Photo Negative

I've been set a dilemma here at work:

I have the twenty week scan photo of India on my desk. Vic framed it up for me in an attractive silver photo frame as a present. It's been sat on my desk for 30 weeks now. I love it.

On the day India was born -- the 13th of September -- my colleague Lisa had a miscarriage. It was the day of her 13th week scan. She never made the appointment.

Lisa sits six feet away from me.

She has had "issues" at work ever since -- clearly she is upset by baby talk, etc. I'm very careful to be sensitive to the situation.

Last week my boss queitly suggested that I might like to change my photo of India, or consider removing it from my desk. Apparently the scan photo brings it all back to Lisa.

I can appreciate this.

If she asked me directly, I would probably remove the photo instantly, but as the request is via my manager -- and I have quite a history of receiving downright rudeness from her over the last 2 and a half years (I don't like her) -- I am reluctant to remove the scan image.

I love the photo. It's been there 30 weeks.

So the dilemma is:

a) Remove the photo.

or:

b) Don't remove the photo and look like a complete c*nt.

A win-win situation.

I'm Wearing an Orange Wig

Tomorrow is "Wear a hat to work" day for Age Concern. Pay a quid to charity, wear a hat at your desk.

I look a fool in a hat, but will contribute by wearing my chef's hat. I may stuff it with paper to make it stand proud.

Today I'm wearing a "casual" shirt, rather than my normal "formal" shirts. I've decided to start expressing my individuality at work at bit more.

When I informed Vic of this change in work-wear policy, she suggested that if I want to express my personality at work, I should dress up in a clown suit.

[Honk! Honk!]

A Bad Week

I've had the flu for the last week. A voice like Barry White (I know he's dead -- that's what I mean), asthma to die for, and a five day course of steriods to make me look like the Hulk. In my hand I have a piece of paper from Mr. Doctor that is a prescription for a course of antibiotics. Thankfully the phelm has cleared enough -- due to the steriods giving me enough lung capacity to shift it -- that the prescription isn't necessary. Still coughing up strings and blobs of grey, green and yellow spittle, but hey, I'm alive... and back to work.

The astma is a real worry though -- a subject to deal with at another time.

Of course, the flu didn't exactly help my exam preparation -- it kicked in two nights before the big day. Neither did the International football either -- poor old Wales missing out again. I'm sure my hacking and spluttering cheered up all my fellow exam-sitting students no end. There's nothing worse than taking an exam next to a sniffler is there...

And I had a filling last Tuesday too.

And I had to hold India at the Doctors on Thursday while she had her first set of jabs. She screamed like a banshee. The needle was at least 3 inches long and stuck twice deep into her leg muscles. A real cocktail of nasties were injected and she's not really been herself since.


...But not that bad.

The exam went OK.

England are World Rugby Champions.

I won a four pack of beers off my Aussie mate Keir (well done Jonny W). "The Empire Strikes Back!"

India's been developing at a rapid pace -- she's a smasher!

Mark (from Chicago) visited for one night only -- we hadn't seen him for 15 months, so it was ace to catch up. He also fixed the PC.

Oxford United are top of the league!

Ghostly Mountain Retreat

We're up in Carlisle at the Inlaws. I'm revising for my retake exam next week at the usual mountain retreat. Keeping the dog away from India has been distracting: he's bemused and bewildered by the baby. He doesn't know whether to protect her or eat her...

India's been "talking" over the last couple of weeks. She'll mimic your grunts and goo-goos. Then do some of her own. It's very cool.

Weirdly though, when left on her own for a few minutes in the Inlaws old house, she suddenly bursts into mucho excited talking.

To thin air.

Like there's a ghost.

Then when you reappear, she quietens down.

Even the suggestion that India might be seeing dead people -- and many so-called experts reckon children and animals can sense ghosts and spirits -- freaks Vic out.

Its behind you.

Happy Nappy Hands

We have replenished our home hand cream stocks and Lisa at work has donated me a tube of concentrated Neutrogena hand cream -- the Norwegian fisherman's choice apparently*. As a result my hands are slowly getting back to normal. No more eczema or knuckles that look like elephant knees.

* Which would account for the slight fishy smell.


The Quiet Month of October

I've noticed that the majority of Blogs that I read have been very quiet over the last few weeks. It would appear as if October is a quiet month for Bloggers -- like the housing market is quiet in January and February. I've tried to spot a trend, but can only come up with everyone seems miserable and can't be bothered to write about it.

Fair dinkum.

My excuse -- apart from the 9 lb 4 oz bundle of joy / poo-machine -- is my Blog time has been diverted to setting up a blogsite for the Oxford magic community. As I haven't been playing much recently, I've had to satisfy my magic hunger in other ways...

Look No Hands

My hands are wrecked. Having babies does that to you apparently. There's so much washing of hands after nappy changes, bottle sterilising, dummy-picking up, etc. that your hands are left in tatters. Oh how sweet and soothing hand cream is.

Happy Birthday Steph

Our best friend Steph is 30 years old today.
Happy Birthday girlfriend! [as Mark would say]

Hard to believe really, as I still regard Steph as being a teenager -- just like Vic.

It was at Steph's 18th birthday party that I first set eyes on Vic and thought "Phwoar, she's the one for me!".

It's therefore extremely satisfying that 12 years on, I still think the same -- "Phwoar, she's the one for me!" -- about my Yummy Mummy wife.

We're taking Steph out for lunch to celebrate.

Two Weddings, One Option

We were invited to two weddings that took place last weekend:

Larry's in Scotland and Vics brother's in Kent.

Darren and Christine's was on Friday, Larry and Carole's was on Sunday, and the logistics -- and 500 mile trip -- conspired against us attending both.

Family comes first (at least in the world of Eastenders), so unfortunately we missed Lazza and Cazza's. [Grimace]

Darren and Christine's do was smashing though: Lympne Castle was a majestic venue and they were blessed with warm sunshine, good food and our company.

Not only did they copy our castle location wedding idea, but Darren ripped half of his speech directly from mine. It was if he'd sat down and transcribed our wedding video, changing the names to protect the innocent. Of course, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Christine looked magnificent, as did I. Nobody could believe that Vic was so slim -- she has already lost her pregnancy tummy. India was incredibly well behaved -- both during the wedding and over the two nights in the hotel -- and everyone (and I mean everyone) pointed at her hair and exclaimed "oooohhh... look at how much hair she's got!" as their first impression of her.

My baby's going to get a complex.

Darren and Christine are now either in Vancouver or Hawaii. A hockey and hula hula honeymoon. Lucky devils.

First Prawns, Now Nappies

Vic has a habit of smelling prawns. Whenever she buys a prawn mayonnaise sandwich from Marks & Spencers, I have to watch her pick out every prawn -- one by one -- and sniff them to see if they are "off" or not. It's obsessive.

She has now taken to doing to same thing with India's nappy.

"Does she need a change?"

"Let me have a good sniff... No!"

I know it's one of those Things Parents Do, but I didn't expect Vic to be in the habit in just four weeks.


Feeding Time At The Zoo

The other night, when India's internal alarm clock went off at 1:27 am to let us all know she needed feeding, I admit to feeling a little bit

"Fragga ragga, look at the time, I'm knackered and not enjoying this."

But by 2:27 am, after I'd fed and winded her, and we were both tucked-up back in our respective beds, I felt a warm glowing sense of contentment.

"Ace, I've just fed my daughter and she's happy."

A wonderful feeling, and one that I'd managed to forget by 3:30 am last night ;)


Let's Watch The Football Daddy

Our first match watched together will be the big game tomorrow -- if it goes ahead. I expect a nail-biting nil-nil draw -- as without Owen, England are unlikely to score -- and a full understanding of the off-side rule from India.

Paternity Leave Over

I'm back at work -- something I dreaded-- as my paternity leave is over.
The last three weeks have been the quickest of my life. It feels more like four or five days.
The days have flown by. A repetitive cycle of feeding, winding, changing, cuddling, playing, comforting and sleeping. It's exhausting and eats up the time in a blur.
I don't think we realised how much hard work is was going to be.

India has been great. We've been very lucky.

Unlike some of the other babies from our ante-natal group, India has been feeding and sleeping brilliantly. Although we've had a few moments of griping and crying, she's settled into life outside of the womb well.

To give you some idea of what's been happening here's a quick round-up:

~ Our PC went down just before she was born, so no downloading of photos off the digital camera and no blog updates at a most interesting time.
~ We have already changed 130 nappies.
~ Vic's boobs have grown two or three cup sizes.
~ But I can't go near them.
~ India likes watching the snooker on the TV until 1:00 am.
~ She is now wide-eyed and alert.
~ She passed her hearing test and reacts nicely to sounds around her.
~ She is already smiling.
~ Even when she hasn't got wind.
~ She's now on one formula bottle each day -- the last one at night so that Vic can go to bed at 9:15 pm and sleep for a while in peace.
~ Her poo looks like French mustard and smells wheaty [I know you wanted this info!].
~ Changing your own baby is a very natural and pain free process. Natural programming kicks in and you just get on with it.
~ It's not just boys that can aim their wee: India is very talented at arcing a fountain over the cot and onto my pyjamas and feet.
~ She's changing every day and it's magic.

Anyway, PC's back online, so updates will be back online too.

The Eagle Has Landed

She's here.

India Autumn Yates was born at 10:50 GMT, Saturday the 13th of September, 2003. Weighing in at 6 lbs 8 oz, with a shock of black hair, she is, as the midwife put it, perfect.

We've been walking on cloud nine ever since.

I am so happy.

Things started for Vic at 23:00 on Friday night, straight after we got home from a pizza out with Emma and Scott. I think it was the chilli peppers on my American Hot that put things in motion.

Vic coped with the contractions with four baths and a shower throughout the night, whilst I managed an hour of sleep on the (brand new) bathroom carpet.

We called the midwife for advice at 03:30, but didn't call her out until 7:15. Vic was 6 to 7 cm dilated by then. She was brilliant.

The midwife Norma broke Vic's waters (watch out brand new bathroom carpet!) and we endured a slow 30 minute car ride to Wallingford. The guy in front stuck to the speed limit all the way >:(

Once at the hospital, she was fully dilated, so Vic jumped in the birthing pool -- absolute heaven -- and two hours of pushing later, out India glided.

Vic held her for a few minutes and then I had her -- skin-to-skin - for 30 minutes whilst Vic was checked over and cleaned up.

Complete magic.

Both mum and mini-poppet are home now and it's going really well.

Thank you to everyone for the cards, flowers and messages of congratulations.

I'm so proud of my girls.

365 Days Later

Tomorrow this blog is one year old. Happy birthday Blog.

However, as it's September 11th tomorrow, I won't be celebrating the fact this on-line diary has out-lived my previous pen and paper diaries by at least 49 weeks. No, tomorrow -- as long as I'm not in the middle of labour -- will be a quiet day of reflection. I shall close my eyes and remember the images of two years ago. And although I don't believe in God, I shall say a little prayer for those who perished.


Jump London

Channel 4's Jump London -- a documentary about the French pioneers of Free Running -- was shown last night and it was spellbinding. The master gymnasts / acrobats / stuntmen / fitness freaks free-ran 14 of London's most famous buildings and landmarks in a single day. And in some style, using precision jumps, leaps of faith, wall-crawling and cat leaping to turn the city into a playground. Their philosophy is a progressive mix of Bruce Lee's martial arts and Star Wars Jedi.

Unfortunately the program's use of drum and bass, cut-aways, and stupid camera angles / close-ups meant the viewer missed much of the classy action. But as a showcase for this new urban sport -- basically a pure form of extreme sports (e.g. skateboarding without the board) -- it was an impressive and unparalleled success.

It made me wish I was 16, fit, flexible and ten stones again. Pass me my running shoes.

Here's the best UK Free Running site I could find. Check out some of the (large) black and white jpegs for a taste of what it's all about.


Baby Update

I assembled the cot last night. It's a honey coloured cage. With a cute Humphrey Elephant Musical Mobile that Vic's workmates bought us. We're all set.

Practise What You Preach

I'm (still) studying for my CIMA exams. Many of the course modules deal with communication, systems and process management, e-commerce and the importance of looking after your customers.

Ruffles used to work at CIMA, and has many stories regarding the organisations lack of organisation. Most revolve around being unable to meet the expectations and requirements of their customers. Or to smoothly perform those fundamental tasks that are CIMA's bread and butter. For example, at exam entry time CIMA would be so overwhelmed by the weight of entries that the exam entry department would recruit everyone from all the other departments to process the things. John Smith, chef from the CIMA staff canteen, was likely to make errors when processing exam forms -- errors that could have costly implications and inconvenience for CIMA students.

In an attempt to improve the exam entry process -- and cut costs -- CIMA has now gone to a process of on-line exam entry. Great if you have access to a PC, not so great if you don't. To facilitate the process they sent out a log in Contact ID to all students through the post, and a secret password via email, to all students.

Except they didn't.

I got my password, but not my Contact ID. Lynn here at work got neither. And we weren't the only ones.

So when I try to log in on the site, it throws me off -- my Contact ID (I guess that is must be my Student Number) is invalid.

So I click the "mail to" link -- for help with on-line exam entry -- and send them an email requesting my ID.

I don't get an immediate "thank you for your query... it will be dealt with asap" automated response. Three days later I do get a "the postmaster says this email account is a dud" one.

So Lynn phones them up using the dedicated on-line exam entry help line. She is on hold for 15 minutes, then transfers the call to me. I am on hold for a further 15 minutes before CIMA hang up on us.

So I track down the correct email address and send them a new email.

No response.

Eventually we get through on the phone and get our IDs and passwords.

I log on to discover the site is complete shite. It should be a simple case of click on the exam hall you want to sit at, click on the exam papers you want to sit, close shopping basket, click on the payment method, complete transaction, bingo.

Except the pages kept failing to load properly, the user-friendliness was very poor, options to undo any errors were non-existent and updating your personal details and payment methods took forever. A complete mess.

But we managed to fight through the systems and book our exam papers. I even printed out the receipt showing my hall, papers and payment.

Yesterday Lynn and I both received requests for payment for our exams through the post, with the threat that unless we pay up by the 30th of September, we'll be dumped by CIMA and charge £50 in administration fees.

But I've already paid you stupid time-wasting idiots!

Not only that but my (increased) fees have gone to pay for all these extra bills, postal charges, customer helpline man-hours, website development and computer server capacity.

A piece of advice: Read your own course notes and stop wasting my time and money, because at the moment you'd make a great case study of now not to conduct e-commerce or customer-facing business.

The whole thing completely undermines the faith CIMA students have in their qualification's award body. No doubt we'll get an apology [cough].

Baby Boom, Shake the Room

Nothing happening as yet. She's still in there, snug as a bug.

Even a full four hours of high volume tunes on Saturday night failed to coax her out. Although I'd secretly hoped that Vic's waters might burst all over the dance floor, nothing happened. The most exciting thing -- apart from Dexy's Midnight Runners, seeing Scott dance, and getting a flash of Sarah the Bride's stockings and suspenders* -- was sharing some excellent chips, and a battered sausage, with Simon. Scott even managed to duck out of our Grand Rap Battle Showdown Challenge.

I claim moral victory!

"Scott, you a yellow belly,
you lost much respect,
like Des Lynham,
da fool on the telly."

[Clenched fist punching the air like Rocky / Gladiator]


* Phwoar!

Butchered

The house to the west of ours is rented. There is an apple tree in the garden. I don't think it has been pruned in its lifetime -- the leader branches reach for the sky and the main body of the tree is growing into itself. Last year the fruit crop was very poor, the tree was diseased, and the leaves dropped weeks before they should have done. This year's crop has recovered somewhat, but the leaders have grown longer, overhanging our garden, blocking out the light and dumping sacks of rotten fruit onto our pathways and borders.

The tree desperately needed the attentions of a qualified tree surgeon, so I contacted the landlord's management agency directly and asked them to send someone round to cut it back. With a little tenderness, love and care, the tree had the potential to be a beautiful and healthy specimen.

I got home on Tuesday to discover that the apple tree had been butchered.

Instead of pruning the tree, cutting out the dead wood, chopping back the unsightly leaders and giving the tree a proper MOT, the dim-witted gardeners had just hacked off every single limb that cleared the boundary wall between our two properties.

The tree is now completely misshapen and is so lopsided it risks toppling over in a storm.

A total mess, and I'm quite upset about it. I don't think the tree will now survive the winter.

Idiots.

Ikea Snake Update

Just as I'm in a position to justify a purchase of the legendary green soft toy, Ikea change the design from evil lime green to a hideous multicoloured puke. My precious Ikea Snakes no longer resemble the Serpent who reminded Adam and Eve of the need for five portions of fresh fruit and vegetables each day. No -- they now look like draught excluders.

Those Swedish fools...


Congratulations

Sally and David's wedding was great. Heythropp Park was a beautiful venue and Sally matched it -- she looked sensational.

Both of them were bags of nerves though.

In the ceremony, David managed to grunt "Hmmm-hmmm!" instead of saying "Yes, I do!" -- incurring the wrath of the registrar -- and Sally managed to burst out laughing at the mention of her name.

In the line-up, when I shook Sally's hand, gave her a kiss and told her "Congratulations!"... all she managed to say was "Congratulations!" straight back at me.

[Wedding auto-pilot is on]


Colleague Update

I haven't commented on my colleagues recently, and as this blog got its first stranger links on the back of colleague-related back-biting, it's time we had an update.

Tina

She went on holiday to Greece with her sixteen year old daughter Catherine. Whilst Tina drank a cocktail by the pool side, Catherine took a refreshing swim. A middle-aged man approached Tina, sat down on the sun lounger beside her, and without taking his eyes off Catherine opened the conversation with:

"A sixteen year old girl and a suitcase of viagra, in my hotel room for a week, is what I call a good holiday..."

On their way home, they smuggled an extra litre of vodka past customs by tipping it into an empty Evian water bottle. Upon arrival back home, Tina noticed that many of her house plants were desperate for a drink.

So she used the bottle of "Evian"...

Mandy

Last week Mandy received 12 text messages from a random stranger, who apparently had been given a wrong number by a fleeting acquaintance. They were all along the lines of "I can't wait to have your wet **** on my face, so I can lick you out." quickly followed up with "I love you".

She tried to phone him back, but he unfortunately refused to pick up.

Julian

Since December Julian hasn't said a word. That's eight months of silence. He didn't even say anything when:

1) He collapsed in the office.
2) I sent him a £100 Congestion Charge bill (mock-up) from London Mayor Ken Livingston as an April Fool.
3) We decorated his desk for his 30th birthday.
4) I was the only guy out of 200 to wear my shorts to the company BBQ. ["The legs, the legs!"]
5) Terrorists, dressed in gorilla suits, took his framed studio-posed photo of himself and Eileen hostage.

Mandy tried to track down his Friends Reunited entry. There isn't one, but there is this snippet of mystery from an old school friend/bully.

Off The Booze

With less than three and a half weeks to go to D Day I'm off the booze. This is in case I get the emergency "Go Go Go!" call from Vic and have to put my foot down to the hospital. Needs must. I'm going to drive to Sally and David's wedding this Sunday to ensure I'm not tempted to have more than two glasses of champagne.

Expected Benefits: Some weight loss

Catch Me If You Can

Last Wednesday Larry popped in after his touch rugby session at Chinnor had finished. I was dealing with a call from Barclays Bank Fraud Protection – who were telling me that Vic’s debit card had been cloned and £300 of damage put on it – at the time, so was a bit air-headed.

I forgot to tell Vic (or Keir) that Larry was over again this week and that we’d arranged to meet up at the rugby club for a post-match BBQ. Larry’s better half, Carole, was coming over too.

So Vic was surprised when Larry phoned last night and asked her if “we’re still on for tonight?”. I got the usual Zero Notice is a Bad Thing grilling.

We managed to get up to the rugby club in time to see Larry refereeing the Grand Men’s Final. Very authoritative he was too, with a proper black & white ref’s jersey and a whistle. Carole was nowhere to be seen: she was asleep in the car. It took a few minutes to work out the rules – is it 5 or 6 touches before the ball is turned over to the opposition? – but I soon got the hang of what was going on. I’ve got to say that touch rugby looks a lot of fun. I may well give it a go myself next year, as long as I’m fitter than I am now. In my current state I’d be throwing up after two minutes of intensive running and twisting.

The post BBQ highlights included:

Larry revealing that he doesn’t like films (exceptions to the rule are Dirty Dancing and Wizard of Oz).
Larry spilling a whole pint of bitter when I started to sing Queen’s “Who wants to live forever” to him (Carole is Scottish and likes Highlander).


Who’s In Da House?!

I’ve always been a fan of hip hop. Bringing the noise to my boys since 1987!

My mate Tim Westwood tells me that being called Big Dog is a great honour in the black urban ghettos of Brixton and Thame. Well homies, my Baby Girl Vicster has been calling me Big Dog for years now, unaware that she was setting a new trend for my brothers and sisters on the street. Knowing that I'm the cream of the hip hop crop has me all fired up for my big rap battle showdown with Justin Ruffles next month at Sarah and Gareth’s wedding.

“I’m like a bug. I’m gonna bite.
There’s only one winner of this fight.
Ruffles can scratch, but my rhymes still itch.
Leave the stage, you’re my mother friggin’ b*tch!”

It’s going to be massive. I’m a bomb.


Practise Makes Perfect

When Gaby got made redundant she left behind a little friend for me. Chookie is a 19 inch black cock. He is a soft toy Cheeky Chums rooster, with beady eyes and an aura of general evilness. I love him and he’s one of the few genuine friends I have at work.

His current role is to act as a substitute baby. I’m using him to practise holding a baby and doing things – such as typing on a keyboard. Secretly I think he quite enjoys it.

I am resisting the urge to take him home and dress him up in some of our new baby clothes.

One Down, Lots More To Come

James phoned us at 10:30 pm last night. He is a proud new father. Little Amy arrived safe and sound at 2:40 pm yesterday afternoon. Rachel managed to avoid the nastiness of being induced by letting her waters break a mere three hours before the inducement deadline. She negotiated the ten hour labour with just gas and air, and both baby and mum are fine.

James was celebrating on his own with a can of Fosters. He was on cloud nine. "I'm a dad!" was his opening line.

After I'd got off the phone with him I was buzzing. I can't wait for our D Day!


Lady of Leisure

Vicster finished work on Friday. She is now on maternity leave and is officially a Lady of Leisure. Yesterday was shopping and tidying up. Today is going to the cinema with Emma and Ruffles. I'm not sure I'm going to like this once the novelty has worn off.

Ante-Natal Group

The dinner with James and Rachel went really well. So much so, we invited them over to ours last Wednesday. We traded their spaghetti [correctly predicted as the dish of the day beforehand] for our BBQ. James and Rachel are now on tender hooks (not because I may have undercooked the chicken) as they are due to deliver tomorrow, with an inducement deadline of Monday the 18th.

We’re still meeting up with the other Fat Ladies each Thursday at the pub to share experiences and anxieties. The numbers are dwindling each week as girths increase and higher levels of discomfort kick in. The number of partners drinking alcohol is also dropping off as more and more approach the “drop everything and drive me to the hospital” four weeks to go stage.

The record heat and humidity levels have been causing Vic some aggravation, but we managed to escape for a few days with a weekend up in Carlisle at my in-laws. The North West was a good 10 degrees cooler and lacked the steam room air quality. We managed two nights of quality sleep. Sweet. And the dog was fine.

Took the tour at Wallingford’s community hospital. It was so much better than the JR: Natural light, friendly midwife, fresh and soothing paint, intimate and informal. The venue has been selected.

Our baby wardrobe is busting out. We’ve received so many great gifts from people that our new arrival will be able to wear three or four different outfits every day of her first three months. Bring on the sick! She’s going to look a million dollars when she accompanies me to all those Magic tournaments.

Five weeks and counting.



The Football Season Starts

The new football season seems to start earlier and earlier each year. It shouldn’t start in the middle of a high summer heat wave, or the summer cricket Test Series, but it has. If you put a quid on Oxford United winning each of their matches 1-0, you’d probably end up quids in by the end of the season. Promotion? Probably a better chance than last year, but not as strong as the bookies seem to think.