Periodically during the performance the man next to your mother climbs over several partially empty seats in front of us, scuttles along a row and leaves the hall only to return again a few minutes later. When he is not seat hurdling he quietly hums and softly whistles along with Jack. He either has a severe continence problem and/or he is one or maybe two notes short of an octave. At first he is an amusing diversion.

As the second half of the show starts there is a strange rustling noise from our bizarre neighbour. “What’s he doing now?” asks your mother out of the side of her mouth. I lean forward and peer through the gloom, lean back and whisper out the side of my mouth “He’s got his piece out”. The seats creak and squeak as the audience within earshot of my stage whisper shift uneasily, the way sheep react when they notice a dog peering with intent through a five bar gate.

“CHANGE SEATS WITH ME, NOW!” demands your mother now rigid with fear. We change seats and I sit next to the oddball as he noisily munches a ham sandwich … or if you are a recent immigrant from Scotland a ham piece.

The town of Bonnyrigg where I spend my childhood had two railway stations. Dr Beeching closed one and my big brother spectacularly terminated the other. Fortunately, it was on an obsolete branch line which was rarely used.

The catastrophe occurred in the late 1950s during an intensely hot summer. Each summer holiday we would occupy a different location, build a gang-hut or shelter, annoy people, play games and sometimes just sit around a fire. On this particular year we were in residence in the wooded  embankment at the back of the doomed station buildings.

On the fateful day my brother Willie, a friend called Hallie and me were sitting around our fire in the manner of the cowboys that we saw in matinee films and emulated. Suddenly, a jam jar full of a suspicious and smelly yellowish liquid was produced by my brother with the claim that this would make the fire burn much, much better. Our father had drummed into us the importance of making sure a camp fire was out before leaving and we had a ritual that involved standing around the fire and peeing on it; a boy’s thing. But all the piss in the town would fail to dampen down this fire.

I’m positive that it was my brother that brought the jam jar to the party; He had previous form for this sort of thing. Only weeks before he had stumbled, screaming, out of the utility room at the back of the house with his arms alight like a Christmas pudding. At the time I was grateful
for the distraction as I was being verbally lambasted by my father; I had cleaned his bike and, as a special service polished the saddle with dark tan boot polish. He had thanked me at the time but changed his tune when he discovered that the polish had unfortunately transferred onto his light beige trousers creating a prominent external skid mark. Horrified at the sight of his eldest son ablaze the skid mark was forgotten and, in a throwback to his army days he exclaimed “F**king hell!” instantly expanding his seven year old son’s vocabulary as he sprinted up the garden path to dowse the flames engulfing his eldest son.

But back to the camp fire. We were all enthralled, kneeling and standing expectantly around the fire as Willie carefully unscrewed the lid of the jam jar and poured a small quantity of the yellow liquid onto the smouldering pile of twigs. There was a sudden whoomph as a huge fire ball rolled passed our astonished faces and roared into the tree canopy above. Our eyes swivelled upwards; we were mesmerised, but not for long. For the second time in a short
space of time I heard the new and interesting phrase. “F**king hell!” my brother screamed as he realised that he was holding a Molitov Cocktail in his hand. In an understandable panic he threw the jam jar, its contents fiercely ablaze into the surrounding tinder dry undergrowth. We were now  n the centre of a maelstrom of fire. With surprising calmness and presence of mind Willie ushered us away from the disaster zone and led us up the pathway and made us walk with studied casualness up the road to our house not far away.

We arrived home and sat at the table while our mother stood preparing our dinner at the kitchen window. “Och, it looks like someone’s having a wee fire. I hope the washing won’t be covered in ash”. This was a wee understatement. It looked as though a plane had crashed into the railway cutting; the sun along with the church tower had been blotted out. We sat quietly in the now gloomy kitchen eating our meal, my mother oblivious to the missing
eyebrows, singed fringes, faint stench of petrol and the distant clamour of fire engines bells.

Later the catastrophe was on the front page of the weekly local paper. Our father tut-tutted while poring over the pictures of the devastation and a photograph of a startled Mr Black the local coal merchant and funeral director who had heroically prevented the fire from spreading to his yard, a vast area of piles of coal and tanks of various liquid fuels, and the accidental cremation of his late clientele awaiting burial.

Gramps dropped the children off this morning. When I asked how it had gone Gramps muttered something about Santas’s Sack and then left.  Later I checked my email and discovered this nugget from him;

We had bought sweets in bags called ‘Santa’s sacks’ to take to the pantomime but forgot to take them. The contents include Gummy Rings, Compressed Rings and Gummy Pouches. On arriving back home the grandchildren instantly made for the bags of sweets. It was late; bedtime. “Leave Santa’s sack alone” I said sharply to the granddaughter and instantly thought, thank God I hadn’t said that in the theatre, in the dark, in public.

Many years ago your mother had a similar slip with an inappropriate comment. While we were sat in the large, busy reception area of the company where we both worked she saw in a magazine a picture of some actor or celebrity that resembled my brother. “That looks just like your Willie” she exclaimed in a voice that echoed around the still void.

It is a clear cold November 5^th sometime in the late 1950’s. I stood with my father and mother watching with, frosty clouds of bated breath, my elder brother Willie von Braun proudly preparing his rocket for take off.

Influenced by the famous schematic centre page drawings in the Eagle comic and recent news of Russian dogs and monkeys being sent into orbit, Willie had decided that he would design and build his very own rocket, a large one. Amongst other components propellant was required; a lot of it and he had persuaded our gang to donate the gunpowder from our fireworks as fuel for his projectile.

This was a big ask. We revelled in our seasonal activities which involved harassing the town’s population by lobbing penny bangers, our weapon of choice, at innocent bystanders, creating shock and awe; mostly shock. We roamed around like small Hamas suicide bombers with our pockets crammed with explosives, probably enough, in the event of an accident, to blow a leg off at the thigh.

Willie constructed the rocket with our proud father looking on in admiration. It was large tubular object with a pointy nose cone, fins and supported on four spindly legs. Based on my avid reading of comics featuring daring stories of the Second World War I saw a bomb; our father impressed by Willie’s scientific endeavours, a Starship.

Over the weeks leading up to Guy Fawkes Night the body of Willie’s rocket was gradually filled up with gunpowder from our dismantled bangers and other fireworks. I suspect that other chemical substances had been added. The previous Christmas, to my brother’s manic glee a chemistry set had been his main present; a reckless gift in my opinion. Soon after strange smells and noises seeped from the utility room and odd events occurred. A hole of about two inches in diameter appeared in our garden bench, a church pew salvaged the demolished surplus village church. The hole with scorched edges had been blown clean through the two inch thick seat panel. My mother and father looked at the hole, scratched their heads and talked in hushed voices of Acts of God and meteor particles from outer space. But I knew; not how but who.

The launch day arrived and on a clear moonlight night Willie’s rocket stood proudly but precariously on a board in the middle of the lawn pointing menacingly at the stars; the centrepiece of the that year’s display.

After a paltry firework show Willie advanced confidently across lawn and lit the slow burning fuse, a product of his chemistry experiments, and retreated. Precisely two minutes later the rocket burst into life; more fizz than roar. It jigged about like a demented Riverdance performer then, failing to defy gravity, slowly toppled over to lie facing our small family group hissing threateningly. My father was now brought to his senses and, drawing on his wartime experience as a Master Gunner in the Royal Artillery he now, at last, saw a bomb not a rocket. and swiftly shepherded us down the garden away from the potential blast zone.  Thankfully there was no explosion; the rocket, in it’s death throes finally roared into life and sped around the lawn in ever increasing circles before finally expiring in the rose bed.

My father commiserated with the young von Braun unaware of the intricate Celtic pattern scorched in the lawn which would only be revealed at sunrise.

Apparently having a puppy around gives the older dog a new lease of life and also calms the puppy a bit quicker with the older dog being a good example.  A good example on how to sleep all day and almost kill with one fart, maybe.

I suggested that we get a puppy to The Husband expecting him to tell me that I was bonkers.  He said ‘OK’ and I fainted in shock.

So, we are getting a puppy, sometime over the next few months.  The children have no idea, but don’t worry, it won’t be like when Father Christmas left the gerbils in a cupboard three days early COUGH. Do you remember that?  it still makes me clench my buttocks thinking about it.  Gramps, also known as Baron Von Foot In Mouth, has almost managed to blow PuppyGate out of the water twice so I’m not holding out much hope.

So we may have a new baby soon … and I think that’s why The husband said OK so fast.  It’ll stop me pestering him for a human one.

Strange shapes in his room, scared on his own, needing someone to sleep with, needing several hugs, cuddles and kisses before he goes to sleep are are just a few of his problems.

During the school holiday the 7 year old has thought it exciting to share a room with her brother.  They have had all manner of ‘midnight feasts’ … at 8pm. Last night, though, she decided she was moving back.  She wanted her own space.  A bedroom with no snoring.

It took a while to settle the 5 year old.  He read to me, I read to him.  He wanted the 7 year old to sleep with him, she said no.  He told me about the ghosts that scare him.  I told him there was no such things as ghosts. He believed me. I told him he had to sleep in his room alone.  He eventually got used to it and went to sleep.

Today we had a stressful shopping trip. My first mistake was giving the children popping candy before leaving the house to buy school shoes, my second to ignore the 5 year old’s pleas for a poo shortly before entering the store.  We got home just in time to greet Gramps who had bobbed round for a catch up. We sat in the garden with a cup of tea.

The children came over to us and Gramps began telling them about a ruin they had visited in the wood during a treasure hunt, near his house, the last time he had looked after them.  The children listened intently.  He said that he’d found a picture of the house before it was a ruin that he’s show them next time they came round.

“Best of all” he said with wide eyed excitement … “There’s a ghost!”.

Face. Palm.

Can’t wait for bedtime tonight.

A post by Gramps about the joys of being a Grandfather …

A typical day with my grandchildren usually starts with swimming or a visit to that wonderful venue Wacky Warehouse. Swimming has the disadvantage of prematurely tiring me out whereas a visit to the Wacky Warehouse does not need any exertion on my part; adults sit reading newspapers and magazines while the children exhaust themselves (although I have noticed that too many Slush Puppies tend to counteract the fatigue) We then return home and walk our dog Millie in the nearby field. The dog and the children startle the rabbits and the heron standing still as a statue in the pond at the end of the field. The annoyed heron heaves itself out of the pond and we watch as it labours up into the blue sky and slowly vanishes over the trees. I show the children the network of paths made by the rabbits and they follow them in Indian file to their burrows where the granddaughter barks loudly into the mouth of the burrows probably petrifying the poor rabbits and bemusing Millie who rarely barks.

A quick lunch is followed by the ever popular dam building in the stream. Each successive dam is more complex in construction and the resulting pool deeper. For this latest dam we collect dead leaves to create a seal between the rocks. The grandchildren work with enthusiasm with the occasional sibling spat and the dam today is impressive. My grandson then demands to play football as promised (recklessly) at the start of the day. I desperately negotiate a ten minute kip while they watch TV before dragging my protesting body to stand between the two trees that are the goal posts. A day of simple pleasures; priceless.

As I sit recovering from this childminding pentathlon I am content; there is a reassuring knowledge that somewhere in my grandchildren there is a small part of me being transported into the future even if it is only a memory of a day like this.

He commented yesterday that puddings in our house are a bit hit and miss. A biscuit maybe or a yoghurt and on one occasion I pushed the boat out and made a lemon cheesecake which was lovely.  He said it clearly wasn’t memorable because he had no recollection of it. Charming.

So tonight I presented him with a box of cupcakes.  One for everyone. We thought they were lovely, he thought they were sickly. The children particularly liked the idea of edible paper. He didn’t.

There’s no pleasing some people.

The reason Rowse sent us the honey and the cupcakes is because they have just spent an awful lot of money letting their staff create their latest advertising campaign. There are six ads to choose from … complete with wooden acting, wobbly camera work and amateur sets! Click on an ad to watch it and meet the cast. Then LIKE it to vote for it.

All weekend we talked about how many sleeps till the 4 year old’s birthday.  So on Monday, when he came out of school with a massive grin on his face my heart skipped a beat.  My happy little boy full of the joys of school.  Then he said “It’s my birthday tomorrow isn’t it?”.  He sobbed all the way home when I told him he had a few more sleeps to go.

My Dad, Gramps, who is aware of The Husband’s birthday present, which is a lovely surprise, came for dinner last night.  He struggled through the meal because he kept almost blurting out things regarding the logistics of said birthday surprise.  It was stressful for us both. He kept starting conversations and then pretending he’d forgotten what he was going to say.  He said it was his best Alzheimer’s impression ever.

This morning I had the following conversation with the 4 year old on the way to school;

Me - Are you excited about your birthday?

Him - Yes, I can’t wait to get my ramp.

Me - What ramp?

Him - A scooter and skateboard ramp for the garden.

Me - What if you don’t get a ramp?

Him – But you know I want a ramp

Me - What if Daddy makes you a ramp?

Him - I want the ramp, the one on the computer. The one I am getting for my birthday.

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh

It’s been a while.  Here is a guest post from Gramps on one of his favourite two subjects, farts and poo …

My grandson looks uncannily like me when I was his age. Occasionally this brings back memories of the distant past and the recent story involving poo triggered a particularly traumatic school recollection.

Still coming to terms with primary school life I am sat anonymously somewhere in the middle of the classroom at a wooden desk, one in a regimented sea of desks. The sun is streaming in the large window, the room is warm and my mind is probably elsewhere; mulling over the latest exploits of Davy Crockett or Quatermass, a scary science fiction TV film which surprisingly my dad had allowed me to watch at the impressionable age of six.

The class, in a state of mild excitement, is about to go to the music lesson which is held in a room at the other end of the school where I will wield a triangle, the extreme limit of my musical talents.

My day begins to unravel with an unexpected and uncontrolled fart; loud enough for the teacher, a tall, thin, middle aged lady, to give me a disapproving look and the girl who is sat next to me to snigger.

The moment passes and I slip back into my default daydreaming mode.  But this doesn’t last. I slowly become aware, along with the teacher and my fellow pupils, that the room is filled with the smell of poo. My recent fart puts me in the frame as the source of the smell. The teacher, suspicious that I have suffered a catastrophic ‘follow through’ tells me to sit at the front of the class.

Even at the age of six I felt victimised; I couldn’t believe that the sheer volume and persistence of the smell could possibly have seeped from my small body.

Much later in my life my mother would often announce, to my extreme embarrassment, in her lilting but loud Scottish voice that when I was a child Doctor Sommerville had remarked that I had very large bowels; the chatter and clatter in restaurants would be suspended at this revelation.

But, back to my childhood. I am sat, probably red faced at the front of the class with the teacher taking frequent smell readings over me with her nose. Things are about to get worse.

The class is marshaled into a column of pairs, boy and girl holding hands and start the long march down the main corridor of the school in a cloud of poo smell. I am holding hands with teacher with my classmates smirking at my discomfiture as teacher stops me at frequent intervals to bend over, pull up the leg of my shorts and sniff.

This final humiliation was intense but short lived.

Suddenly, a girl in the column bursts into uncontrollable tears. The humiliation is transferred as teacher lifts her skirt to reveal a memorably large poo slung in her knickers.