Good afternoon Negative Soundbyters! For once I sit on a glorious Sunday afternoon and the Proteas are not getting a proper hiding from the Poms. That’s because the Test series is now over and all cricket loving South Africans have been put out of their misery. Sporting wise it is thin on the ground this weekend, unless you are into watching millionaires kicking a football about or athletics – the World Athletic Championships are taking place at the Olympic Stadium in Stratford.
I see that Usain has finally shot his Bolt having finished third in the 100m (beaten by a drugs cheat) and then pulling his hamstring in the 4x100m; Great Britain ended up winning that one. Our own Wayde van Niekerk (Bolt’s heir apparent apparently) and Caster Semenye have done the rainbow nation proud, winning golds in their respective events, although once again Caster is in the spotlight because although she competes as a woman, she looks surprisingly like a man, with raised testes and testosterone levels to boot. The IAAF has spun itself into all sorts of knots over Caster; one minute she’s classified as a “man” and hence unable to participate, then she is back to being a woman – and able to thrash all-and-sundry. It’s crazy when you think what came out of the Eastern bloc and Russia in the seventies and eighties; women pumped so full of steroids that you would be forgiven for thinking that weight lifting was a “male only” sport. Where was the IAAF then? – ah yes, about as effective as the Brits Brexit negotiating team – the word “impotent” springs to mind (if that’s possible!).
The Donald’s presidency looks positively competent in comparison to the IAAF. That said Seb Coe is not able to unleash nuclear war upon us, which The Donald really seems keen to try. See his latest outburst in relation to those pesky North Koreans who keep on threatening to launch a couple of missiles; “They will be met with fire and fury like the world has never seen.” Not surprisingly powdered milk and battery sales surged in response as doomsdayers continued stockpiling for the nuclear winter ahead! My survival kit now includes nappies and wet-wipes, given the new addition to the family.
Talking of the “new addition” let’s move on to the little man.
Big Love Hoddy X
We all have our own baby stories and given that Rafe is only but twelve days old you will have to indulge me in a few. I promise – no soppiness or too much coochy-coo; this is supposed to be a humorous read after all :)
Rafe did get to wear his Sainsbury’s green dinosaur vest today – and in public no less. I had to retrieve it from the deepest, darkest corner of his cupboard and left it strategically out of sight from Mrs H’s beady eye until it came time for me to change him.
That’s my job – nappy change. And I should admit that I quite enjoy it. It’s father-and-son bonding time which hopefully will evolve to a few beers after a round of golf but for now it’s all about wipes and nappies. My challenge is to see whether I can change him before the air raid siren sounds – and of course dodge the projectile poo-poo that is sometimes a consequence of exposing his little bum to the fresh air.
I have learnt the importance of:
a) Keeping the soiled nappy in position for as long as possible in case he strikes again.
b) Have the new nappy laid out and ready for fitting; minimizing the changeover is critical as I learnt today when I reached for the new, fresh nappy only for a spurt of the yellow stuff to hit me front-on!
c) Keeping a close eye on his expression and his porthole because the two are related (he is becoming crafty though; he looked at me dead-pan today and squeezed out a salvo before I could put up my defences!)
d) Standing to the side so anything wet and airborne lands on the carpet as opposed to on me (that said I have already taken some hits for the team!)
Like all newborns, he settles into his new attire only to let rip with a few pearlers which means I must go through the entire process again. Babies I tell you!
Once my little, green dinosaur was settled, we decided to take him shopping – to Sainsburys! We popped him into the Rolls-Royce of prams and tootled on up the street. However no sooner had the wheels touched the pavement, than wheezing and gurgling sounds started emanating from the cocoon. We froze and looked at each other, the brand-new parents that we are. Was this a warning to run for the cellar as Kim and The Donald battled it out or was it a false alarm; Rafe just reminded us to keep the pram steady as he enjoyed his beauty sleep.
Unfortunately it was the former. The air raid siren sounded which initially we tried to shrug off (He’s a baby; babies cry) but when his face started turning bright red Mrs H thought it time to do what mothers the world over do; cuddle their sons. Funnily enough silence ensued until it was time to place him back in the Roller while we nipped around Sainsbury’s to buy ingredients for supper. He didn’t give a rats that he was in my favourite shop; he opened his mouth as wide as he could and bellowed. He’s just not a fan of the pram at this stage which is a tad disappointing given how much it cost! Mrs H ended up carrying him home and the groceries went in the pram – go figure.
But he is still a tiny baby and everything is new to him. The one thing that calms him down instantly is the boob. Unfortunately there is not a pram big enough for Mrs H and Rafe so one hopes that eventually he will see the merits of being ferried around in luxury because I want to say to him that it doesn’t last, so “milk it” for all it’s worth!!
OUT
Pic of the Week:
My Little Green Dinosaur XXX
