Good afternoon Negative Soundbyters! Mrs H and I have just returned from the pub; strictly one drink each because we are now responsible parents and Rafe is not old enough to navigate himself and his inebriated parents’ home just yet! You might ask whether we at least enjoyed a Sunday Roast to make up for the lack of alcohol but unfortunately Mrs H has ruined pub roasts for me because what she prepares at home puts most of these so called “roasts” in-the-shade!
Take for example the roast potatoes; in most pubs they would be regarded as a danger to society when fired from a catapult whereas Mrs H tenders them like a mother hen over her new-born chicks; each perfectly oiled and delicately flavoured and roasted until a golden crust forms on the outside to protect the white fluffy flesh of the potato. Hoddy are you trying to ingratiate yourself with Mrs H…..? ALWAYS!! Seriously if you want a roast done the “northern way” Mrs H is your best bet!
Pub-people-watching is always a bit of fun as well. A couple in their sixties were sitting opposite us –both were next to each other facing into the pub. Mrs H and I like to sit in the same way because then we are close and can hold hands! (I’m feeling mushy today; must be “New Dad” syndrome!)
Anyway “sixties lady” had pushed the boat out and had ordered some tea while “sixties man” put his oar in the water and had ordered a half pint. They did not say a word to each and they weren’t holding hands. Both just stared impassively into the room and because we were in direct line of sight, at us.
I suddenly found Mrs H’s conversation about the absorption factor of Rafe’s nappies incredibly interesting but couldn’t help sneaking a glance over my chicken burger in the direction of “sixties couple”. Her man’s conversation was not very riveting – that or the tea was laced with something a lot stronger than green tea leaves - because no sooner had she had a sip of tea than her eyes closed and she gently nodded off to sleep. And his half pint must have been a special brew because his eyelids got a little heavy and soon he was asleep as well! It didn’t last long because some little cherub who had just discovered walking stumbled up to their table, made his presence known and jolted them from their slumber which meant their eyes opened; expressions a carbon copy of before!
I would have offered them Rafe’s chariot – it’s big enough – but he was also asleep, and honestly who did I prefer to be awake while we were enjoying our chicken burgers – I think you can guess.
What of events of geopolitical significance…?
Unfortunately space is a tight this week but suffice to say it was fantastic to see Bell Pottinger, a UK PR business, get their comeuppance for all the damage they have done to race relations in South Africa. Google them to get the full scoop!
And on that very happy note, let’s move onto this week’s anecdote.
Big love to all.
Hoddy X
Sleep.
Like any self-respecting baby, Rafe sleeps when he feels like it. Not a minute before. And usually it doesn’t dovetail with a time that works for Mrs H or me. To her credit Mrs H has refused to let having a baby be an excuse for not keeping the culinary delights flowing from the kitchen. I am massively thankful for this state of affairs; while I do a mean spag-bol I am not sure Mrs H could stomach it for an entire week!
A typical night for Rafe might be bath, feed, soothe and then into the Sleepy Head, which is positioned in close proximity to the dining room table. Euan gets deployed as well for white noise; and if we have to go to Defcon “He-needs-to-sleep-NOW” – there is a hair dryer on Youtube that makes the noise of, yes you guessed it, a hair dryer! This has a remarkable effect and has effectively relegated Euan, the world’s longest suffering sheep, to the bench. Rafe fights the hair dryer but usually the latter prevails and silence reigns.
I set the table; Mrs H dishes up cuisine fit for a king and we sit. I pour some wine. We share an almost conspiratorial look – like “Yeah we’ve nailed this parenting thing; I mean seriously how hard can it be?” Granted the hair dryer is not an ideal accompaniment and adds very little to the ambience, but at least both of us are getting to eat our supper with a knife and fork. Small victories.
And then…..”Eh….”
“Sorry Mrs H, what was that?”
“I didn’t say anything…..”
Colour draining rapidly from faces, we peer across to the Sleepy Head. The hair dryer has run its course. All seems quiet. We sit straining our ears….nothing. Sighs of relief all round and back to the beef stew. But those feelings are short-lived because no sooner is the beef on the end of our forks than…
“Eh….eh….eh…..eh…..eeeeeeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh……….”
And that’s it – the game is up! Both hands and legs shoot up, lungs are cleared, and the air raid siren sounds. Under normal circumstances there would be a stampede to the basement but there are no German bombers overhead, only a 58 cm long (he’s grown 2 cm) ten pound baby letting us know that he’s not quite ready to “go down”!
Fast forward 15 minutes….
Mrs H has sought a refuge in a very large, hot bath. I have Rafe strapped into the Baby Bjorn pacing up-and-down in the dark with a glass of wine in one hand and Eaun, perched on my shoulder, belting out white noise for all he is worth. Rafe is nestled into my chest, the most comfortable of the three of us. There is only one winner in this scenario….
And it’s not “New-Dad” or a harp-playing sheep called Euan….
OUT :)
Pic of the Week
Sleep is for the birds Mom!
