It's all over, Casanova

All good things come to an end....and so does this blog.

It's been fun to post my thoughts about the nine months leading up the the lad's arrival and the first year of his life, but, to be honest, I've lost interest in the blog, as the lack of posts recently would attest.

So, cheers to anybody who has read it, and if anybody stumbles upon it in months to come, feel free to delve below into my musings....

Over and out!

Bleeeeurgh!

Ah, the joy of vomit!

Boy, the lad has been sick this week, introducing us to a world that other less lucky parents have to live in all the time.

He picked up a bug that's apparently flying around, did the Big Spit most of Monday, then seemed to recover, then had a relapse last night in the early hours with more high tempo, technicolour barfing over himself, his bed and us. A little of it even made it into the sink...

Unfortunately a glut of work (I write for a living, believe it or not) has seen my contributions to this blog drop off more sharply than Phil Daniels' moped in Quadrophenia. Shame, because there have been lots of small bits of developmental progress with the lad.

He's now communicating much more, even if talking is still a while off. He's so close to walking it's not true, although I seem to have been saying that for months! His speed and efficiency at crawling is proving to be both a good and bad thing; bad because I think he sees no benefit in walking as he can get from A to B on all fours more quickly.

Best of all his sense of fun is undiminished. He loves a good laugh more than anybody I know, which is very handy given the work stresses and strains I've been under lately. He is a real tonic for the troops. In fact I'd much rather be at home having a giggle with him now, rather than finishing off a load of work at nearly seven in the evening....

Losing my audience with sloth-like posting schedule - sorry!

Shameful amount of time since my last post - apologies to anyone who actually does tune in to this drivel in the hope of seeing some fresh stuff!

I always was a bit of a one for starting a diary at the beginning of the year, then slowly losing interest by about March. Mind you, sudden fads are my stock in trade. Since discovering cycling again after many years I now have a fancy carbon-fibre racer on order and plans to do the climb of Mont Ventoux next year. That's the mountain that claimed the life of British professional Tom Simpson during the Tour de France in the 60s. So, no pressure then.

Anyway, enough of that nonsense and back to the subject at hand. I'm really enjoying being around the lad at the moment - he's reawakened my childish side, as if that needed any further encouragement. We chase each other around on all fours and he yells with mock fear and laughter when I pretend to chase/crawl after him - loves it!

One of our NCT babies is so advanced he's probably more adult than I am (walking, dribbling a football, eating his own dinner with a spoon etc etc) but I'm quite glad our boy is doing things in his own time. There's no rush, he's got a few months yet until he needs to talk eruditely about the French Revolution in order to pass the entrance test for that private nursery school we visited a few months ago (and which will still remain nameless!)...

I see no spots...only spots of rain

And of course the chickenpox never materialised. Not in any of the babies supposedly exposed to the infected one. So much for contagious diseases.

So, instead of sweltering in overheated Italy we sat and watched the UK slowly sink under the greatest deluge since the last one.

Oh well.

That's torn it....

We've had a very easy ride with the lad so far, but this week we got a timely reminder of the perils - and responsibilities - of parenthood.

Our summer holiday to Italy has been scuppered by the lad potentially succumbing to Chickenpox. Given the virulent nature of the disease and the fact that he was in close proximity to a baby who has now developed it at precisely the most contagious time to be in contact, it's a fair bet I reckon. But of course the spots don't come out straight away, so we don't know for sure - that's the Catch 22.

And that's where it all unravels. You see, we could fly out there if the spots haven't come out, but then if they did while we were on holiday we'd be stuck there or face a thousand mile trip back in our hire car. Or if he gets spotty beforehand we'd be barred from the outward flight anyway. And all of this pales into insignificance compared to what's best for the lad, which is to be at home if he's suffering, not in a strange - and hot - place.

So that's that - no Tuscany for us. Still, at least the weather in the UK has improved a bit - we even went a whole day without it pissing down yesterday.

And it's not like there's nothing to do in London in summer. And I still get a week without having to traipse into this bloody office.

So all's unwell that ends well...sort of.

Glastonbury here we don't come...

It's Christening time this weekend! Just a low-key affair with closest family and a few friends, but nonetheless an important day. The missus, of course, has a stinking cold, although the lad seems to have got over his so at least he's not likely to drop a load of snot in the font...

The lad obviously has no idea what's coming up, but he's got used to being in church so I don't think it's going to phase him - too bad if it does, really!

Under normal circumstances we'd be in a less than sober state at Glastonbury this weekend, but 'retirement' from all that nonsense acted as something of a precursor to the arrival of Junior, and having him on the scene guaranteed we'd stick to our guns.

I know the missus is having pangs about missing the festival, but I can't say I am - too old for that shit these days.

Although he's the only 'NCT baby' not yet crawling, I can't say I'm too fussed. He can virtually stand on his own so I guess he just couldn't be bothered with all that crawling malarkey, choosing instead to go straight through to walking.

He has developed quite a sense of humour, finding almost everything absolutely hilarious, particularly anything that involves me whirling him around or pretending to drop him then scooping him up again. If he gets fractious come Christening time perhaps I should suggest that the vicar gives this a go....

No sex,no drugs, no rock 'n' roll....only cycling

"Do you miss us?" asked the missus plaintively, on the first evening of a brief sojourn at her parents' place with the lad.

"Not had time to" was the honest answer, hardly surprising since pretty much every waking hour of my life is dominated by bloody cycling at the moment.

And it's her own fault - she was the one who clipped out a competition in The Independent to win a place on the British Cyclosportive, just the 120 miles of timed cycling that traces the route of Stage One of this year's Tour de France, from London to Canterbury (and for the benefit of overseas readers, yes I know that's not in France, but the race has a habit of dipping into neighbouring countries along the way, Britain included).

What a wheeze, I thought, despite not actually owning a road bike or having ridden any notable distance for a decade or more. And never in semi-competitive conditions...

But of course I won, and now, having had a racing machine cobbled together for me by my trusty local bike shop, I'm trying to cram a lifetime of road racing into about six weeks.

It's already taken it's toll - saddle-sore arse and aching knees are just the half of it. I even managed to acquire a kidney infection along the way, which resulted in my first ever trip in an ambulance as The Patient in 40 years on this miserable planet.

I'm crapping myself about my chances of completing the distance. I can foresee a tearful, humiliating exit via the 'broom wagon' (a support vehicle that sweeps up riders who abandon the stage) and I'll never be able to tell the lad "I've ridden a stage of the Tour - it was easy" when trying to encourage him to get off the couch and do some bloody exercise.

Wonder where I could buy some EPO.....