It must have happened to all of us. You're sitting there, picking your nose, idly wondering if Jeremy Kyle could be persuaded to mimic David Blaine and bury himself, and pondering where life is taking you. Then an advert grabs your attention.
" Fly to New York for JUST £10!!!!" it screams. Yup CattleAirs latest offer seems to good to miss. So you think 'Yeah...I...I could do that. I want to see New York! SOD IT lets go!'
You fire up the laptop, which takes forever cos windows, apparentley, didn't close properly last time (poor windows). You find the website, and there is the banner. 'Click here to fly to New York for JUST £10' it says. So, with a finger now trembling with excitement, you click on it.
Up pops the new page...and the first question is......"Where would you like to fly to?"
Well...New York! I clicked on the thing saying fly to New York so I want to got to New York. Sorry if I wasn't being obvious.... So you scroll all the way down to U...... for America. Seriously how many other Countries do you know with america in the title apart from the united one? You find the city, you find the airport. You click on them..... and then you gradually begin to realize that the prospect of getting this done and dusted before the 'Loose Women' theme tune fires up is pretty remote...Indeed 'Deal or No Deal' might just have to wait until Channel 4 +1.
So you go through dates and times. You go through personal details. You go through personal details again because one answer didn't match what you put later. You go through the people your travelling with. How do you know them. Why are you travelling with them. Are you hoping to come back with them. Where exactly were you hoping to sit. How do....
...the phone rings..
You, like a fool, answer it. Seriously? You can save me money on my phone, mobile,internet and wash my towels? What do I have to do? Switch to BT? I'M ALREADY WITH BT!! You're talking to me on a BT line! Do your research and bugger off!!!!
And back to the computer...except you have been away from the page too long and it's timed out...details gone. Your excitement, at this time, has waned somewhat, but you have invested too much of your time already to give up now. Doggedly you press on, times, dates, travellers, done, oh yes! Next. Baggage. Bugger. Forgot about the baggage. We all have some, and you can't hide it so better to declare it now..
And on and on it goes...until you think you've cracked it....but the dates aren't available...or the email isn't correct...or something needs to be verified.
Finally, sat in pitch black because you felt unable to move to put a light on, with a slightly cracked screen from all the frustrated whacks it has taken, and an eye twitching like Dreyfus after a Clouseau visit, you have a screen in front of you. You can fly to New Jersey, in the standing section, for a mere £875 plus tax. Confirm?
And now it's just got serious. Because it's not quite what you expected when you started. It's all changed. It's all different. It's a serious commitment....but you have put so much time and so much effort into getting this far. You have to ask yourself. Did I want this holiday just on a whim? Or is there something inside telling me that I NEED this holiday? And if thats the case, just shut one eye and hit confirm. Cos it could be the best time of your life.
Now times that experience by 100...and you get some idea of how an assesment for adoption goes.
This isn't said to put anyone off. But anyone who saw those adverts featuring young kids and voiceover saying something like ' If you think you can give little Timmy a home, ring this number' and actually thinks they could adopt Timmy, may be a bit delusional. Brangelina will probably have got there years before you....But if you really want to adopt, and you're patient, good things can happen
But none of it begins until after your initial visit from the social worker and those wonderful words ' I think you could be suitable adopters...I will contact you soon to start the assessment'
...soon, in adoption, has a whole new meaning.....
Wednesday 19 December 2012
If you Must shout at the telly, it is probably
better to aim your cutting diatribe involving the state of the nation,
the incompetence of MP's, & the breakdown of local services, towards
some unknown civil servant on Newsnight...rather than berate the
terminally useless Postman Pat for losing his bovine delivery up a
cliff...this not only makes you look like a twat, but can terrify your 3
yr old.....
Friday 14 December 2012
Christmas Plays
It really doesn't matter the size of the part that your child has in the school play or nativity. It doesn't matter if they just take part in a song or a dance. It doesn't matter if they have a speaking part or not. It doesn't matter if they are talented or not. What matters is that your child is up there, taking part. What matters is the magic that a group of kids wearing teatowels, sheets and facial expressions which go from smiling goofiness, to borderline panic, to an almost furious concentration can create.
What matter is the tradition......
....and as such I have had a quick read of the ol good book and have unsuccesfully managed to find the bit where Joseph, standing to the rear of the room, manages to miss the entire birth of the baby Jesus but has a remarkably clear view of a huge cows arse who has stood up to film her calf who is waving maniacally from behind the manger...
...and now I'm the one in trouble apparently! As I told the police, I was merely trying to move her out of the way and totally forgot the tazer was in my hand..
What matter is the tradition......
....and as such I have had a quick read of the ol good book and have unsuccesfully managed to find the bit where Joseph, standing to the rear of the room, manages to miss the entire birth of the baby Jesus but has a remarkably clear view of a huge cows arse who has stood up to film her calf who is waving maniacally from behind the manger...
...and now I'm the one in trouble apparently! As I told the police, I was merely trying to move her out of the way and totally forgot the tazer was in my hand..
Tuesday 11 December 2012
The Social Worker cometh
Isn't it funny how the addition of an s, changing a single to plural, can sometimes turn something that is ridiculed into something to be be feared.....at least in the eyes of our lovely popular press.
Take a social worker. Depictions in 70's sitcoms and much of the fourth estate seem to fall into 3 main catagories.
1) The timid 'earth mother'. Usually wearing glasses and a kaftan she wafts around dropping things, espousing hippy philosophies of love and togetherness, quietly smelling of various herbal therapies...and having her bike nicked.
2) The angry lesbian. Short haired, wearing DM's and furious sense of her own place in the world. She condems men as the sole reason the earth is going to hell in a handcart and spitting angry phlegm at any male who may brush against her in tescos as a potential rapist.
3) The world weary scouser. Straight from Alan Bleasdale central casting. Hangdog and shabby. Broken from years of trying to fight the good fight and trying to keep Marx from being given the mother of all wedgies from nasty capitalism.
Wether you believe in these stereotypes or not they all depict people to be made fun of. They are safe to be laughed at, certainly not scared of. But the press CAN make you scared of them, when they want to. They add an s. Think back to any inflammatory story about child care involving local authorities. All of a sudden 'social workers' raid homes, ripping children from families. 'Social workers' come early in the morning and destroy lives. The Social Service is a bumbling, farcical institution. Social Services is a Terminator like machine, grinding peoples bones into the dust before hordes of rabid social workers swarm in to clean up the kills. The SAS has nothing on Social Services.
I don't say any of this to praise or condem social workers. I know none of the details of any situation involving social work except that which affects my children. I suspect, like any walk of life, there are good and bad ones. I only mention it because, prior to my wife contacting social services to ask to be assessed to be an adopter, I had never met a social worker. And I read newspapers......
I like to think of myself as a fairly sane, reasonably intelligent bloke, and I am aware that , ultimately, newspapers only exist to sell newspapers, but as I sat in my flat awaiting my first contact with the woman who could quite possibly change my life forever, you cannot imagine the thoughts racing through my enfeebled mind. Would the knock on the door be too timid and quite for me too hear? Did I have the right tools to rehang the door if she just decided to kick it in? If I try to shake hands will she put me in a headlock? Have I got enough wheatgrass smoothie? Should I have displayed a well thumbed copy of The Socialist Worker artfully on the coffee table? Why was I being so mental?
And then the knock came. A normal knock. And I opened the door. And there was a woman there. And she smiled and shook my hand. And she came in and sat down. And she said she'd like just an ordinary cup of tea. PG Tips. And she talked about the traffic and parking and the weather. And it was....well...normal...
Surely this must be some kind of trap.......
Take a social worker. Depictions in 70's sitcoms and much of the fourth estate seem to fall into 3 main catagories.
1) The timid 'earth mother'. Usually wearing glasses and a kaftan she wafts around dropping things, espousing hippy philosophies of love and togetherness, quietly smelling of various herbal therapies...and having her bike nicked.
2) The angry lesbian. Short haired, wearing DM's and furious sense of her own place in the world. She condems men as the sole reason the earth is going to hell in a handcart and spitting angry phlegm at any male who may brush against her in tescos as a potential rapist.
3) The world weary scouser. Straight from Alan Bleasdale central casting. Hangdog and shabby. Broken from years of trying to fight the good fight and trying to keep Marx from being given the mother of all wedgies from nasty capitalism.
Wether you believe in these stereotypes or not they all depict people to be made fun of. They are safe to be laughed at, certainly not scared of. But the press CAN make you scared of them, when they want to. They add an s. Think back to any inflammatory story about child care involving local authorities. All of a sudden 'social workers' raid homes, ripping children from families. 'Social workers' come early in the morning and destroy lives. The Social Service is a bumbling, farcical institution. Social Services is a Terminator like machine, grinding peoples bones into the dust before hordes of rabid social workers swarm in to clean up the kills. The SAS has nothing on Social Services.
I don't say any of this to praise or condem social workers. I know none of the details of any situation involving social work except that which affects my children. I suspect, like any walk of life, there are good and bad ones. I only mention it because, prior to my wife contacting social services to ask to be assessed to be an adopter, I had never met a social worker. And I read newspapers......
I like to think of myself as a fairly sane, reasonably intelligent bloke, and I am aware that , ultimately, newspapers only exist to sell newspapers, but as I sat in my flat awaiting my first contact with the woman who could quite possibly change my life forever, you cannot imagine the thoughts racing through my enfeebled mind. Would the knock on the door be too timid and quite for me too hear? Did I have the right tools to rehang the door if she just decided to kick it in? If I try to shake hands will she put me in a headlock? Have I got enough wheatgrass smoothie? Should I have displayed a well thumbed copy of The Socialist Worker artfully on the coffee table? Why was I being so mental?
And then the knock came. A normal knock. And I opened the door. And there was a woman there. And she smiled and shook my hand. And she came in and sat down. And she said she'd like just an ordinary cup of tea. PG Tips. And she talked about the traffic and parking and the weather. And it was....well...normal...
Surely this must be some kind of trap.......
Sunday 9 December 2012
Handy tips. An overview
Before we get to the specifics of dealing with unique situations involving your kids a general overview is required. I think if you follow these helpful steps most situations can be dealt with swiftly and effectively.
1) Assess wether the incident is your fault and liable to get you into trouble with your wife. For example, check if the flour currently creating a Mumbai type smog in your kitchen was left in low down position by you and not put back in cupboard as requested by aformentioned wife. Or, did the 3 yr olds epic tumble down the hill be caused by you accidently dressing him in your 7 yr old shoes?
If yes, immediately show sympathy to child. Hugs, kisses...maybe the odd bribe to get them to stop crying. Admission of guilt is always preferable as, after the initial shock of seeing their little boy with a huge graze down his nose but grinning and eating a massive ice cream at 8.30 in the morning, you can be sure a forensic investigation worthy of Columbo will ensue. This will , of course, lead to the inevitable verdict that you are an idiot.
If however it is not your fault, go to step2.
2) Do you have any equipment to record the situation to hand? If possible get a video of an ongoing incident, or, if you can, try to get them to recreate it. After all, if they have succesfully managed to remove their head from the cows arse once, chances are they can do it again.
If this is not possible, remember to at least get a picture of the aftermath. After all, a photo of a childs newly 'Veeted' I thought it was shampoo baldy head will always bring a tear of nostalgia.
A visual record is always a must because as long as Harry Hill breathes, there is always the possibility of leeching £250 from ITV for revelling in your sons misfortune.
3) Check if child is ok. Now some of you may think this should probably be done before steps 1 and 2...but we are talking a possible £250 and your eventual stroppy teenagers endless embarrasement here. Play the long game!
If child is ok go to step 4
4) Laugh and point, safe in the knowledge that you are 'toughening them up' for lifes arduous struggle. There is the distinct possibility that they may hate you for evermore...but you can be smug in the knowledge that you have enough recorded evidence to at least make them sit through a christmas dinner with you in 10 years time with some degree of civility...........As long as their new girlfriend is in front of the tv and you keep your finger hovering over the 'play' button.
5) Remember to bore the pants off your friends with endless anecdotes about your kids 'hilarious' incidents!
..........oh....no wait hang on a minute.......
1) Assess wether the incident is your fault and liable to get you into trouble with your wife. For example, check if the flour currently creating a Mumbai type smog in your kitchen was left in low down position by you and not put back in cupboard as requested by aformentioned wife. Or, did the 3 yr olds epic tumble down the hill be caused by you accidently dressing him in your 7 yr old shoes?
If yes, immediately show sympathy to child. Hugs, kisses...maybe the odd bribe to get them to stop crying. Admission of guilt is always preferable as, after the initial shock of seeing their little boy with a huge graze down his nose but grinning and eating a massive ice cream at 8.30 in the morning, you can be sure a forensic investigation worthy of Columbo will ensue. This will , of course, lead to the inevitable verdict that you are an idiot.
If however it is not your fault, go to step2.
2) Do you have any equipment to record the situation to hand? If possible get a video of an ongoing incident, or, if you can, try to get them to recreate it. After all, if they have succesfully managed to remove their head from the cows arse once, chances are they can do it again.
If this is not possible, remember to at least get a picture of the aftermath. After all, a photo of a childs newly 'Veeted' I thought it was shampoo baldy head will always bring a tear of nostalgia.
A visual record is always a must because as long as Harry Hill breathes, there is always the possibility of leeching £250 from ITV for revelling in your sons misfortune.
3) Check if child is ok. Now some of you may think this should probably be done before steps 1 and 2...but we are talking a possible £250 and your eventual stroppy teenagers endless embarrasement here. Play the long game!
If child is ok go to step 4
4) Laugh and point, safe in the knowledge that you are 'toughening them up' for lifes arduous struggle. There is the distinct possibility that they may hate you for evermore...but you can be smug in the knowledge that you have enough recorded evidence to at least make them sit through a christmas dinner with you in 10 years time with some degree of civility...........As long as their new girlfriend is in front of the tv and you keep your finger hovering over the 'play' button.
5) Remember to bore the pants off your friends with endless anecdotes about your kids 'hilarious' incidents!
..........oh....no wait hang on a minute.......
Saturday 8 December 2012
Wednesday 5 December 2012
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At the same age I assumed one day I would be a father. I didn't think about it, or care that much. I certainly didn't plan for it. But sometimes people would make a comment like 'Just remember this when you have kids.'.....and all boys become men...and all men become fathers. Right?
As I got older my certainty of rugby success was gentle with me. It gradually faded to hope, then to realisation, then to an almost humerous bemusement. I mean, thousands and thousands want to pull on the white shirt and a fraction of a percent actually make it. What right did I have to think I would? But all the time my assumption of fatherhood sat there. Tacit but unwavering.
So years pass and marriage happens and lots of life is lived, and then questions start to be asked about becoming a family. More time passes and when that question is still being asked you go to the experts for the answers. But still the assumption of fatherhood stays strong. After all, something can always be done, any man can be a father...right?
My assumption didn't let me down gently. One minute I was going to a father sometime, the next I never would be. It was swift, it was brutal, and it exploded like a grenade in my stomach, sending shrapnel through my heart, mind and soul. It tore little jagged holes in places I wasn't convinced existed. But they never broke the skin. Nobody can look at you and see the damage.
This isn't an adoption manual. Nobody should think this IS how it's done. It's just a personal observation of how we went through it and the things we go through now,in order to let two gorgeous little boys into our life that have repaired all the damage.
...and if 1 person who is unsure about adopting reads this and thinks' well if that nonsense spouting idiot can do it, then I can!' then it's a worthwhile exercise. Because sometimes these kids do more for you than you can ever do for them.