Us Dads

Well, after waiting for years for it to be made I am a little disappointed with the new Wallace and Gromit film. We go with my psychiatrist friend and his little girl, and we sit at the back, monitoring ice cream and chocolate consumption. It seemed overlong, although it was probably not much over an hour. Watched 'Spiderman 2' later on DVD and it was a much better film.

Monster Mash

Our school's annual 'spooky disco' came round again where parents endure an hour and a half of their children running around dressed as witches and skeletons. My daughter dressed as a witch again this year with the addition of a broom and a cat with eyes that lit up, that I ended up holding for her. At these things parents either stand at the back looking uncomfortable or get stuck in. I am somewhere in between, and a strange lady I had never met before made me dance with her. The woman from the walking bus was dressed as a witch and was dancing insanely. A problem I was having was recognising adults in fancy dress. I spoke to a man with a grey face who I may or may not have known. I tried to give another woman dressed as a witch our tickets, before I recognised her and after she had said "I'm not taking tickets". Her husband kindly let me put my broom and cat in their pram.

Harvest Festival

When I was a child, I can remember my mother dashing around at the last minute trying to find things for me to take in to school for the harvest festival. It was either because I'd forgotten to tell her until the morning of the festival itself, or that she'd forgotten until the last minute, or that we were simply disorganised. There'd be a lot of cudboard door opening and slamming until she would eventually press either an old tin of sweetcorn or a tin of ravioli into my hands and send me on my way.

My daughter brought home a letter from school this week outlining the requirements for their harvest festival, although I didn't have trouble in guessing that it was still a couple of items of 'non-perishable food'. Driving in this morning, she uttered an "oh no!" followed by a reminder that we had forgotten our non-perishables: items were due in today. Panic set in and my mother seemed to dash before my eyes, searching for tins.

Thinking quickly, I pulled the car over onto a double yellow line, jumped out and dashed into the nearest newsagents, one of the most poorly stocked shops I have ever ran into. I emerged a minute later with two tins, one of sweetcorn and another of ravioli.

Old habits die hard.

Table Saga

We have had something of an endless saga regarding tables with a continuous round of deliveries, collection, assembly and disassembly. It's all too depressing to go into. The fault lies with Habitat, and the latest instalment is another faulty table (assembled, with a dent at the side) and now a faulty sofa (with a wonky foot). My wife has me constantly moving the table and sofa around (as well as other pieces of furniture) in an attempt to create the perfect home environment.

The Texan Stomp

The big day finally arrived last Sunday and I ended up running alone. My psychiatrist friend pulled out of the race again and I had no time to meet KLAAG before the race (yes, I had trouble again queuing for the toilets). All in all in went very well, and I spotted my daughter twice in the crowd as I raced round and I managed to complete the full thirteen (count 'em) miles in exactly two hours. Saw very few novelty runners, although the local news inevitably made it look as if the marathon was made up entirely of wacky racers.

Met KLAAG for a meal the night before. I was a sober affair, although we allowed ourselves a glass of wine each. Didn't really get much news from him, other than the fact that he had recently bought 'Exile on main Street' by the Stones.

Spend the rest of the week trying to rest, although we had our first line dancing class on Wednesday. I can't even remember how we got into this one, and as we were driving there in a panic (late babysitter, even though she only lives next door), I didn't think about it at all until we walked into the hall. There we were greeted by a neat square of nine able line dancers, and we were immediately thrown into learning three different dances in an hour. The nimble teacher kept crying ''right, right and stomp!'' as we tried to keep up.

By the end of the session, dripping with sweat, those who wanted to were invited to partake in the 'fast' version of the third dance to something from Shania Twain. I decided to go for it, and leapt around like something from a silent movie, a Keystone Cop on acid.

Filling in our forms on the way out (it had all been arranged over the phone or internet or something) we were invited to write down our reasons for joining the class. With a shaky hand, I wrote 'for exercise. And to learn how to dance'. I will have forgotten it by next week, although I did attempt a couple of steps when cleaning the kitchen this morning.

Right, right...