Every morning 7 on the dot! You can set your watch by them, use them as an alarm call or ask them to make you some toast, they would do it for you no problem. You open the door and they come in to your kitchen, pick up the rubbish and off they pop with huge grins on their faces with a quick pat on the kid's head's as they go. Did I mention it is every morning? Sorry I am still in shock. None of this alternate week collection,micro-chip's in bins' and make sure the bin is no more than 5 ft off your property on collection day here in Delhi. This is all done for the princely sum of 150rps per month, about £2 in your money!
It is quite staggering to see the work ethic of the people here. Within 2 hours of being in our beautiful new home we had the following job applications:-
3 drivers
4 house-keepers
2 gardeners
2 front of house sweepers
2 back of house sweepers
1 security guard
1 curtain maker
2 furniture suppliers
3 cooks
1 babysitter
Now you may think there is some poetic license in this list but I can assure you it is true.,I have their phone numbers to prove it. If anyone wants them let me know, you could employ one of each for a quarter of the salary of a UK bin man! Here- in lies the fundamental difference between India and the UK. Everyone wants to better themselves, everyone wants to work, everyone knows the value of a rupee, everyone knows how to be polite and helpful and most of all, they all know how to do something that we have forgoten in the UK. How to smile!! Without exception, since we have been here everyone I have passed in the street has smiled at me or said hello. Rafa actually thinks I am famous! He asked me yesterday while walking around Khan market:
"Daddy why does everyone know you"?
I asked what made him think that?
"Everywhere we go people say hello sir and want to give you things"!
Obviously the people trying to give me things where in fact trying to sell me things, but hey why shatter the poor boy's illusions? He has 7 teenage years where he will think I am a complete tosser so a years worth of hero worship now seems a fair trade off.
So we are in our new house. I can finally sit on my throne as the Indianhousehusband, beat my chest and do some metaphorical territorial pissing! It is fantastic! More than I had ever dared imagine. "A" has done a fantastic job in finding the perfect place. For those that know Delhi we are in the South in a place called Shanti Niketan. If you haven't got sat. nav. just leave Connaught Place on the sth. inner circle, chuck a left onto Mother Theressa boulevard, straight over the roundabout, left onto Teen-murthi Marg, perform an illegal u-turn onto Panchseel Marg and you are there. If you can't find us just look for a crowd of people. That will probably be our gaff as people tend to que up outside waiting to get a glimpse of the the bohemoth babaloo or Silas as we prefer to call him!
In the first weekend we have employed a gardener, sweeper and house-keeper. Had sky installed, the marble floors polished, furniture telephone and broadband installed, gas connection done, air con and curtains fitted and found a chai waller! Can you imagine how long all that would take in the UK? It took 2 weeks to get someone to remove a safety tag off the incoming gas valve last time we moved house, we all ate pot noodles for a fortnight. So as you can probably tell life so far is superb, I am even settling into my house keeping chores with great aplomb. I am organised for the first time in ages. I know how many scoops to use in Silas's bottle, I know what all his cries and wails are, I know where Rafa's pants are kept, I know where my pants are kept, I can operate the washing machine and the oven and finally understand that some items of laundry need ironing and they don't in fact come out of the machine ready pressed. More to the point I now have the pleasure of saying to "A" when she asks where something is:-
"Why don't you look for it"
Revenge of the house husband is going to be sweet!
Thursday, 28 May 2009
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
Emasculated? Moi!
The Shangri La hotel New Delhi, a splendid example of how a hotel should be. Fabulous staff, first class food, luxurious surroundings and an oppulent swimming pool which was to be the scene of my first admission in person, that I am now a house husband. It was not something that I had given much thought to but it has become fairly obvious very quickly that ex-pat's and locals' alike, jump fairly swiftly to the conclusion that I would be that bread winner while "A" stays at home with the boys. We were befriended - all be it briefly - by a French couple who have lived here 4 years and use the hotel leisure facilities at the weekend. Things seemed quite amiable untill he asked the killer question.
" So what company have you moved out here with"?
It was the first time I have been confronted with the question and have to admit I thought about lying for a split second and saying Microsoft or Hewlett Packard but fronted up and replied.
" It is my wife's company we have come out here with"
"What are you going to do"? He enquired.
"I am going to stay at home and look after the boys"
I might as well have told him that I was a murderer. The look on his cheese eating face was one of pure horror. His eyebrows raised and his face distorted he said.
"So you will be dealing with all the shit"?
There we have it. In a nutshell, my future summed up by a Frenchman in a pair of speedos laying next to me in the kids pool. John Paul Sartre he may not have been but technicaly he was correct. I will be dealing with the shitty nappies and all the general shit that Indian bureaucracy can throw at me but do you know what? I don't care. I am really excited by it, not just the new way of life in a new country but having a hand in bringing up my boys. Watching them grow up and having a bigger input into the sort of men they will become and hopefully the lifetime bond that should come with it. House husbandry is going to be great if I can just remember to stop using dishwasher tabs in the washing machine!
With "A" up to her neck in it at work I find myself with long days to fill which is a doddle in 40deg plus heat when you have a pool, will it be the same when we move in to the new house? Time will tell but confidence is still high. The boys and I have taken regular forrays into the seedy streets of Parhar Ganj, visiting some of our old haunts and have reccy'd the area surrounding where we will be living (Shante Niketan). In the local market I finally got the beard shaved off while Raff had his haircut all for less than a quid! He also got a sharp introduction to the fact that chicken does not come in little packs off the shelf at Tescos enquiring:
"why is there smelly chickens in cages everywhere"
I didn't have the heart to tell him they were going in my Jalfrezi that night and told him they were all being sold for egg laying! The boys are settling in remarkably well and so far Raf has asked some pretty incisive questions about a place that is so far removed from Berko as to be another planet. A few examples include:
"Why do men always spit red"?
"Why do people with children always ask for money"?
"Why do people in cars stop and stare at us"?
"Why does India smell"? and my favourite so far.
"when I am a big boy will you build me a motorbike that can carry chickens"?
The answers all seemed to go in one ear and out the other but when I asked him what he thought the main difference was between Berko and Delhi, he thought about it for a second or two then replied:
"In Berko it doesn't itch as much when you get your haircut"!
So, great travel writers, politicians and philosophers of our time have struggled to come up with what makes our two great nations so different, yet my 4 year old sums it up in just a dozen words. What a genius.
" So what company have you moved out here with"?
It was the first time I have been confronted with the question and have to admit I thought about lying for a split second and saying Microsoft or Hewlett Packard but fronted up and replied.
" It is my wife's company we have come out here with"
"What are you going to do"? He enquired.
"I am going to stay at home and look after the boys"
I might as well have told him that I was a murderer. The look on his cheese eating face was one of pure horror. His eyebrows raised and his face distorted he said.
"So you will be dealing with all the shit"?
There we have it. In a nutshell, my future summed up by a Frenchman in a pair of speedos laying next to me in the kids pool. John Paul Sartre he may not have been but technicaly he was correct. I will be dealing with the shitty nappies and all the general shit that Indian bureaucracy can throw at me but do you know what? I don't care. I am really excited by it, not just the new way of life in a new country but having a hand in bringing up my boys. Watching them grow up and having a bigger input into the sort of men they will become and hopefully the lifetime bond that should come with it. House husbandry is going to be great if I can just remember to stop using dishwasher tabs in the washing machine!
With "A" up to her neck in it at work I find myself with long days to fill which is a doddle in 40deg plus heat when you have a pool, will it be the same when we move in to the new house? Time will tell but confidence is still high. The boys and I have taken regular forrays into the seedy streets of Parhar Ganj, visiting some of our old haunts and have reccy'd the area surrounding where we will be living (Shante Niketan). In the local market I finally got the beard shaved off while Raff had his haircut all for less than a quid! He also got a sharp introduction to the fact that chicken does not come in little packs off the shelf at Tescos enquiring:
"why is there smelly chickens in cages everywhere"
I didn't have the heart to tell him they were going in my Jalfrezi that night and told him they were all being sold for egg laying! The boys are settling in remarkably well and so far Raf has asked some pretty incisive questions about a place that is so far removed from Berko as to be another planet. A few examples include:
"Why do men always spit red"?
"Why do people with children always ask for money"?
"Why do people in cars stop and stare at us"?
"Why does India smell"? and my favourite so far.
"when I am a big boy will you build me a motorbike that can carry chickens"?
The answers all seemed to go in one ear and out the other but when I asked him what he thought the main difference was between Berko and Delhi, he thought about it for a second or two then replied:
"In Berko it doesn't itch as much when you get your haircut"!
So, great travel writers, politicians and philosophers of our time have struggled to come up with what makes our two great nations so different, yet my 4 year old sums it up in just a dozen words. What a genius.
Thursday, 21 May 2009
I am married to Gordon Gekko
The transformation has been astonishing! In the time it takes 3 boys to pack up a house and board a plane to India, my wife has turned into a power crazed cross between Anna Wintour and Gordon Gekko. Even I am terrified as she demands her driver fetches this and carries that (oviously the trousers are more often than not a pair of size 36 waist 34 leg grey Farah slacks in our house!) it is quite a sight to see. Have I stepped into some Stepford-like parralel universe? No, I am at Indira Ghandi International but this can't be Amanda can it? It appears so and I have to say it is quite a turn on. She is clearly relishing her new power and ready to exercise it at any moment. Is this going to emasculate me even more? Am I going to be scared to death by her? Bugger me is it hot?*
The journey was incredibly smooth thanks to Mr. Branson and his splendid upper-class facilities. I was obviously walking around like Jack the Peanut, glaring down my nose at anyone who dare ask if I had ever flown with them before. "Of course I had"
I said with indignation (lying through my teeth)
"just not with 2 bundles of pure kinetic energy wired to the moon on E-numbers, anyway what's it got to do with you? Fetch me a beer minion".
The last bit was a lie, I can't do it like Amanda does. I then went one step further in my plans to keep up the facade of "regular gladdy daddy upper class flier" and claimed I knew how to turn the seats into a flat bed (something I subsequently found out required a phd in mech. eng.) and was particularly unwise when I had 3 to do, one of which was for a teething squealing 10 month old! Luckily my pride was kept in tact by a hostess (disapointingly nothing like the ones out of the ads. she may well have been 25 when the first flight flew!) who did it all for me as I "had my hands full" Ahhh face saved.
The flight itself ended in a bit of a mess in that despite my best intentions and preperations Silly still managed to find a way to shit all over my new Ted Baker shirt. This was not the look I had hoped for when dis-embarking in the 40 degree heat of a Delhi summer. It is not often you arrive in Delhi and long for your first inhalation of fresh air but believe me, the slums and rubbish around the airport can't hold a candle to the arse of an 11 month old british baby smacked off his face on skittles!
The reuninon was breathtaking (in more ways than one!) and we fought our way through the traffic, heat and humidity to the sanity of our 5 star hotel. I immediately felt like I had come home, like visiting a place your now dead grandparents lived. You have memories of wonderful times there but now know nobody and everything looks slightly different. In the case of Delhi it is the huge amount of infrastructure being put in place, in the place my grandparents lived it is that Marilyn Monroe's has now become The Cock and Ferrett!
The hotel is beautiful but not the steaming underbelly that I long to get my teeth in to. There is also the excitement of seeing the house for the first time and a really nice Ted Baker shirt to get laundered! My excitement is starting to peak, just hope the boys are ok and that I can get my sleep deprived head around the fact that I am married to Kirk Douglas's son!
Namaste.
* The answers' are yes yes and yes!
The journey was incredibly smooth thanks to Mr. Branson and his splendid upper-class facilities. I was obviously walking around like Jack the Peanut, glaring down my nose at anyone who dare ask if I had ever flown with them before. "Of course I had"
I said with indignation (lying through my teeth)
"just not with 2 bundles of pure kinetic energy wired to the moon on E-numbers, anyway what's it got to do with you? Fetch me a beer minion".
The last bit was a lie, I can't do it like Amanda does. I then went one step further in my plans to keep up the facade of "regular gladdy daddy upper class flier" and claimed I knew how to turn the seats into a flat bed (something I subsequently found out required a phd in mech. eng.) and was particularly unwise when I had 3 to do, one of which was for a teething squealing 10 month old! Luckily my pride was kept in tact by a hostess (disapointingly nothing like the ones out of the ads. she may well have been 25 when the first flight flew!) who did it all for me as I "had my hands full" Ahhh face saved.
The flight itself ended in a bit of a mess in that despite my best intentions and preperations Silly still managed to find a way to shit all over my new Ted Baker shirt. This was not the look I had hoped for when dis-embarking in the 40 degree heat of a Delhi summer. It is not often you arrive in Delhi and long for your first inhalation of fresh air but believe me, the slums and rubbish around the airport can't hold a candle to the arse of an 11 month old british baby smacked off his face on skittles!
The reuninon was breathtaking (in more ways than one!) and we fought our way through the traffic, heat and humidity to the sanity of our 5 star hotel. I immediately felt like I had come home, like visiting a place your now dead grandparents lived. You have memories of wonderful times there but now know nobody and everything looks slightly different. In the case of Delhi it is the huge amount of infrastructure being put in place, in the place my grandparents lived it is that Marilyn Monroe's has now become The Cock and Ferrett!
The hotel is beautiful but not the steaming underbelly that I long to get my teeth in to. There is also the excitement of seeing the house for the first time and a really nice Ted Baker shirt to get laundered! My excitement is starting to peak, just hope the boys are ok and that I can get my sleep deprived head around the fact that I am married to Kirk Douglas's son!
Namaste.
* The answers' are yes yes and yes!
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
3 men and a maybe.
Maybe we're going maybe we're not. It really was touch and go for what felt like a long week. Amanda flew on the Sunday after a very tearful day leaving the three men to kick their heels in what was left of our home. It was starting to feel like someone elses' house, that we had decided to squat in for a few days while we panic over whether or not we will get our visas'. We finally get the all clear from the Indian high commision but still have one last cry-fest to overcome, Amanda's mum. I had a feeling it would be the worst goodbye yet and I wasn't dissapointed! With "B" in competition with Raf to see who could be most upset we said our last goodbye (Brief Encounter style on Northampton station platform1) and headed for the stay home dads' last bastion of sanity, the pub!!
Well obviously I had to let Rafa say goodbye to his best mate from nursery. The fact his mum is a writer and hence always looking for excuses why she hasn't met her deadline and that she loves a bevvy was not even in my thought process. Honest! We tried to have a civilised couple of hours "adult time" (something I am finding is essential for sanity) but ended up having conversation along the lines of this:
"so, how is the new book coming alon-Rafa stop shouting-g?"
"Not bad, the writer's block seems to have gone, how are you getting on with the bl-Ferg please be quiet for 1 minute-og?"
"really well, I am finding it quite cathar-Raf get off before you break it-tic"
After a lot of bad looks and a verbal warning from behind the bar we realised enough was enough and knowing my drinking pal spent a large amount of time in there necking with her new fella decided to head back to the squat before we were banned. Another 47 trips to the loft with boxes of crap later I was finally ready for my last sleep at what had been a very happy house.
Thursday 14th May. My last day in my old world! I really want to say that I am terrified of what lies ahead and that I wish I wasn't becoming the "house husband" but at this moment I am starting to allow myself to think selfish thoughts. Selfish thoughts about the wonderful times I have to come with my beautiful family. Selfish thoughts about new opportunities for me. Selfish thoughts about my undying love for India and its' beautiful people. Selfish thoughts about that first Kingfisher and palak paneer on Parhar Ganj. Get ready Delhi I am coming home.
Well obviously I had to let Rafa say goodbye to his best mate from nursery. The fact his mum is a writer and hence always looking for excuses why she hasn't met her deadline and that she loves a bevvy was not even in my thought process. Honest! We tried to have a civilised couple of hours "adult time" (something I am finding is essential for sanity) but ended up having conversation along the lines of this:
"so, how is the new book coming alon-Rafa stop shouting-g?"
"Not bad, the writer's block seems to have gone, how are you getting on with the bl-Ferg please be quiet for 1 minute-og?"
"really well, I am finding it quite cathar-Raf get off before you break it-tic"
After a lot of bad looks and a verbal warning from behind the bar we realised enough was enough and knowing my drinking pal spent a large amount of time in there necking with her new fella decided to head back to the squat before we were banned. Another 47 trips to the loft with boxes of crap later I was finally ready for my last sleep at what had been a very happy house.
Thursday 14th May. My last day in my old world! I really want to say that I am terrified of what lies ahead and that I wish I wasn't becoming the "house husband" but at this moment I am starting to allow myself to think selfish thoughts. Selfish thoughts about the wonderful times I have to come with my beautiful family. Selfish thoughts about new opportunities for me. Selfish thoughts about my undying love for India and its' beautiful people. Selfish thoughts about that first Kingfisher and palak paneer on Parhar Ganj. Get ready Delhi I am coming home.
Thursday, 7 May 2009
Post natal depression for gladdy daddies
I think I have post natal depression! There you go, I have said it and it feels good. My mum claims it is virtually impossible to have children without suffering with it in some form or another. If I am going to do this thing I want the full experience (to this end I have deliberately gone up a jeans size to see if I can go on the atkins and get into the pre-baby skiny Jeans) and at 9.45 this morning I think it started. This morning wasn't so smooth, particularly when you compare it to yesterday morning. Let me run you through yesterday, then today and you will understand why the pnd has hit.
Yesterday morning was perfect, the usual wake up, cup of tea, kids to nursery etc etc. It was while eating rice crispies (thats a lie,they are actually Tesco's krispy rice as I am now not earning) in front of the tv when unexpectedly Erika Eleniak popped out of a cake with her baps out declaring to Stephen Segal "you're not a cook are you"? The fact Under Siege was on at that hour of the morning was an unexpected bonus but also staggering. Have the people at film 4 caught on that there is indeed a nation of gladdy daddies out there all suffering from pnd? Do they think that all we need to kick start the day is a pair of surgically enhanced bohemoth breasts on the t.v? If so they are spot on! The smile could not even be erased from my face by a pile of ironing in front of sky sport news at 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Gladdy daddies rock!
Compare and contrast this morning.
Silas wakes with the massive arse ache. When I say arse ache I mean AAAARRRRSSSSEEEEE AAAACCCCCHHHHEEEEE! You know the sort of sound I mean? Think detuned radio drowned out by the sound of a tomahawk jet fighter and you are getting somewhere near. How can such small beings make such large noise? It will be a constant source of fascination to me. Dealing happily with the noise (I am still on a Erika Eleniak high) I proceed to try and get the boys dressed. All the clothes laid out with military precission the night before have gone. I know what has happened, Amanda has moved them.
Do I call her?
No that will be admitting defeat!
Is she testing me?
Yes I think so.
Will she be chuckling to herself somewhere at the thought of me not knowing where they are?
Definately.
Am I getting slightly paranoid?
Possibly.
Is that because I have post natal depression?
Absolutely!
So there you have it, I am suffering from pnd and the reason why is because my wife hid the boys' clothes! I am going to write to the British Medical Journal and see if there has ever been a confirmed case of it in a male and if not, offer my body to medical science for study. At least that way I can earn some money thus getting some self esteem back and hopefully pulling myself out of this slide. Holy hell, only a week in and already struggling!!
According to my mum it is compulsory if so afflicted to move to Boston Lincs, start wearing open toed sandals and drink 2 litre's of whisky ever day (not sure if that is how everyone copes but that is how she said she did). So I am off to Office for some sandals then calling Kirsty and Phil to tell them we are now changing location. I will now be www.bostonhousehusband.com!
Yesterday morning was perfect, the usual wake up, cup of tea, kids to nursery etc etc. It was while eating rice crispies (thats a lie,they are actually Tesco's krispy rice as I am now not earning) in front of the tv when unexpectedly Erika Eleniak popped out of a cake with her baps out declaring to Stephen Segal "you're not a cook are you"? The fact Under Siege was on at that hour of the morning was an unexpected bonus but also staggering. Have the people at film 4 caught on that there is indeed a nation of gladdy daddies out there all suffering from pnd? Do they think that all we need to kick start the day is a pair of surgically enhanced bohemoth breasts on the t.v? If so they are spot on! The smile could not even be erased from my face by a pile of ironing in front of sky sport news at 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Gladdy daddies rock!
Compare and contrast this morning.
Silas wakes with the massive arse ache. When I say arse ache I mean AAAARRRRSSSSEEEEE AAAACCCCCHHHHEEEEE! You know the sort of sound I mean? Think detuned radio drowned out by the sound of a tomahawk jet fighter and you are getting somewhere near. How can such small beings make such large noise? It will be a constant source of fascination to me. Dealing happily with the noise (I am still on a Erika Eleniak high) I proceed to try and get the boys dressed. All the clothes laid out with military precission the night before have gone. I know what has happened, Amanda has moved them.
Do I call her?
No that will be admitting defeat!
Is she testing me?
Yes I think so.
Will she be chuckling to herself somewhere at the thought of me not knowing where they are?
Definately.
Am I getting slightly paranoid?
Possibly.
Is that because I have post natal depression?
Absolutely!
So there you have it, I am suffering from pnd and the reason why is because my wife hid the boys' clothes! I am going to write to the British Medical Journal and see if there has ever been a confirmed case of it in a male and if not, offer my body to medical science for study. At least that way I can earn some money thus getting some self esteem back and hopefully pulling myself out of this slide. Holy hell, only a week in and already struggling!!
According to my mum it is compulsory if so afflicted to move to Boston Lincs, start wearing open toed sandals and drink 2 litre's of whisky ever day (not sure if that is how everyone copes but that is how she said she did). So I am off to Office for some sandals then calling Kirsty and Phil to tell them we are now changing location. I will now be www.bostonhousehusband.com!
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
What is the torque required for a spare wheel?
At last I know. The Mercedez Benz c220 estate sports spare wheel needs 80lb ft of torque to be secured correctly! "How do I know" I hear you cry? I have a Phil. You must have one in your circle of friends, everyone does. Genial, funny, solid, reliable, dependable but ridiculously clumsy! Thanks to Phil shearing off the locking wheel nut on my flat tyre, in his attempt to help replace it, I found out from the most cheerful RAC man in Europe that 80lb feet is the answer to my title question! The RAC man was very happy to be using "a right tidy new piece of kit I have isn't it" to remove the flat and went on his way even happier than me.
The final wekend before we depart was fantastic, it was spent in Brecon with the ever accomadating Taylor's, and could not even be spoiled by Sausage roll fingered Phil nearly making us extend our stay! Saturday night turned into an impromptu 80's night with Gus on the wheels of steel actually admitting to owning a 12" Johnny Hates Jazz record. The Sunday was spent recovering by lazing in the garden all day drinking even more wine while the kids took it in turns to whine. The only people missing on the lawn most of the day were Gus and Phil. Gus ducked in and out of the bedroom all day to relieve his hangover (though I think it was to hide his shame at the Johnny Hates Jazz confession) while Phil stood in the river Usk, knee deep for 4 hours getting burnt (he calls it fishing).
Finaly full to the brim and fed up of boozing we departed (thanks to rac man) back to our now post burgalry looking house. It is amazing that there is virtually nothing left in it (the removal men have now been) and yet it has never looked more untidy. The reality of our imminent departure is starting to hit home like a Pacquiao left hook and on top of that I am now unemployed and officialy the Indian house husband! I want to write that it is terrifying and that I feel totaly emasculated yet I am fining it incredibly liberating. A Tuesday after bank holiday while working would usually have gone like this:-
Woke late, feel shit, drive to work, have coffee, answer phone have a row with customer, bollock staff, have some breakfast, answer phone, have a row, bollock staff, phone customers, no orders,no work, shout at staff. Are you getting the picture?
This morning went like this:-
Woke early,made everyone tea,had shower, played with kids, dressed kids, took kids to nursery,had leisurely breakfast, vacuumed house, put on load of washing. Are you getting the picture?
I am really enjoying it so far and though "so far" has only been around 7 hours I am fairly positive that I am going to be a pretty decent house husband. Is that a statement that I should be proud or ashamed of? Will it always be like this? Why has Phil got such ham fists? These are questions I now have time to ponder. My head has been emptied completely of work and the vacuous fog that once stalked my frontal lobe has now been replaced with a clearly functioning, state of the art, multi tasking, dare I say it female like brain! At this rate I could become useful.
The final wekend before we depart was fantastic, it was spent in Brecon with the ever accomadating Taylor's, and could not even be spoiled by Sausage roll fingered Phil nearly making us extend our stay! Saturday night turned into an impromptu 80's night with Gus on the wheels of steel actually admitting to owning a 12" Johnny Hates Jazz record. The Sunday was spent recovering by lazing in the garden all day drinking even more wine while the kids took it in turns to whine. The only people missing on the lawn most of the day were Gus and Phil. Gus ducked in and out of the bedroom all day to relieve his hangover (though I think it was to hide his shame at the Johnny Hates Jazz confession) while Phil stood in the river Usk, knee deep for 4 hours getting burnt (he calls it fishing).
Finaly full to the brim and fed up of boozing we departed (thanks to rac man) back to our now post burgalry looking house. It is amazing that there is virtually nothing left in it (the removal men have now been) and yet it has never looked more untidy. The reality of our imminent departure is starting to hit home like a Pacquiao left hook and on top of that I am now unemployed and officialy the Indian house husband! I want to write that it is terrifying and that I feel totaly emasculated yet I am fining it incredibly liberating. A Tuesday after bank holiday while working would usually have gone like this:-
Woke late, feel shit, drive to work, have coffee, answer phone have a row with customer, bollock staff, have some breakfast, answer phone, have a row, bollock staff, phone customers, no orders,no work, shout at staff. Are you getting the picture?
This morning went like this:-
Woke early,made everyone tea,had shower, played with kids, dressed kids, took kids to nursery,had leisurely breakfast, vacuumed house, put on load of washing. Are you getting the picture?
I am really enjoying it so far and though "so far" has only been around 7 hours I am fairly positive that I am going to be a pretty decent house husband. Is that a statement that I should be proud or ashamed of? Will it always be like this? Why has Phil got such ham fists? These are questions I now have time to ponder. My head has been emptied completely of work and the vacuous fog that once stalked my frontal lobe has now been replaced with a clearly functioning, state of the art, multi tasking, dare I say it female like brain! At this rate I could become useful.
Friday, 1 May 2009
Tears before tandoori
This is not how it is supposed to be! A week to go and the tears will not stop, I actually nearly cried while looking at a 4 pack of stella this afternoon. Everything seems to remind me of a life that I haven't even left behind yet.
I thought the last of the tears would have been at my parents house last weekend when we had a last minute outpouring of Niagra proportions. A stiff upper lip was the order of the day as we ate "the last supper" but I think we all knew the countdown was on in the sub conscious to the final goodbye. Sure enough we were not disapointed and the hugging almost became ritualistic, I even half expected Bruce Parry to turn up and start filming a documentary at one point.
This wasn't to be the worst of it though. I met up with the "boys" for a last champions league match/card school/start smoking again/drink your own body weight in lager/ cider/ vodka session. Not being a bunch of fella's famed for showing emotion it must have come as quite a shock to Aid when in the middle of Clapham High Street I grabbed him in my not inconsiderable arms and told him he was meee fuuuugggin beeezzzy maaate and allllways wid be, with a large tear in my eye. The fact 2 men were hugging on Clapham High Street didn't turn many heads so I headed for Tops but could see by the look in his crossed eyes it was not going to happen! Saying my drunken goodbye's to the lads and heading to the tube I found myself booing again! Will it ever stop?
It appears not. I have left work tonight for the final time only to arrive home and find a card from the parents telling me how proud they are of us all and how much they will miss us and ........... oh no there I go again, just thinking about leaving so many beautiful people starts me off. Am I having a last minute nervous breakdown? Is the pressure starting to get to me? Am I just as soft as a brush and yet quite in touch with my feminine side? I have no idea but will no doubt find out in the next few weeks as we have A's family to say goodbye to and a trip to brecon with gus rach et al to get through. Waterproof mascara all round, stiff upper lip, copious amounts of premium strength lager and pure adrenalin will see me through onwards to Delhi, I am ready.
I thought the last of the tears would have been at my parents house last weekend when we had a last minute outpouring of Niagra proportions. A stiff upper lip was the order of the day as we ate "the last supper" but I think we all knew the countdown was on in the sub conscious to the final goodbye. Sure enough we were not disapointed and the hugging almost became ritualistic, I even half expected Bruce Parry to turn up and start filming a documentary at one point.
This wasn't to be the worst of it though. I met up with the "boys" for a last champions league match/card school/start smoking again/drink your own body weight in lager/ cider/ vodka session. Not being a bunch of fella's famed for showing emotion it must have come as quite a shock to Aid when in the middle of Clapham High Street I grabbed him in my not inconsiderable arms and told him he was meee fuuuugggin beeezzzy maaate and allllways wid be, with a large tear in my eye. The fact 2 men were hugging on Clapham High Street didn't turn many heads so I headed for Tops but could see by the look in his crossed eyes it was not going to happen! Saying my drunken goodbye's to the lads and heading to the tube I found myself booing again! Will it ever stop?
It appears not. I have left work tonight for the final time only to arrive home and find a card from the parents telling me how proud they are of us all and how much they will miss us and ........... oh no there I go again, just thinking about leaving so many beautiful people starts me off. Am I having a last minute nervous breakdown? Is the pressure starting to get to me? Am I just as soft as a brush and yet quite in touch with my feminine side? I have no idea but will no doubt find out in the next few weeks as we have A's family to say goodbye to and a trip to brecon with gus rach et al to get through. Waterproof mascara all round, stiff upper lip, copious amounts of premium strength lager and pure adrenalin will see me through onwards to Delhi, I am ready.
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