Every Monday morning for the past ten weeks, I have had to drag my teenage son from his bed at 6:30am to get ready in time for school.
This Monday morning, with no need to get out of bed at all, he was in our room crashing the code into the burglar alarm panel at 6:25.
Sometimes, I just don’t understand.
In other news: no lie-in for me today.
Now. Let me get this straight.
The week is for working, the weekend is for chilling and relaxing.
If I remember correctly, the above statement paraphrases Henry Ford.
Yes, the car guy.
It isn’t working for me right now, Henry. I mean, I’m getting the first bit ok – that’s going really well.
But by the end of my weekends… I need… a weekend.
It’s been fun, it’s been busy.
I’m going to bed.
Last time we were on the Isle of Man, it rained. It rained a lot.
It very rarely stopped raining. And then we went to Sheffield in it rained some more.
Now I know that the UK (of which the Isle of Man isn’t part), has a bit of a reputation for this kind of thing, but the summer of 2012 was unprecedented in its raininess. There were literally a couple of nice days during our entire three week stay. The Flickr collection I made is testament to this.
We deserve better this time.
Of course, I not forgetting that we did get better back in 2009. The holiday where I regularly ended up taking our toddler son out (not in an assassination kind of way) at 6am before he woke up the whole household because he’d forgotten how to sleep:
This one was taken at the Calf Sound, where there was only us, some rabbits, some seals and a small yacht.
He’s twelve now, and does sleep occasionally. I’m hoping that this holiday is one of those times.
Well, 3:03am to be exact. I was awoken from a troubling dream about Douglas Carswell complaining about a pontoon bridge. Scary stuff.
It was our 7-year-old daughter, calling from her room next door. I went through to see what the problem was.
“Well, there are three things actually, Daddy.”
I raised an eyebrow in the near darkness.
“Firstly, I had a bad dream,”
Well, as you’ll just have read above, I knew all about that. I chose not to ask if Douglas was involved in her nightmares as well. I simply didn’t want to know.
“Oh dear, but it’s gone now you’re awake. What else?”
“I need to go to the loo, and also, I’ve been time-travelling.”
At this point, she indicated her clock, which said 3:03.
“Before, it said 3:37. Now it says 3:03. So I’ve been time-travelling.”
Kids, hey? They’re nuts. But it was the middle of the night and I needed to get back to the House of Commons.
I took her to the loo, and then tucked her back into bed at exactly 2:58am.
Hang on a second…
Not literally. But an afternoon of braai’ing with several (or more) adults and eight kids aged between 4 and 10 years old, together with a near immeasurable amount of beer has just about done for me.
Not that it wasn’t fun. It was fun. But my ears are still ringing and my house looks like something akin to Attercliffe after the Sheffield blitz. But with a beagle.