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It Started with a Dab

It started with a dab.

At first I thought he’d had a seizure. Then I assumed it must be a tribute to Thriller. An attempt at the YMCA in the style of his own illegible handwriting?

He wasn’t entertaining my questions.

“Whateves.”

Ooh, I know this one. You can put your urban dictionary away, this dad has skillz in the spoken word of the yoof. It means whatever. The curled lip of disdain flows more naturally from an S that an R, you see. Try it. Besides, R’s are so last century. S is the new…

“You’re so durpy!”

Eh, what? Durpy? Have they been watching that YouTuber with the thick Yorkshire accent again? Does he mean dopey?

“Jeez, you’re such a noob!”

Whoa, back up there young fella, we’ve no dealt with durpy yet!… Read the full post

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Middle-aged Spread

Do you remember when this blog used to be about the kids? Nope, me neither. I should probably just change its name from The Tales of Sonny and Luca to The Miserable Mutterings of a Middle-aged Man and be done with it, although to be fair, if they want to play a larger part in the blog they could try taking their faces out of a screen once in a while and communicating. There’s only so much you can write about them stomping upstairs and eating bogeys.

*Makes mental note to write a post about them stomping upstairs and eating bogeys.

This post is about middle-aged spread, which apparently is something that hangs heavy over my belt and not a buffet with pineapple and cheese on sticks as I’d always assumed.… Read the full post

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Not Another Back to School Post

Sorry, I lied, it absolutely is another back to school post. What can you do, I called it The Tales of Sonny and Luca. You make your bed, you lie in it.

Sonny started Juniors today, but he’ll not forget his time in infants, not least because those memories are still etched across his tie in gravy.

Luca started Year Two with Sonny’s old teacher. A blessing if judged on his handwriting, less so if judged on his homework.

And whilst Janet was amazed at how much they’d grown over the summer holidays, as the stay-at-home parent responsible for their uniforms I thought it wise not to mention their trousers were fast approaching three-quarter length long before the end of last term.… Read the full post

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Modern Art Post Kids

There was a time I quite liked modern art. I actively sought it out.

Many a weekend was wasted interpreting the uninterpretable, hours spent looking for meaning in the meaningless.

With the Guardian’s ‘what’s on’ guide as my bible, I considered myself cultured. A patron of the most pretentious ‘art spaces’ Manchester had to offer. A devoted disciple of the deluded.

Then I had kids.

You see, a funny thing happened when I became a parent. Through sleep deprived, cynically depressed eyes came a clarity of vision that cut right through the densest of bullsh#t. I no longer have time for it. I see things for what they are. The murkiness that is modern art doesn’t stand a chance.

A couple of weeks ago Janet and I found ourselves in an art exhibition.… Read the full post

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It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

… and it’s difficult not to be swept up by it all.

To be honest, I think the kids may have already peaked. Wake up any earlier and they’ll be eating their breakfast yesterday.

I blame the advent calendar. Who doesn’t want to wake up at 5am for a suspiciously greying chocolate from a traditionally festive Marvel Avengers calendar?

It wasn’t like this in my day. I grew up with the excitement of opening pictures, and not even the third candle in as many weeks was enough to dampen my enthusiasm, because I had double-door twenty-four to look forward to, and that beats any misshapen excuse of a chocolate Poundland has to offer.

Then there’s my Instagram feed, which has become little more than Tinder for Christmas trees,

“better than mine, better than mine, better than mine, ooh a diseased spruce … nope, still better than mine…”

I’d tried to postpone the inevitable this year by telling them our tree was on a slow boat from Norway.… Read the full post

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Bending Time

Luca: “Is it a school day? AGAIN? Next year can you buy a calendar with less school days?”

It’s sweet that Luca thinks I control the calendar year. Sweeter still, he thinks that were I to make changes he’d be a net beneficiary? Like a token bank holiday would come close to compensating for my decimation of their school holidays.

But the more I thought about it, the less ridiculous an assumption it was, because their only concept of time is what I tell them, and I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve been manipulating it to my own benefit for the last six years. Willfully bending it since the day they were born. Selfishly throwing it through wormholes in a way that would flummox greater minds than that of Brian Cox.… Read the full post