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Eyes wide open

Posted on by Neil
3

I never really knew about wearing glasses. Well, that doesn’t make sense….I knew I was wearing glasses, but it seemed to me that I had always been wearing them. It was me, it was how I was and it was who I was. I wore patches, I wore NHS specs, I put lions in cages and birds in menageries. That was my life.

When my eldest was born, I was frantic about his eyes. Checking, investigating, inspecting. Seeing whether any genetic weakness was passed on. Of course, I was just being a stupid over eager dad. He was cool, he was fine. His troubles were to be his own and not mine.

And then recently, I noticed that his school work, whilst academically excellent was lacking a certain attention. A certain……consideration. After working through his homework this morning, I showed him his early work and his current work and the difference between the two. One was proud, clear, certain. The other shambolic, scribbled and apologetic.

Then there were tears. LOTS of tears.

It seemed, he felt he couldn’t keep up. He couldn’t keep up because……..well, he couldn’t see.

The boy that had always been at the top of the class, was…….struggling.

It doesn’t take much to sort our problems, just the courage to admit what they are. A phone call, a car ride, a short walk and we are sitting in the opticians as they check his eyes. The result isn’t bad….certainly not as bad as mine, but he needs some specs. Speccy Woo has a Speccy Two.

The thing is, that when you wear glasses you don’t really know you wear glasses. But when you don’t wear them, then putting a pair on your face feels like………….well, having your nose chopped off. We went to try some on, he cried, we hugged, we pulled ourselves together and we got on with the show. This wasn’t serious, this was a pair of glasses. But when you’re twelve…..that means a lot.

So the glasses are here. They’re on and (I wouldn’t dare tell him this for fear of his embarrassment) but he looks cool. I know that specs are not the end of the earth, I also know the they can make you look damned sexy. But he has to figure that one out for himself.

In the meantime, he has the next couple of days to deal with, the reveal…… Maths should be easier, blackboards should be clearer, the television more vibrant. The positives are there in abundance.

And girlfriends? Well…..one thing at a time……we don’t need to rush here…….there is plenty of time for that.

From boy to man

Posted on by Neil
2

There was a young man, let’s call him D. D was having a hard time. I won’t go into the history, but his childhood had been mixed. He was loved, but he didn’t know how to accept the love and more than that, the people who loved him didn’t know how to show it. There was a whole load of love, but somehow it didn’t connect.

At school, D started misbehaving, being mouthy and aggressive. Drink and drugs became part of his life and his education took a hit. After a long period of suffering all round he was kicked out of home and ended up in a hostel.  Surrounded by people a little like him his behaviour was reinforced and things went on a downward spiral. Violence, brushes with the authorities, debt all joined in the mix. It was a sad, sad mess.

I knew this young man as a kid. He was bright, precociously intelligent, caring, funny and almost boringly stable.  Years later, when I met him again as a young man, he was hollow, lost, inarticulate and quite frankly pathetic.

Five years ago I welcomed D into my house. Not for a drink, not for dinner, but for as long as he needed to be there. His mum drove him up to us. I can remember that day with an alarming clarity that alludes me most of the time these days. It was awkward, I had kids, but I didn’t have a teenager. Now I had both. I cooked, but I hadn’t realised how little appetite he now had. I remember we watched the Champions League together Chelsea Valencia, when we should have been watching Man U Roma.

I can’t say it was easy, there were good times and bad. He was taking medication to help him kick the drink. He was dedicated and committed, but he couldn’t sleep. The months and years spent sleeping in the fug of alcoholic stupor had taken their toll. He applied for job after job with little success, his heart sank when he either heard nothing or heard more rejection. Then little by little the chinks of light started to show.

D got a job working at the same place as me not, I should add, because of me but because of his ability. It was mundane and it was boring but it was something. We contacted the companies that he owed money to and sorted his debts. He was great with the kids (although he scared the neighbours in our little rural village – who thought we were mad). But he missed his life and his friends, he missed his past.

The one day he disappeared.

I can’t tell you what happened to me. I can’t tell you what I thought, what I feared. I can’t tell you that I hoped, because quite frankly I didn’t.

But then he came back.

In retrospect this was a turning point to equal anything penned by the good and the great. I like to think that he stood and looked into the metaphorical mirror of life. I don’t know whether that was the case. If you meet him you can ask him for me.

And from the lows come the highs and from despair comes hope. He was clean and debt free. He had a job. It wasn’t a great job, but it was a job. Then to top it all, he had a girlfriend. She wasn’t new to his life, she was from his past, but she’d gone to University, gone to learn. But once again, she was there and there was fresh hope. And she wanted to come and be with him wherever he was.

There were people who believed in him, people who supported him, people who showed their love for him. And, for the first time, he was prepared to accept their love.

Let’s roll the clocks on five years. The world has changed, people have come and gone, we’ve loved, we’ve lost, we’ve fought, we’ve cried. D is working  to help young people like the one that I welcomed into my home. He has incredible responsibility and works tirelessly and with a passion and commitment that can only come from the ills of the heart. He owns a beautiful flat, that he shares with the lovely lady that showed faith and commitment to him. He plays sport. He plays it well.  And he has an amazing group of friends around him. He drinks, but these days only like any other young 20 something. He is in control.

Sadly I don’t see D as often as I would like, we both have busy lives. But we keep in contact whenever we can. If I’m honest, I hadn’t realised it was five years ago that the story started. Like most of you I was sat on the sofa on the Thursday before Easter, relaxing and feeling good about a four day weekend, when something caught my eye on my Facebook page.

“Next week it will have been 5 years since I left xxxxx,5 years since I left my past and started my future, a special thanks needs to go to two amazing people that gave me an opportunity and a chance, thank you xxxx and xxxx”

Quite frankly, I can say….the pleasure was all mine. We saw you grow from boy to man.

You were a wonderful boy, you’re becoming a wonderful man.

There is nothing more that we could ever ask from you.

Domestic Bliss #5

Posted on by Neil
1

The scene is set in the kitchen on a Saturday morning. Two weeks into new year’s resolutions and things are fraying at the seams.

Him: I don’t understand why you use kilos?

Her: Barely looking up from the Weightwatchers app on the iPad  Your deep philosophical mind was the first thing that I was attracted to…..

Him: I thought it was my wallet and general subservience…….

Her: It certainly wasn’t your good look and boyish charms……

Him: ………why is this suddenly about me again?

Her: I thought it WAS all about you……well at least in some people’s minds….

Him: Kilos……kilos……why do you use kilos……on the scales?

Her: Errrr………so I know how much I weigh…….?

Him: But I don’t understand them!

Her: Bless……

Him: I mean, I understand them, but I don’t like them. I don’t know whether I’m good or bad.

Her: What do you weigh?

Him: I don’t know!!

Her: If it is less than the last time, its good……if it is more, its bad………

Him: But what should I be aiming for? How do I know when enough is enough?

Her: Stiffling a chortle ……..I don’t think you need to worry too much about that……..

Him: I’m being serious!! I’m doing this for you!

Her: That makes two of us then. I’m doing this for me too.

Him: Can you just flip it back to stone when you’ve finished?

Her: Can’t you just flip it to stone when you start?

Him ……………….

Her: ……………….

Him:………………but……I always put the toilet seat back down………..

Her:……………….now, if only you could wait until you finished before you do so, that would be even better…….

Him: ……………..I’m going for a run………

Her: ……….see you in five…….

The door slams

Only thing about me is the way I walk….

Posted on by Neil
2

There are very few things in life that can immediately show you to be the total incompetent twat that you are, dancing has to be one of the top three. Right up there with wedding speeches and cartoon ties/socks.  The latter of which takes a lot less effort but marks you out as a complete social outcast on sight…..trust me. I know.

Because I’m amongst friends right? And I know that you’re there for me, with a wonder bra like support and the tenacity of a Tibetan monk on pot. You see the thing is……I really can’t dance. Not at all.  In my head I’m busting moves like these guys but in reality I’m a middle aged, middle class white guy doing the frog dance. Ok I lied there…..a middle aged, middle classed white guy wishing like fuck he could do the frog dance. I mean…..come on….that guy is kinda sexy…..

The whole thing about being a teen in the 80s and into the indie scene was that you didn’t have to dance. Just stare at your shoes, shake your head a little (not too much, this isn’t glam rock) and wear black. Now that…..THAT….I can do. But dance…..dance proper? Hell no, I’ve more chance of a threesome with Vanessa Paradis and Helena Bonham Carter whilst Johnny Depp serves us canapes.

One of the scariest moments of my life was my wedding dance. In front of people. In front of people I knew. Fortunately my wife has a tendency to lead when dancing (she blames it on single sex education) so for 3 and a half minutes I was her bitch and then we were all good. Which tangentially takes me back to my childhood days as an award winning morris dancer……….when I was everyone’s bitch.

And the thing that comes back to me, the thing that gives me hope is this……. Men weren’t ever supposed to dance, we are a genetically disposed to being a useless swirling, testosterone fuelled mess on the dance floor. If men were supposed to dance God would have given us hips.

And rhythm.

But instead he gave us dreams, hopes and ineptitude. All of which we can discuss at the bar.

Sorted.

PS. I once had a night out with the Danish tine men robotic dancers…..they had a dance off with some Bollywood dancers as we all supped vodka…..it was awesome….I danced….and I looked a cock…..

I stuffed up……

Posted on by Neil
2

I don’t think of myself as a bad communicator. My job, a lot of my life is about communication, understanding the hidden messages of behaviour, reading between the lines, between the lines.  I guess you’d say it was an asset.

But even the proudest performers sometimes fall flat on their arses.

The thing about kids is that they communicate in ways that we, the “educated grown ups” just can’t and don’t understand. We base so much of our understanding of others on our cultural expectations of the norm. But the norm for us is, of course, not the norm of others. We don’t share a single lens on the world.

Tonight is Halloween and for children around the globe it is either a rite of passage, a ritual, or in some cases….the end of an era.

Those people who know me, know that both my kids practice Taekwondo to a relatively high level. Monday and Friday nights are training nights. As a family we don’t take it overly seriously, I’m not trying to relive past glories through my kids, but we do have rules about commitment and dedication.  These are principles that I hold dear.

Last night we had a conversation about training, the girl (at 9 years old) wanted to go “Trick or Treating” we talked about it and agreed that she could miss training if she worked hard for her next grading in December.  The boy (at 11 years old) said he wanted to go to Taekwondo. In other words a logistical nightmare.

Today has been a flurry of texts between myself and my wife about logistics and possibilities. Nothing seemed to be working. I eventually got a text from the boy, “I can go to Taekwondo every week, [the girl] can only do trick or treating once a year”. Eventually I managed to get home on time tonight and announced, “Now you can go to Taekwondo” to the boy.  He went upstairs and changed into his Dobok, but when I went upstairs something was wrong.

At first he started to limp, I asked what was wrong, the answer was unconvincing.  He prevaricated, I told him to hurry up. So I know that you’re reading this now, shouting, “HE DOESN’T WANT TO GO!!!”. Yes, I know that now.  But at the time, all I could see was his stated desire and my attempts to fulfil them. And then we argued.

To cut to the chase, he went to training….after a hissy fit beyond compare………….and enjoyed it.  We made up later as I told him that I had stuffed up.  Tomorrow is another day.

But the thing that really struck me is my inability to read the situation. Pressure? Fatigue? None of these things really provide an adequate answer.  The truth is that I’m used to listening and communicating with adults, not kids.  If I want to be the parent that I think I can be, I need to fine tune the radar.  Everyone is an individual, even children. And that means sometimes we need to place our assumptions aside and focus on the individual needs.

Humans are beautifully complex. Both young and old.

Love is more than a four letter word

Posted on by Neil
7

I’ve written more than my fair share of love letters in my life. I appreciate that makes me sound more of a tart than I really am. My teenage years were hugely enriched yet hugely shadowed by the act of waiting for the postman.  Endless hours spent in my room crafting prose, expressing emotions, discussing impossible futures and dreaming dreams that were inevitably going to shatter and scatter like glass falling on stone.

But I’m not sure that matters in itself, because the process, the act of expressing emotion, expressing love, expressing adoration and hope…..well they were never lost moments, they were never without value. Even if at the time it might have felt just that way.

Fast forward 20 odd years and I sit here typing on a laptop.  The last time I wrote anything approaching a love letter was maybe 15 years hence. My son has just declared that he has his first girlfriend and the world which I reminisce about is long gone. Is he ever going to write a love letter and does it really matter whether he does?

Yes, I think it really does.  The world of communication has moved forward ten fold and that in itself is not a bad thing.  We can look and see whether our iPhone is vibrating or our Blackberry is flashing to see whether we have a text or  an email from our loved one.  But there remains something sacred, something amazing about receiving a love letter in the post that transcends the everyday run of the mill information exchange which we have become accustom to. The sensations of touch, smell and sight combined in a way that electronic communication can never provide.

Time moves on, society progresses and all for the right reasons.  But the basis of human psychology doesn’t. We all still want to be adored and want to tell someone we adore them.  Just we have  denigrated the way in which we do this.  From letter, to email, to text, to Facebook message. It isn’t just about the message, but how the message is delivered.

Maybe I’m yearning for times gone by, maybe I’m being whimsical and a dreamer.  But how would you feel today if you went to collect the post and in amongst the bills and the junk mail received a letter from your special one, telling you how much they loved you, how much you meant to them?  Would you adore that little bit more for going that “extra mile”? And if so would they not adore you for doing that too?

A stamp doesn’t cost much, the paper and pens are abundant.

The thought though? That takes some time.

Maybe just sometimes we need to take a little more thought, a little more time and a little less convenience to make someone we love feel a little more special.

Boys to men

Posted on by Neil
1

Sometimes a little something demonstrates a big step. The smallest action that shows understanding, growth, maturity . There are things that kids need to learn and things that they need to be helped to learn – the years between 11 and 18 seem to incorporate so many changes, the real steps between childhood and adulthood. And whilst some of the changes will come about naturally as the body and mind develops, others will need to be teased out and encouraged.

There comes an age in a young person’s life (particularly I think if you’re a boy) when more and more you find adults extending their hand to you and that awkward embarrassing feeling of being neither adult nor child. A sense of feeling like you’re playing a game – let’s pretend we’re grown ups…..

Visiting my son’s new school a few weeks back, the teacher went to shake his hand and I saw all of this play out, he looked down at the floor, extended his hand and seemed to die inside from embarrassment. Later we talked about it, the history behind shaking hands, the importance of it in society, the fact that when someone extends their hand they are treating you as an equal…regardless of whether they are an adult or not. And you have a choice whether you want to step up and accept that.

Hold out your hand. Meet their eyes. Be confident.

Fast forward a couple of weeks later and I’m looking at the photos from the leavers’ assembly at his primary school. The end of the first stage of his life and of course the start of the next. I guess at that age it feels a little bit like your world is ending, everything that you know is being left behind and the future feels…..well unknown. A lot of the kids had tears in their eyes, including those from other classes, the tightness of the school community and the sense of family still amazes me.

At the end, the school presents each leaving child with a book that they have chosen as a reminder of their time there. One by one the children go up and meet the head teacher, receive the book and shake her hand. And there in the actions of the kids you can see everything that I’ve written about, awkwardness, extending the wrong hand, taking the book and not shaking the hand.

But then I see a photo, that makes me smile, but brings a tear to my eye. The boy, hand out stretched, making eye contact, confident.

Sometimes a little something demonstrates a big step. The boy is growing up.

Stupid is as stupid does

Posted on by Neil
5

Every person is made up of opposing and contradictory forces. Ultimately this is why we are so damned interesting.  We are not one thing or another, but one thing and another.  For me, that includes my work and my private life. They are very different, although at times one inevitably overlaps the other.

During the day I wear a suit (most of the time) I talk business, I make big decisions that impact on the lives of thousands of people, I work hard and I try to stay focussed. We do laugh, but a lot of the work that I do is very serious.

When work stops, you’ll find me in an old pair of shorts and t-shirt, cracking jokes, cooking, writing, taking photographs, messing with the kids and generally being a bit of a berk.  Sometimes work impinges on that, but I try to keep the two things separate.

Work is not my life and my life is not my work. I have work colleagues and I have friends.

Similarly, I have two Twitter accounts.  The one that is associated with this blog, which touches more on family and creative endeavours and the other which focuses on work issues and is connected to my work blog.  Pretty simple don’t you think?

Apparently not for some. The social media gurus out there would say that I’m not being authentic, particularly because I don’t openly reveal my identity on here.  Being anonymous is so last year. But of course this collective of idiots can see no further than their swinging dicks, their egos and the self-professed expertise in a media that actually requires little or no expertise (which is kind of the point about it – but they haven’t worked that out).

In my work, I have a lot of connections with Americans, who for the uninformed and the above group of idiots work to a different time zone. So the afternoon in the US is generally my evening.  As I sit down with a glass of wine and my laptop, I don’t want to be reading about the latest link to this that or the other related to my work.  Likewise, if I want to tweet about how I’m going to have another bottle of wine, how hung over I am or how I really fancy xxxx off the Television and wouldn’t mind doing the horizontal mambo with her, I don’t really want people from my work associations reading them.

I don’t have the same conversations offline with my work colleagues as I do with my friends, so why would my online be any different?

So to those people who question or don’t get it, I know that your lives are built around your work and you need to be online 24/7 showing how clever you are in order to try to get business.  But I don’t and nor do a lot of users of social media.  I mean……even Google understand that and have addressed it in Google +.

There is no rule book and even if there was, you wouldn’t be qualified or intelligent enough to write the contents page never mind the rest of it. At the end of the day, life is about choices. You make yours, I make mine. I’m happy with that, so why can’t you be?

Sticky wicket

Posted on by Neil
Reply

I’m going to talk about cricket.  But before you reach for the morphine (or the back button – depending on your fancy), just bear with me a little on this one?

I have a son who plays cricket.  He isn’t the greatest player in the team, nor is he the worst (by a long way). He plays in the first team and believe me at this age they are starting to get good enough to watch without the compulsory caffeine drinks to keep you awake.  He bats and he bowls to a reasonable level (for those of you that care, he is a lefty and so causes some problems in both departments).  But this season we had a new development,

“Dad, I want to play wickie”

For the uninitiated, the wickie is the sucker that stands behind the batsman and catches any wild balls as well as trying to catch, stump the batsman (ok….it is more complicated than that….but I’m trying to keep you with me).  When you play cricket aged 11, there are a lot of wild balls….and a lot for the wickie to do.  There is also a lot of focus on the poor kid having a wooden and leather ball hurled at him at speed, not to mention thumping great wooden bats swinging around his head.

Immediately a voice inside me wanted to say, “No….just bat and bowl…..let some other sucker take the blame for everything that goes wrong”.  But of course I didn’t and he started to play (straight away…..because no-one else wanted to).

Being on the sidelines when your kid plays sport is a heart wrenching experience, you want them to do well, you don’t want to pressure them and you want them to have fun.  But you can also hear the other kids and worst of all the parents…..

“Bloody dodgy keeper”

“If we had a decent keeper we’d have won”

The usual stuff. 

Admittedly I’m biased, but the fact is that this just isn’t true. It is just one of those roles where no-one notices the 100 balls that you take safely….only the one that you let through.

And of course if I can hear these comments, then so can the boy.

After the game, we normally have a drive home from whichever far-flung village they have been playing in and we discuss his and his team’s performance.  He is frank and open and honest about the things that he did well and the areas that he has to improve in.  We talk about the comments and how he needs to block them out and we talk about the importance on focussing on the things that you can control and not the things that you can’t.

If a kid bowls a ball that is 2 metres wide of the stumps that is not your responsibility, you can only try to rectify the situation.

I admit that when he started, I was secretly hoping that he would pack it in and let some other poor kid take the blame.  But he has proven to be made of sterner stuff than me and I completely support and respect his decision.  Instead of thinking of ways to persuade him to drop his responsibilities, I’m now reading up on training techniques and the role of a wicket keeper.

Sometimes it takes a boy to be a man, to show a man he is being a boy.