end the workload was intense and I even spent a few days gaining work experience with the lovely guys at efex Ltd creative design agency near Basingstoke. The results are due early in the New Year but I must say a big thank you to Holly’s mum for her support with Dylan in the run up to the exam—I don’t know how I would have coped otherwise.
 
In the week before my exam, I made roasted pheasant with apples and cider (Nigel Slater’s Tender vol. II), served it with a creamy fennel bake (Jamie’s Great Britain); and honey glazed partridge with bashed neeps and cabbage (Gordon Ramsey’s Healthy Appetite). I also made walnut and apricot slices (Green & Black’s Ultimate Chocolate recipes – the new collection), which everyone seemed to like more than me.  Last week we had roasted Spatchcock Poussin, which was beautiful, and I’ve made several bottles of Irish Whisky Cream, which probably won’t last until Christmas.
 
Since the diploma, I’ve tidied up the garden; given blood for the first time; helped out with Christmas in Downend; replaced all the light fittings in the hall, stairs and landing; and I’m currently decorating the master bedroom. This weekend I shall be representing the Friends of Page Park as an elf in the Christmas on the Hill parade.
 
I didn’t win the InkTears flash fiction competition but I haven’t given up. Not long ago I was interviewed about my writing and you can read the interview here. And I’m finally ready for another trip to the recording studio—I shall be recording more of my songs in January 2013.

Dylan’s doing really well at the moment. He’s eating and sleeping better than he normally does, and, thanks to his weekly visits to Tumble Tots, he’s always climbing and jumping. Before he goes to bed, he helps me to read ‘Maisy’s Bath Time and Maisy’s Bus’ – he recognises words like ‘hooray’, ‘brmm-brmm’, ‘ding-dong,’ ‘splash splash’, and all the numbers. Potty training has been mostly successful although he’s lost interest a little and now says ‘no’ every time we ask him if he needs the toilet (Holly gives him a choice: ‘toilet or potty?’ which works quite well). Last week he had an accident while sitting in his high chair—it ran off the chair an into the canvas basket where we keep Dylan’s thirty or so bibs. These days the washing machine is always on.
 
Between rain showers, I take Dylan on a rare trip to the park. He plays on the swings and chases the other children, splashing through puddles in his Wellingtons. He’s always been a sociable little boy. He climbs up the steps of the climbing frame and a young girl, slightly older than Dylan, is blocking his path. ‘Move over and let the boy past,’ says her father but there’s no need, Dylan has it covered.

‘Shoo!’ he says, waving his hands at the girl. ‘Shoo!’ He’s such a charmer.

Little Accidents

We’ve been in Norfolk for a week, staying at my family’s bungalow on the coast. The plan was to potty train Dylan while we were here because he’s been so good at home recently. For the first couple of days there were a lot of accidents and Holly’s washing around four pairs of trousers a day, but he’s getting the hang of it. On Wednesday, Holly takes Dylan into Stalham so I can do some studying. She takes a change of clothes, just in case, but Dylan knows the routine and he uses the café toilet. Holly’s feeling pretty happy until she comes home and sees my trousers hanging out to dry in the late afternoon sun. They’re sodden.

She came home from hospital on the Thursday night, after four days of treatment. It was a challenging time for all of us but especially Dylan. He’d spent the weekend with his aunt while we were at the wedding; went to nursery on the Monday when Holly was admitted; went straight from nursery to his grandma’s for a couple of nights and visited his mum in a strange place full of scary people. When he eventually returned home, his daddy disappeared at bath and bedtimes because they clashed with visiting hours. He wasn’t reunited with Holly until Thursday night and this was when he finally went to pieces. He lost his appetite, refused to clean his teeth and didn't want to go to bed. He started coming into our room, in tears, about every hour during the night, worried that his mum might have left him again. Holly was signed off for a week and it took Dylan the same length of time to recover.

 

My diploma isn't going well. I need to provide three pieces of evidence to demonstrate each of eighteen competencies and I don’t think I can do it. My problem is that the diploma is aimed at people working in internal communication roles but I’m unemployed and I’ve never worked in an internal communications role. Life would be simpler if I had my old work laptop but I don’t and, without it, I’m in trouble. I need more examples, which means one thing: work experience. I’ve emailed the local councils and The Evening Post but it turns out that their communications departments are too busy and understaffed to reply to emails from people offering to work for free. It looks like it’s not going to be a question of passing or failing the diploma—at the moment, I can’t complete enough of the evidence file to stand a chance.

The Wednesday before we go to Norfolk was a good day for Dylan. His granddad and nanny took him to Bristol Zoo and, while the animals failed to capture his imagination, the dinosaur display was his idea of heaven. They bought him a box set of dinosaurs and it’s all he would talk about. I’ve added palaeontologist to his list of prospective careers.

The Friday before we go away was a good day for me. The upstairs windows were replaced, I learned that I'd been shortlisted for the InkTears Flash Fiction competition and one of my friends from the Bath Company of Writers, who happens to be an editor (as well as a prize-winning poet), has kindly agreed to arrange some work experience for me. It may or may not be enough, but I have hope again, which is a great way to start a holiday.

While Bristol sinks once more beneath the rain, Norfolk is a bucket full of sunshine. The Wednesday Holly takes Dylan into Stalham, I stay behind to work on my Diploma. Once I've finished for the day, I head over to the seafront for a ten minute stroll. To the north is Happisburgh, with its iconic, candy-striped lighthouse. To the south is Sea Palling. The tide is in and the waves are bigger towards Happisburgh, so this is the way I walk. About a minute later, I'm standing on the top step of the sea defences when a large wave hits the rocks in front of me, soaking me from head to foot. I would like to say that it was an accident but, rather than heading home, I remain in place through two more, huge waves. I'm drenched. This, for me, has always been what the seaside is all about.

We have a wonderful holiday. It doesn’t matter that I have to study while we’re here because I’m with my family and, together, we fly kites, build sandcastles and watch the seals on Horsey beach. Norfolk holidays have always been about enjoying good food and drink and, while we're there, I roast a shoulder of lamb from Stalham's excellent butchers, bake fresh sea trout from the fish kiosk in Happisburgh and we pick the last of the season’s blackberries in Hickling Nature Reserve. On previous visits to Hickling, I’ve seen swallowtail butterflies and marsh harriers, but the main attractions on this visit are the diggers and tractors. Dylan couldn't be happier. He sleeps well, eats plenty and opens the last of his birthday presents, which we held over for the holiday. Most of all, and like his daddy, he loves the sea. Every opportunity he gets he charges towards the retreating waves, then turns around and runs screaming up the beach as a new wave comes in. I'm pretty sure he's having a good time. And his favourite word while we're away?

"Again."

 

 

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Taking the Biscuit

We’re driving home from Mum’s and Dylan is pointing out all the things he sees. ‘Tractor,’ he says. ‘Lorry. Bus.’ When he runs out of interesting vehicles he resorts to: ‘House. House. House. House. House.’ I’m amazed at how quickly his vocabulary is growing and he’s even managing a few sentences. ‘See you soon,’ he says, and ‘There it is!’ Last week, he came out with his first, self-composed sentence: ‘Daddy ate the biscuit.’ It’s becoming clear to me now that the more he can say, the more trouble I’m going to be in.

No Dodo

It’s my fault really. I’m the person who robbed him of his dummy. Nursery was closed for the Bank Holiday and his Grandma was in Tenerife, so Dylan was mine for ten days straight and I wasn't going to get a better opportunity. We came home from swimming and, while he put the towels and trunks in the wash, I snipped the teat off his dummy. Yes I did. He came to me for his routine cake bar and I showed him that his dummy was in two pieces. He looked forlorn and tried to stick the teat in his mouth. I explained it was broken, took him outside and asked him to put it in the bin. I gave him his cake bar and then, instead of searching the house for his dummy (as had been our naptime routine), we searched for his ducks. He asked for his dodo and I reminded him that it was broken. I put him in his cot bed and he rolled over, and it’s just as well because I had tears in my eyes. I went next door and listened to him grizzle for a minute and a half...and that was it. Job done. He asked for his dummy a few times during the following weeks but a shake of the head was enough to pacify him. And now it's gone he’s sleeping better.

Syrup of Figs

The other thing I’ve cracked in the last month is his constipation. Rather than taking action when it becomes a problem, I’ve started supplementing his diet with a daily dose of Califig. In many ways this has been an even bigger breakthrough than cracking his dummy dependency. He’s happier. He’s discovered food and the joy of having an appetite. And this, too, is helping him sleep. I feel like I’m finally making a difference as a stay-at-home dad and it feels pretty good.

Festival Fever

That said, I’ve hardly been at home recently. In August, I spent four days with friends at the Cropredy folk festival; two weeks later I spent three days at the NAWG Festival of Writing and two weeks after that Holly and I went to her cousin's wedding near London. The 45th annual Cropredy festival was excellent. It stayed dry all weekend and the music, which included Richard Thompson, Big Country, Squeeze, Dead Flamingoes, Dennis Locorriere and fantastic newcomers Brother & Bones (above) and Larkin Poe (below) was spot on. 

 

The weekend between the writing festival and the wedding, I played the headlining slot at the Page Park Bandstand Marathon, with Ant Noel joining me on acoustic guitar, piano, harmonica and vocals, and Howard Sinclair on bass guitar, acoustic guitar and vocals. We had one rehearsal together on the morning of the gig and played a forty-five minute set including three new songs: Chris Cagle’s My Life’s been a Country Song, Ant’s Hurricane Rising, and The Band’s The Weight. It was the first paid gig I've done for a decade and I promised to take Holly out for a meal with my £60 share. After the gig, a member of the audience said I played the best Springsteen covers she had ever heard, which was pretty great.

 

Small Potatoes

Summer’s over and so, for the most part, so is the vegetable garden. Was it a success? I suppose it was in the sense that Dylan ate the strawberries and apples, and understood where they came from, which was my main intention.

In the last month, I’ve harvested a good load of Maris Pipers—probably the equivalent of a couple of supermarket bags worth, which we've eaten as roasters or chips. Believe it or not I’m still picking courgette flowers, and we’ve had some good courgettes, too. For three or four weekends on the trot we had salad with mixed leaves picked from the garden, and last night I had a few radishes and tomatoes too. However, the cost and effort of growing plants has vastly exceeded the benefits, probably because of the weather. The tomatoes are rotting on the vines; the cabbages have all been eaten; the grapes are sun starved; the spring onions never grew and the radishes and rocket produced such a small yield it really wasn’t worth it.

So what will I grow next year? Courgettes: yes. Potatoes: probably. Strawberries, grapes and apples: yes, but only because the plants will still be there. Lettuces: yes. Herbs: maybe sage and basil but I’ll keep them indoors. Tomatoes: possibly, in the hope that the weather is better. Rocket, radishes, spring onions, cabbage: definitely not.

Apples, Apples

Our little apple tree didn’t produce a bumper crop but we didn’t do too badly and I found a couple of great recipes in Nigel Slater’s Tender: Volume II. Apple crisp is like a cheats apple crumble—cheap, quick and dead easy to make. It's also delicious. The sausage and apple casserole was also a treat. Last week I found a roast duck and white bean puree recipe in Rachel Allen's Entertaining at Home, which gave me the oppeortunity to roast some of our home-grown potatoes and try steamed romanesco. I’ll definitely be cooking this one again.

Taking the Biscuit

Holly took last Friday off work because she was suffering with colitis. On Saturday we left Dylan with my sister and went to London for Holly's cousin's wedding. It was a lovely day but we didn't stay for the evening reception because Holly was still poorly. We spent the night at a friend's house and left the following morning. We were about half way home when I was pulled me over for speeding, and I was lucky to get away with three points and a fine. The Police officer asked if there was any reason for me to break the speed limit and I said no, I just wanted to see my son. As I'm sure Dylan would say, 'If you eat the biscuit, Daddy, you have to pay the price.' The price on this occasion was £60. How about that for a coincidence?

On Monday morning, Holly is admitted to hospital. It's Wednesday as I write this and I've just taken clothes in to see her through to the weekend.

 

8 Hand Boy

Dylan points at the television and says ‘DeeDaa.’ This used to mean ‘Wall-E’, which we watched a few thousand times before we switched to Monsters Inc. and The Incredibles. None of these make him happy anymore but we've recently discovered that we don’t need to put the television on to keep him amused. If we give Dylan permission to look through the DVD cabinet, he will happily spend hours sorting through his DVDs, switching them between cases and then switching them back. Life is simple until it's time to tidy up.

Between Mickey’s Adventures in Wonderland and The Wheels on the Bus, Dylan has been enjoying the Olympics. He thinks the gymnastics is the funniest thing he has ever seen but it’s the horse riding that really captures his imagination. ‘’Orse,’ he says, over and over, pointing to the television in the hope that we’ll phone the organisers or the BBC and ask them  to put on a bit of unscheduled show jumping to keep him happy. Then Holly has a brainwave.

HorseWorld. What a great idea. It’s a retirement home for aging horses but it also caters for ponies, donkeys, rabbits, goats, pigs, ferrets and small boys. Throw in a few slides, a soft play area, an adventure playground and a café where short people can reach the controls on the microwave, and it’s Dylan’s idea of heaven.

This week, as well as grooming horses, riding toy tractors and climbing into pig pens, we’ve been swimming, had lessons on the harmonica, counted the ducks in Vassells Park, chased a local kitty around Page Park and made kites in playgroup. I’ve sent the second part of my Diploma off to the printers, made potato rostis, eaten the first of the cherry tomatoes from our garden and gone to the cinema for the first time in two years (to see The Dark Knight Rises). Last time I went to the movies, I was on paternity leave. How time flies.

I’m washing up in the kitchen when Dylan rushes out and says ‘Poo!’ For some reason, he isn’t wearing nappy. I ask him to show me and he leads me into the lounge, where his nappy is scrunched up on the sofa. Then he takes me to the downstairs toilet, where his potty is on the toilet with an inch of liquid in it. He took his nappy off, peed in his potty, took his potty to the toilet and then came to get me. This sort of thing has been happening a lot recently. Our boy is telling us that he is ready to be potty trained and we’re the proudest parents on the planet right up until the point where he urinates in one of our kitchen cupboards.

Oh well. Accidents will happen. Again and again and again.
 

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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.