FAC33 - Shaky was cool

My first son Ryan is 9 years old.

He was born in Inverness and currently lives in the outskirts of Glasgow. Football daft, if you were to ask him which team he supports the answer you will receive will be similar to a few million or so other 9 year olds - Manchester United. He will of course grow out of this - aged 9 I thought Shakin Stevens, Bucks Fizz and the Nolan sisters were the epitome of cool. He will eventually end up supporting a proper team, a team he should support, but for now I am happy to go along with this childish madness.

That is why as a pre-Christmas treat we found ourselves driving South from Glasgow to do something the majority of United fans have never done - go and see a game at Old Trafford.

In my experience, tickets for games can be acquired in a number of ways, online, at the game, from a mate or paying through the nose from a tout outside the game.

Not Manchester United, no. To get tickets officially, one has to dress up in a camel suit and jump through hoops the size of needle eyes and pay double for the privilege. Persuading President Ahmadinejad to wear a Yarmulke would be simpler.

Anyhow this did give me the perfect opportunity to do some last minute Christmas shopping and after taking some advice we found ourselves in what can only be described as shopping hell, or heaven, depending on your gender: The Trafford Center. It is probably the largest collection of shops in the universe, certainly the largest I have ever visited. They are housed in a air-conditioned Vegas style shopping mall complete with fake sky, about 10 Starbuck coffee houses and a food court, the great hall, approximately the size of Bolivia.

So on to the match.
A taxi took us to within spitting distance of Old Trafford and even I, as a total neutral, was impressed by the ground. Large, famous buildings all have the ability to suck in its surroundings, when you are in the vicinity, it’s pretty much all you see. I remember drinking a beer outside the Pantheon in Rome and for the life of me I cannot remember anything but the Pantheon. I know there is a lot of life and architecture in the surrounds but it is so big, and so imposing, everything else becomes lost - an architectural black hole. The best football grounds, although having not quite the same gravitas as the Pantheon, have a similar effect and Old Trafford is no exception.

There is much to see and do outside - walk up Sir Matt Busby way and buy knock-off scarves or hats from the touts, eat fish and chips from The Lou Macari fish bar, shake our heads at the drunks (I was with a 9yr old) or if you are feeling very adventurous visit the "Megastore" and be prepared to batter the plastic.

All this entertainment and before a ball has been kicked!

Inside it continues, including the ability to buy beer - something I did not realise was possible given this has been outlawed in Scotland all my drinking years. We eventually found our seats and with the players warming up within touching distance even I was finding the experience quite exciting. Ryan was pointing out every player and as they left then reappeared to the Rocky theme tune he turned to me to tell me this was the best Christmas present he had ever had. The camel suit and needles suddenly petered away.

Kick off.
Someone on the pitch is "fuching shit" according to the mental sitting next to me, I nod in agreement hoping the conversation will cease, immediately. It does not and I keep nodding, only catching every second word from an unintelligible stream and praying he will not see through my thinly veiled United/Mancunian facade. I could have told him I couldn’t give a shit but felt that might ruin the one sided conversation somewhat.

At some point during the game Ryan stops shouting at the pitch to throw into the limited conversation “they should take off Park and put on Berbatov".

"Good call son" the mental agrees. I belatedly agree also, sort of, perhaps.

Within a minute Park leaves the pitch to be replaced by Berbatov.

This was a zenith for Ryan, he had correctly understood the tactical need to replace an underperforming midfielder with an out and out striker within minutes of Sir Alex Ferguson deciding it. I was impressed and so was our incomprehensible neighbour.

It had no impact on the result but that didn’t really matter, Ryan had been to Old Trafford, he had seen Rooney, Giggs and co in the flesh and had called the substitution correctly.

We, and 76,000 others, slowly left the ground. Cold, our throats sore from shouting we herded our way to the Holy Trinity statue, where we had agreed to meet up with our friends after the game.

I had anticipated a day of significant expense and little entertainment and was pleasantly proved wrong. The game was a sideshow to the excitement of a 9 year old experiencing the team he has supported from a distance for some time.

One day he will understand that he has only one team and that team will be St Mirren given they play only 10 minutes from his house. Until that time I am only too happy to take him to his chosen team, I only hope soon he decides that Man Utd are not for him and the Honolulu Bulls become his team of choice.

Now that would be a needle eye worth jumping through.

Polar Bears

Quotes from Copenhagen this morning:

"We've come a long way but we have much further to go"

"We have made a start"

"The draft text asks Africa to sign a suicide pact - an incineration pact!"

"Copenhagen has been an abject failure"

Is this an exercise in spinning positive a failure, or a bunch of drama queens over-egging the bad news?

Two years ago the world agreed that Copenhagen would be the summit to agree the "new carbon order". On this basis it is a failure no matter how Gordon or Barack spin it.

There has been some agreements though - gazillions of extra funding for developing nations but this just simply the smoker saving up for a new lung rather than quitting smoking.

Will we be seeing Africans burning, or Maldivian people developing artificial gills in the near future? Judging from the current weather conditions I don't think so but regardless of your stand on the climate issue this has to be a perfect example of looking after No1.

I shudder to think what will happen when there is a meteor threat, Alien invasion or something else catastrophic requiring global agreement.

Spin, no matter how good will seem a little hollow as we are being vapourised, eaten or lazer-beamed out of existence.

Putting the leaders of 193 nations into a room and asking them to thrash out an agreement on anything is an exercise in futility. Even if you believe the future of the world is at risk. Asking anyone to consider 3 generations ahead is a stretch, ask a politician to consider anything beyond their next election is a waste of time.

So why did anyone think that this would work?

Thousands of children drowning in Bangladesh is not enough of a call to action, New Orleans was, frankly, the wrong city. It will only take a disaster of these proportions hitting a city like London, New York or Tokyo to force an agreement by which time it will probably be too late.

The BBC news dropped the discussions in Copenhagen to third spot behind the BA strike and the unusually cold weather.

Am I the only one to see the irony here?

Tea and Tequila

4.30am: First order of the day is to drag my weary arse out of bed. No mean feat when you consider my eyes have only been shut for about 4 hours. Quickly and quietly I perform the normal bathroom activities - minimum fuss, minimum noise. The smell and sounds of a family sleeping pervade every nook and cranny of the house and is the most attractive thing in the world. Like an addict faced with a freshly filled needle, every pore of my body tells me to fuck the flight and take another 3hour hit of uncut bed and sleep.

5.31am: First scheduled train to airport - cold and busy. I really don't want to deal with the world just now. Hungry and sleep deprived I doze off, face pressed against the metallic tasting glass.

6.15am: The Airport itself is negotiated quickly and easily – every shortcut used and noticing no one performing checks at the business/first class line I quietly slip in behind the well heeled passengers skillfully avoiding the stupid people. Strangely at this time of the day the world is filled with stupid annoying people, with one exception.

6.35am: We board the plane in the darkness, the plane is still cold. Annoyingly cheery Christmas music is piped throughout the cabin. Chocolate is offered and promptly refused – this early in the day chocolate is up there with a shot of tequila on my must have wish list.

6.45am: We are told there is a delay of 30mins. The fault? Someone else. It always is, we always manage to board, perform whatever safety stuff the guys up front do and are never late, always ready to go, and importantly on time. The fault this time is mother nature at London Heathrow. More chocolates offered and refused. I ask for a blanket and if I can curl up on the floor.

The pilot has a reassuringly British, clipped, dam-buster accent – at least that's one worry put to rest.

Eventually we leave Zurich – Guy Gibson upfront goes to great lengths to find every lumpy piece of sky there is. At times we are swooping down and clipping hedges, other times soaring high bumping along the ragged thin air at the edge of space. I curse him and gratefully accept the tea and croissant offered. At last, something resembling civilised, even if the tea is served with cream.

8.30am: We arrive in the vicinity of LHR – Guy announces another arrival delay – “we will need to sit in a holding pattern for”……everyone waits expectantly like X-Factor contestants, loud heartbeat music is piped through the cabin……”35 - 45mins”. Aaargh! We are not in the next round and have to sit here, somewhere above Biggin Hill watching the infinitely unfunny “just for laughs” playing on loop.

Eventually a single bing! announces our decent into the mist which blankets Southern England. And for once the 10 minutes to landing claim is accurate.

9.15am: We exit into a threadbare Terminal 1. London is grey, Heathrow is grey, my hair is grey. Just one more flight to go and the days travelling is done.

pm: Tonight I am going to have a curry, a man curry, a curry which is so manly it could grow a beard and challenge me to an arm wrestle. It will be washed down with a man’s beer and then I plan to descend into a dreamless, coma like sleep.

Who likes Joe Pesci?

He is a bit boring.

Not someone you would call your friend but someone you know exists. He is selfish, rich and just a little bit annoying. He will avoid involvement at all costs but when he does step up it’s generally out of self interest. He will relinquish a little if his hand is forced, otherwise he will keep everything locked down, tight, solid. He is someone we like and dislike in equal measure, he is Joe Pesci from Lethal Weapon.

He is Switzerland.

Ordinarily most people have no opinion on the country. Opinions normally range from dunno to don't care. It is quiet, unobtrusive and frequently confused with Sweden. It rarely sticks its head above the trench, internationally speaking that is. This is why it feels rather odd to have such international condemnation directed at this quiet Alpine country. News normally happens elsewhere, anywhere, anywhere except here.

The decision from 57.5% of the Swiss voting public to ban the building of new minarets is an example of pure democracy in action, ask the country a question and you might be surprised about the answer.

What would happen if we were, for example, to ask the British public if the death penalty should be reinstated for crimes such as pedophilia? I think you could guess the response.

Now lets be clear if this was an architectural argument I could understand, Minarets do tend to stand out and would look rather odd next to an Alpine chalet. This vote however was not based on aesthetics, more it was based on fear and conservatism in the extreme.

What the result boils down to essentially is, is a rejection of Islam and of religious freedom. It tells you - if you are not Christian, you are not welcome here. The infamous posters essentially said as much, their black and red colouring harking back to a dark period some 70 years ago, coupled with the Darth Vader imagery was anything but ambiguous.

What will be the result of this vote? Will this result in less Muslims on the ski-slopes? Will there be less risk of extremism? Less risk of a large, internationally powerful neighbour asking awkward questions?

Why-o-why did they decide this was worth the publicity? Surely the easy answer was to simply refuse all new planning permission or put a restriction of, say, 5 meters on all new religious buildings. There are enough Christian churches here to accommodate everyone already so no risk of offending the majority.

No, instead they have managed to ostracise 5% of the population and seriously piss off some very, very, dangerous people.

The Swiss government know as much, the justice minister was quick to point out that this result was “not a rejection of the Muslim community, religion or culture”.

If not, then what is it?

Democracy is a good thing that's for sure, pure democracy has its limits and I fear the Swiss may have overstepped the limit this week.

Scratching the surface

Even the name - Herman van Rompuy - sound a little too much Harry Potter to garner respect.

The BBC`s profile tells us the new EU President is a camera shy man, catapulted from obscurity. He has made it clear he will fulfill the role of chairman who`s tasks include liaising with EU leaders and arranging the EU`s annual summits. It is little wonder Tony Blair dropped out of the race as the job appears to be little more than a European party planner.

Basically he is an unknown, with no international credibility or ambitions and probably perfect for the EU. Did we really want Blair running the show, stirring up stuff, trying to change things, hogging the limelight, talking to people, leading?

No of course not, we want a quiet Belgian to sit in the office, live in the grace and favour house, enjoy the very fat salary and to make sure there is a very public, once a year, get together.

Dig a little deeper though and this man might surprise.

This is a man who`s Christian beliefs have found their way into his policies. In 2004 in response to a question on Turkey joining the EU he is quoted as saying "Turkey is not Europe and will never be Europe" He continued "But its a matter of fact that the universal values which are in force in Europe, and which are also the fundamental values of Christianity, will lose vigour with the entry of large Islamic country such as Turkey"

In short, Christian Europe = good. Christian / Islamic Europe = not so good.

Who knows - perhaps Tony Blair might have been a quieter option after all?

Baby Games

Drop the dummy ©

Two participants are needed for this game.

Yourself and a person who is utterly in love with you, someone who thinks on you as the most precious thing in the world. The person(s) who protects you, keeps you warm, feeds you, rocks you to sleep, the one who is there at your every waking moment. For the purpose of this we will simply call this person the opponent.

The game should take place at approximately 3am.

The rules:
1. The opponent will put a soothing dummy into your mouth. At first do as you normally do: start to suckle on it and softly close your eyes.

2. As the opponent turns away, or even better, tries to sit down you need to quickly and forcefully spit the dummy out, preferably aiming for under a cupboard or bed.

3. The opponent will then place you down somewhere safe and retrieve the dummy. As soon as you are placed down you need to shriek, cry or wail as loudly as possible. Note - you will win extra points if you are able to fill your nappy at that moment.

4. Act as alert as you were the moment you woke 4 hours previously and wait 10mins before starting the game all over again.

Thats it, nice and simple but always guaranteed to create a laughter filled household – no one can resist the fun of Drop the Dummy © .

After about 3 months of drop the dummy, its probably best to move up to game two.

Next edition – Game two: Fake Choking.

1978

I remember as a small boy exiting a cinema in Aberdeen.

It was a few weeks before Christmas and we were visiting the big city for our annual present buying trip. Where I grew up, even more so back then, Aberdeen was the closest thing we had to bright lights & big city.

Aged 8, I wasn’t interested in what it took to make Christmas work, only that it did. My father would always take me and my sister out of my mother’s hair on these shopping trips and this invariably meant an afternoon spent in the cinema. The year was 1978 - a particularly good year for cinema. It was the year Mr Lucas introduced us to Darth Vader & Luke Skywalker and the year that John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John got it on, in a musical sense that is.

I exited the cinema that December day, one hand firmly gripping my fathers, the other clutching a plastic, already bent, light saber. I remember clearly the contrast between the universe of Mr Lucas`s, and now my, imagination and the cold, wet and windy Union Street we were trudging up to rendezvous with my mother.

It is my first memory of cinema escapism and if I could have articulated it back then, I would have probably said “that was a f**king great movie dad”. Instead I gripped my plastic Jedi sword and spent the remaining weeks until Christmas hoping the force would swoop down and deliver me from my normal existence into a lifetime of space adventure and 70s hairstyles.

Great movies do not come along that often.

The three decades which have passed since that day is littered, in my humble opinion, with cinematic disappointments. If I was to list them all here I would probably exceed the upload allowance per blog but suffice it to say, for every Pulp Fiction I would estimate there are 300+ Independence Days. My great movie list is a pretty short list.

You will understand how happy I was then when the other day I sat down to watch Moon. A low budget, Sci-fi movie which owes a lot to the early science fiction, films such as Silent Running or 2001: A Space Odyssey. It's a slow mover, with more fiction, than science. Sam Rockwell is excellent, the effects are appropriate, no more, the key twist is predictable but the ending still leaves you wondering.

In short it's a very good movie, one which I thoroughly enjoyed and one which appears on the face of it to be at odds with the current drivel coming out of that plastic town in California.
This leads me to conclude it will probably also be a financial failure.

Film makers make films that the majority want to watch. This is simply because the majority pay more than the minority and the only way to change this is to have a BBC for films. A great big pot which we all pay into and one which funds more interesting films.

A great big pot to make films and to satisfy a minority made up of one: me.

Bah Humbug

To urinate on a war memorial is wrong - I think we can all agree with his statement.

To be photographed doing so the same week yet another group of young men were killed in Afghanistan is both wrong and particularly bad timing. Philip Laing the young man in the middle of this week’s outrage must now expected some form of custodial sentence.

It is so wrong on so many fronts it’s hard to see how he can avoid spending some time in jail.

His defense: he was drunk.
"No excuse" we all shout back at him in unison.
His lawyer has publically stated that "it's difficult to articulate just how embarrassed and ashamed this young man is".
"I bet he is" we all agree shaking our heads, safe in the knowledge it’s someone else.

I can understand the public outrage. I too feel outraged when I see a picture of a man, the same age as the men dying halfway around the world, pissing over the poppy wreath.

But I also feel sympathy, a sort of cringing sympathy, but sympathy nonetheless. The sort of sympathy where I can easily imagine myself in such a shameful position. Like watching someone being bullied and knowing it could very easily be me.

Who amongst us can honestly say they have not done something outrageous drunk? We don’t need to discuss the details but do we really believe that Philip is any different to the vast majority of people? I would like to add at this juncture, I have never pissed over a war memorial. A phonebox or two perhaps, a few hundred bushes definitely, the sea now and again and once ingeniously into a coke bottle on the late night bus, but no, never a war memorial.

No, Mr Laing had the serious misfortune to be photographed and he became well and truly fucked when the photograph found its way into a national newspaper.

I do not for one second believe that he feels such disregard for the fallen men and women that he is moved to piss on their memorial. He was drunk, did something very stupid and is now paying a heavy price for his stupidity.

Personally I would like to see the legal time & expense being directed at the organisations which are promoting such hedonistic binge drinking.

Student life is about drinking, partying, having fun, growing up and also, I have been lead to believe, education. This is a fact, but also all the students I know are very adept at drinking and partying, very cheaply. Allowing organisations like “Carnage” to promote their cheap, binges across our campuses is akin like giving rabbits IVF, welcome by the recipients, but clearly not necessary.

Surely allowing such organisations unfettered access to the student population is unnecessary and something which can be easily rectified, I cannot believe that banning them would take a serious amount of legislation.

Instead we simply hear well meaning people complaining and doing absolutely nothing about it.

How hard can it be, really?

Watching Paris

Top Gear, X-Factor, Match of the Day, Dexter, Battlestar Galactica (the new one), The Wire, Have I got News for You, Never Mind the Buzzcocks, Question Time.

I don't consider that I watch a great deal of television, but this is an instant, immediate, straight off the top of my head, snapshot-list of TV programs I do watch regularly.

All in all I would feel reasonably ok to share this list with people.
Depending on the recipient I might feel a need to substitute the X-Factor for a worthwhile documentary series on Hungarian politics in the 1800s and perhaps add a few natural history programs to the list but generally I feel relaxed about this list.

Why would I feel otherwise? Why would I concern myself with what this list says about me?

Consider then for a second, for example, if I had said:
Eastenders, Coronation Street, Pets/Humans/Vegetables/(insert anything) do the Funniest Things, Rogue Builders/Plumbers/(insert any profession), X-Factor, Britain’s got Talent, Stop! Camera! Action!, What Katie did next, Paris Hilton BFF.

Would your perception of me change for the better, the worse, or not change at all?

Of course it would change.

I will admit that whilst typing the list I felt slightly uncomfortable and there was a definite hesitation in owning up to Battlestar. I felt a real need to caveat it with the brackets to confirm that I am not some fanatic for cheap, crappy, 70s Sci-Fi TV. Just for the record, nor do I collect comics, antique toys or speak Klingon.

The word vulva still makes me laugh though.

What we watch on TV is like the clothing we wear, the music we listen to, the cars we drive even the food & drink we consume.

I see young men standing in bars drinking bottles of Budweiser or Miller and cannot, cannot, believe for an instant they are enjoying their crisp refreshing beer. They do look like Tom Cruise though and this more than compensates for a beer totally devoid of any taste.

Perception is everything.
When I buy a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, I am not buying a polo shirt, I am buying into the lifestyle of a cool, rich, professional man. Is there any value in me having the Polo Shirt and wearing it around the house? No of course not.

I put these items aside, only to be worn when others can see me wearing them, dossing around the house I will wear anything, or nothing, does it really matter?

I drive an Audi, same as a VW but more expensive. Why? Because in an Audi A6 I am the serious finance professional, in a VW I am simply someone who cannot afford an Audi.

It’s simply good marketing and image creation. We all, myself included, are happy to pay a premium for it.

We all aspire to be that man sipping espresso on his city apartment balcony. Its Sunday morning, “lovely day” is playing on the radio, a tousled haired beauty brushes past him, kisses him on the cheek and, with a wink, reminds him of his prowess the night before. The newspaper, the coffee, the radio station, whatever the product being plugged, is enough to keep him for rejoining her in the bedroom. We all want that product, not because it’s better than sex with a tousled haired beauty but because it will give us his life. Or at least the coffee, newspaper, radio piece of it.

The critical difference here is that TV is not a social activity.

I have never seen the television being the center of a social gathering.

I exclude sport here because:

1. It doesn’t fit in with my train of thought
2. I enjoy watching sport in the company of others
3. It’s my posting.
   

Generally speaking though it’s a solitary activity. With or without company the activity is the same. If I watch Emmerdale Farm or Question Time the world’s perception of me will not change because the world doesn't know and I am certainly not going to tell them.

I can safely tune in to Paris Hilton air-heading her way around brain dead world and still be a serious finance professional in the morning. The main difference between what I watch on TV and the clothes I wear outside the house is people can see my polo shirt. If everyone could see me watching Paris, I wouldn't watch her and that's probably why she is not on my list.

Marketing television must be a breeze, a bit like marketing masturbation.

Just do it - no one needs to know.

Hmmm

Switzerland is a country of contradictions.

On one hand it is a country where the people are peaceful and law abiding. They eat organic muesli and bio-bread. They recycle everything, rollerblade, cycle, nordic walk or take the train to the office. They shop at the local store, get involved in the village fair, respect their elders, pay their taxes and work hard.

and on the other hand they have these billboards around town:

Damp leaves

My yard is constantly under a thick blanket of wet leaves.

Sweeping them up is simply a waste of time, like trying to blow away mist, pointless. I will wait until the trees are totally bare before I start the task. Autumn is in full swing, the nights are drawing in, soon the clocks will go back, the mercury has dropped below 10c and in the UK Parliament has resumed.

Yesterday all sitting MPs received a letter.
In a strange fantasy I see them grouped together in some cloistered hall opening each envelope, giddy as students on exam result day. Some would whoop excitedly as they receive the ok from Sir Thomas Legg, some less fortunate would be walking around dejectedly, smiling bravely as they figure out what they will say to the waiting press pack salivating outside.

The reality, I am sure, is somewhat different but what has really surprised me is their reaction. I could understand such a defiant response had this been the first time the words: parliament, expenses, excess, shameful and duck houses had been used. This comes, as we all know, after a summer of excruciating details and public humiliation for pretty much every MP. If the public were to vote just now on the basis of trust Ann Widdecombe would become our first President.
I think we can all agree, regardless of party loyalty this is a truly frightening proposition.

Yes: You probably did claim for expenses within the rules and did nothing legally wrong.
Yes: Sir Thomas Legg probably did go beyond the remit of his summer job.
Yes: The rules have been changed retrospectively.
Yes: Legally this probably has no weight.
Yes: It is unfair.

Yes: You should just shut the fuck up and pay them.

Trust has been destroyed and petty squabbling over a few thousand pound will do nothing to restore it. Don't worry, give it a year or two, let the noise die down and normal “good old days” business can resume – remember you can vote for it yourself. Just give us something to believe in please, at this moment there is precious little - daily some brave young man is being blown to bits in Afganistan, the country debt is well beyond record levels and you are arguing about your leaf sweeping bills.

This is one of the few times in recent history that I have found myself being more embarrassed about how my home nation is perceived than my wife and she hails from the great Satan itself – America!

Take a leaf out of my book and pick them up yourself, its much quieter.

Indian Summer

Apparently we are enjoying an Indian Summer.

This is another of those strange expressions in English which must make it a fucking bastard to master for anyone not having used it since birth. I can only think of one Swiss-German equivalent - Warm Duscher (warm washer) - meaning a wimp, literally it means you prefer a warm shower to a cold one. This would be acceptable coming from a well known testosterone-fuelled country such as Korea or Russia but coming from the Swiss it is pretty hard to swallow. I don’t know anyone who prefers cold showers to warm, no one at all. In fact I would go as far to say, that if asked, the 300 Spartans from Thermopylae, after defending Greece from a million or so Persians, would like to luxuriate under a warm shower and thus be considered wimps, that is according to the Swiss.

I am not sure which Indians the phrase refers to, Wikipedia is less than helpful and therefore I would have to conclude it is the Indian Indians (as opposed to, for example, the red ones from North America). Google weather tells me it is currently 32c in Mumbai with humidity over 80% so Indian summer has to be rejected along with warm duschers as pure and simple bollocks. It’s nice but not that nice.

Cameron Leo Shanks was born 6 days ago, a gorgeous bundle of noise and food demands. He is currently sleeping in his pram next to me (yes in the living room) as I drink a beer and prepare for the final feed before bed. His mum is enjoying a well earned 3 hours sleep before the night shift commences. Our house, once the bastion of modernity and style has become soft and fuzzy with rounded edges and smells faintly of milk, and I for one absolutely LOVE it.

Any day now

Our new arrival is due any day now.

Tomorrow to be precise but as our doctor points out this could mean now, tomorrow, the day after, the day after that....etc. It is very clear to me that nature really is still in its embryonic stages (forgive the pun), if it really was up to speed and a modern 21st Century version the doctor would send me a meeting invite in Outlook and 15mins before a reminder would pop up on my screen. I could then arrange work around our bundle of joys arrival and we would make our way to the delivery room safe in the knowledge we still had time. No keeping the mobile phone on high and well, frankly, just waiting. Jen is spending her days keeping busy but having spent the last 25 years working to deadlines and outlook meetings "he will come when he is ready" doesn't quite hit the mark. The house has never been cleaner, I eat like a king every day and my beer is nicely chilled by the time I arrive home. She is already sick of my questioning and I would assume equally sick of our friends questioning.

One day he will arrive and the house will quite quickly return to its normal state, the quality of my food will reduce (or worse still be prepared by yours truly) and my beer will still be in the crate in the garage when I get home. At some point some clever beardy man will have a eureka moment and find the timeliness gene or cell and add some predictability into the process but until that time I will enjoy this hiatus from normality and continue to live like a king.

For how long?.... only nature knows