Edition 56 "Three strikes and you're out!"

Good evening Negative Soundbyters! And there you thought that I had forgotten about your fix of weekly soundbyting! Truth betold it’s been a very busy festive season and one casualty was my blog which is a very poor excuse but maybe you will forgive me when I say that I had my folks over from South Africa, Rafe turned five months (yikes!), No 68 hosted a very memorable Christmas and New Year (although Rafe decided that Mrs H and I were not to celebrate the countdown as he had tummy wobbles from ten till two!), and given the number of bottles now being crushed and melted down at the local Lambeth recycling plant, it’s a wonder that I am able to pen a coherent thought together! (I confess that while I always try to be a responsible parent, my Old Man bought me a silky smooth single malt for Christmas; not even Rafe was going to get between me and enjoying a few whiskies – and dare I say it a smoky Cuban cigar!)

What of your New Year’s resolutions? A thick, creamy chocolate milkshake got in the middle of my “no sugar” January, but I thought, well if I start tomorrow and make it a month from then, it’s kind of the same thing! I am also on a “de-clutter” drive and I have been meaning to dispose of a large pile of old papers that have been sitting in the corner of my office for about three months now. The one snag has been that I have been looking for ways to dispose of them “securely” given the threat of identity theft (although quite why somebody would want to become me I cannot imagine – dashing good looks, dry wit, sharp as a scimitar blade, and just all-round legend might have something to do with it but that’s more like the guy up the road at no 62…  ).

My Dad suggested burning them on the Weber. Great plan because I love making fires. I sneaked out onto the patio while Mrs H was nursing Rafe. She is very sceptical of my Robinson Crusoe skills and the eyebrow would have started twitching if I had filled her on my plan so I thought that keeping her in the dark would be the best policy.

Luckily the wind wasn’t blowing – having old bank statements and photocopied passport pages with my mug fluttering across the neighbourhood wouldn’t have endeared me to the road – and I gingerly placed a few pages in the Weber, put a match to the firelighter that I had placed on the grid and stood back to see what would happen, half expecting an air current to pick up a burning utility bill and deposit it on my neighbour’s trampoline!

Thankfully all went according to plan; I put the Weber lid on, opened the vents and a gentle wisp of smoke curled into the afternoon sky. Success! Mrs H did come down the stairs and announce that she could smell something like “burning toast”; I confessed but instead of grabbing a bucket of water she turned on her heel mumbling something about pyromaniacs. Who me?

Okay that’s almost a mini anecdote; no chance of any geopolitical commentary this evening so let’s move on….

Big Love

Hoddy X

Bedtime.

I used to be a “New Dad Legend” at bedtime. Mrs H could ensconce herself in a hot bubble bath safe in the knowledge that I would have Rafe tucked up with the minimum of fuss at around six thirty. This was one thing that I could do without Mrs H, and I was proud of my new skill.

Recently Rafe has taken a big blunt axe to that mantle; I am in danger of losing even the “New Dad” moniker let alone “legend”. :(

I fire up his bath to just the right temperature. He has a good kick about while trying to decapitate the little plastic duck. I then do baby massage with various creams and moisturisers while “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” plays in the background. The lights are dimmed. He is swaddled in the finest Egyptian cotton bath robe and then into Baby White Company PJs. His milk warms gently in the Tommee Tippee. It’s a veritable baby goddamn spa and this happens EVERY NIGHT! But I suck it up because that’s what it takes to become a “New Dad Legend”. (I secretly love it but don’t tell him that!)

Anyway it comes to him finishing off his milky. In the past there would have been some wind to deal with – no problem – and then a bit of crouchiness but nothing I couldn’t handle. Now it’s a different story. Rafe’s air raid siren has taken on a new dimension – ear splitting. My oath I have never heard anything quite like it. It has even the foxes scurrying back to Clapham Common. No sooner has he finished his bottle then he cranks up the siren. At times it has left me in tatters and Mrs H has had to assume control.

But tonight I tried a new technique with Mrs H’s blessing. As soon as the air raid sounded I put him in his cot for three minutes and sat outside the door. The little oke (South Africanism for “guy”) went ballistic. While this was going on Mrs H asked me to talk her through my strategy re “next steps”. My face said it all…”survival”.

Time up and I crept back in. Rafe was not happy. I picked him up to sooth him; “New Dad you must be kidding me; how dare you leave me…..! Get this!” He blasted me in the ear. Luckily I am bigger than him and I returned him to his cot for another three minutes.

Pandemonium from the nursery. I huddled in the corner of the staircase. 90 seconds to go. And then a deathly silence. Mrs H asked me if he was still alive. I leopard-crawled Green Beret style back into the nursery and poked one eye into the cot half expecting an eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation.

However Rafe was fast asleep; contented breath; arms outstretched as if on a sun lounger – not a care in the world!

I quietly withdrew. I can’t say what it was but tonight “New Dad” prevailed. I am a bit bruised but I’ll take this one. Until to tomorrow night Rafie! Love you son :)

OUT!

Pic of the Week

Happy family - Rafe is still having a think! ha