Moaning about speed cameras

I don't really understand how people can justify moaning about speed cameras - if you don't speed, you don't get fined. All these people who bang on about it being a stealth tax clearly don't understand the correct meaning of the word 'stealth' - there can be few people in the country who aren't aware of the purpose and consequences of speed cameras so I wouldn't have thought there was anything that stealthy about one of the most talked about systems in the country. And frankly I don't see why we shouldn't tax people who speed - if you are going to impose an arbitrary fine on people to swell underfunded coffers, I don't see why speeders shouldn't be targeted. I would be equally happy if there were a system which imposed fines on anyone breaking the law provided the basis is that people will be able to pay (no point trying to squeeze any money out of those who can't - as the banking system has discovered, fines for having no money don't really work) and people who drive cars fast have at least enough money for a car. The only thing I think is slightly unfair is that people who have either enough time, or enough brass neck will dispute or ignore the fines, and seem by and large to get away with it - if your car isn't registered, you won't get fined so in some ways it penalises those who are honest. However, if you pick and choose which laws you follow then you have to be prepared to accept the consequences of the ones you chose to break.

Babies

Recently we have been looking at/playing with a lot of babies. Or more accurately two different babies, which is still a big uplift on our daily average. Baby number one is my heathen child, which is the equivalent of a Godchild for those of us who are godless heathens, but unfortunately makes him sound like he was born at some kind of pagan ceremony which is pretty far from the truth. He is the son of my oldest friend who looked so much like his father when he was first born that I found it quite peculiar to hold him. Fortunately, in the last 6 months since we saw him he has grown up a little bit and although he still bears a staggering resemblance to his Dad, he is now much less freakishly identical now making all interaction with him less peculiar. Our first encounter was when he was six weeks old and absolutely chock full of colic, so he was inconsolable for most of the visit albeit still very sweet. Now he is a massive beaming ray of delight, smiling his way through the rigours of daily life, enjoying having the chubbiest thighs in the world and generally being a little blond haired angel. He is the first child for whom I have bought tiny baby clothes because they were cute and I had an excuse to, so is probably going to be responsible for some rash spending over the course of his life as well. Baby number two is the daughter of some of our tiniest friends and is minuscule, much tinier than the Heathen son who is five months younger. She is clearly already of the opinion that tininess should not interfere with her ability to control the world around her, and has perfected an array of growls and threatening behaviour designed to bend her parents, their friends and possibly anyone else around her to her will. It is surprisingly effective, and she is surprisingly cute, which makes her potentially tiny tearaway behaviour endearingly impish. She has massive eyes which, when turned on the Boy Wonder in particular, reduce him to a state of obsequiousness in his desire to make her smile (and me too if I'm honest, but she seems much more taken with the clown-like silhouette of the Boy Wonder). I also had a moment of revelation at my sister-in-law's wedding recently - there was a small child there who must have been around 4 or 5 and was entertainingly well behaved. At some point I found her gleefully making jewellery out of glow sticks and eating sweets. She asked if there were any pink sweets, and I found her a flying saucer which she said she had never tried. One bite later and it was clear she wasn't a convert, so I offered her my hand to spit the partially chewed piece of rice paper into. Admittedly I was slightly drunk, but once I had accepted I was going to eat the untouched part of the flying saucer, it was after only a short period a sticky handed unwillingness to move that I thought 'Oh well, I might as well eat the piece she spat out as well - what else am I going to do with it?' and in it went! I suppose this is the kind of thing that parents give no thought to, but having considered myself quite un child-friendly in many respects, my recent willingness to hold, feed and generally 'sort out' children has revealed hidden depths of either maternal, or at least pseudo maternal instincts which I suppose were bound to kick in eventually. If only the Boy Wonder had a smaller head and a lesser desire to force any offspring we might bear into playing the Hammond Organ it might all seem less terrifying...

Hoodwink

I was listening to the lovely local radio this morning and they were discussing a fascinating sounding book by Adam Jacot de Boinod called The Wonder of Whiffling, which I cannot wait to read and learn about the crazy words that we might lose unless folks (like me presumably) start using them. I then looked at something I had written yesterday which contained the word 'hoodwinked' in it, much to my pleasure at my own use of outdated words! So I thought I would compile a list of words that I really like - here goes: Hoodwinked Footle Discombobulation Poppycock Snib (despite the fact that my family and the Boy Wonder accused me of making it up!) Spurtle Purloined

Married Life

On Saturday night the Boy Wonder and I went out for a birthday meal for our space man friend who has survived to the ripe old age of 32, apparently by pure chance. All was very civilised until the point where he passed out in the foetal position, straddled by a lifesize model of a sheep, with the top half of his body asleep, and his legs dancing away below as though possessed by the weird drunken incarnation of Michael Flatley. However, one of the highlights of my night was when I overheard the Boy Wonder telling saying 'It's great being married - you don't really have to make an effort any more'. Now, I wasn't really concerned about the implication that now, pledged as our troths are, he sees no need to impress me so much as the flagrant lie that he ever made what could even generously be described as 'an effort' before. The night ended up, as so many do when you're a teenager but not so much once you're approaching your 30s, with someone being sick (the Space Man, naturally) and everyone rushing around with various cleaning supplies in an attempt to rectify the problem whilst he called us names and claimed that this was what the teenagers do, so all in all, a succesful evening was had by all!

Rules for eating three dinners

Last week, our friend The Gift came over for dinner along with our singer friend Uptown PJ, and over the course of the evening The Gift took it upon himself to offer advice on the rules for eating three dinners. There are only two rules: 1. Don't make curry your last meal 2. If you're going to eat lasagne, chicken and potatoes, and curry have the curry as your second dinner as (and I quote) 'Chicken's refreshing as far as I'm concerned'.

Sleep

One of the downsides of sleeping like a dead rodent, besides the fact that there are no upsides to it, is the fact that it makes it very difficult to sort out my alarm in the morning. By 'sleeping like a dead rodent' I mean 'sleeping in a similar position to an expired gerbil with my hansd curled up under my chin' rather than a comment on the quality of my unconsciousness - a dreamless sleep such as the dead presumably enjoy is a rare treat for my over-active night-time brain, so I would be less inclined to complain about that. Apparently it's genetic, as my mother, grandmother and I all revert to sleeping with our wrists resting on our chin and our hands curled towards us in an impossibly twisted position. All this means that waking up to an alarm which requires the minutest element of co-ordination is a horrifically unsettling experience, involving as it does the gentle coaching of my numb hands towards the shrieking noise of my phone in the hope that they will get enough feeling back in them to press the right button and not condemn the Boy Wonder to another round of shrieking in ten minutes by accidentally hitting the snooze button. All in all, when added to the normal horrors of having to wake up at a specified time in the morning, the dead rodent hands might be just another sign of the early morning conspiracy against me.

Happy it's here my arse!

One of the more interesting elements of my job is the fact that I get a lot of stuff sent to me which is barely related to what I actually do, affording me a few precious moments each day where I immerse myself in the world of advertising and pretend I'm like Darren from Bewitched. However, today's offering from Whisper is not only irrelevant to my job (not their fault) but offensive shit (definitely their fault). I don't mind the fact that advertising tampons and sanitary towels has traditionally been an excuse to get a load of women wearing white trousers to perform a host of unnaturally exhausting activities as though their underwear contained some kind of life source rather than a sanitary product, but when the companies that make that product start partonising women by telling them how great their periods are, is starts to grate. It finished grating and started seriously grinding my gears when I read this: "Just steer clear of nasty stressful situations for the next few days and you'll be fine!". WHAT??!! Are they seriously suggesting that women are so incapable of normal life that avoiding stress for a few days every month should be considered as an option? Never mind the implication that a woman couldn't possibly have a job or lifestyle in which avoiding stress for a few days simply isn't an option, there is also the underlying accusation that women faced with stress during their periods are going to crumble into wailing puddles and need someone with a Y chromosome (or possibly someone pre- or post- menopausal) to deal with their life until they can manage again.