Why I Cried On Sunday

You would think that being severely disabled would be enough, but, oh no, on top of FSH MD you can still get all the coughs, colds, infections and allergies that everybody else get to endure. Normally that's just life but occasionally circumstances combine to present you with a very particular situation as occurred on Sunday.

Friends Stewart and Catherine had asked Polly and me to be godparents to their youngest son, Elliot. Wonderful, we were thrilled to be asked and the service was held at our church, Holy Trinity in Wallington on Sunday.

Holy Trinity is one of those Victorian edifices that stands, complete with steeple, on the approach to Wallington and has served the local community for generations. In recent years the multi-purpose, all singing all dancing Trinity Centre has been artfully integrated into the fabric of the structure providing a hall and function rooms as well a kitchen to further serve the people of Wallington. On Sunday a couple of hundred people gathered for the morning service, supplemented by friends and family of Stewart and Cath because the Christening would form part of the service, and sang hymns and worship songs and generally behaved in a typically Anglicany manner.

Stewart and I had placed ramps in position to enable me to get up on to the raised dais. When the time came for the Christening I ascended the ramps and took up my godfatherly position with Polly and the others in the party. We promised to raise Elliot in the Christian faith and on cue he began to cry. Stephen, the vicar, took Elliot to the font and splashed him in an appropriately holy way. Elliot was so surprised he forgot to cry and spent the rest of the ceremony tracking rivulets of water as they dripped from his head.

The problem started for me when the Christening was over and I had to negotiate the ramp again. There is something in the air within the church that makes my eyes run. I don't know if it is the dust, the polish or pollen from the flower displays. It may well be a combination of all three; I don't know. What I do know is that by the end of the ceremony my eyes were streaming so much so that I could hardly see. The ramp was a complete watery blur as I gingerly crept towards it trying to align my wheels so as to slot into each of the 8 inch wide channels. 200 blurry faces watched patiently as I edged forward, tears streaming down my cheeks, hoping I had remembered exactly where each channel was placed. I was so busy trying to line up with the ramp that, when I was finally descending it, I barely remembered to brace myself in time to prevent myself from being pivoted forward and out of the wheelchair in an undignified heap onto the transept in front of the pews. By the time I was back in my place I could barely see anything nor hear anything other than the pounding of my heart.

When the next hymn started I made my way down the aisle, negotiating fellow wheelchair users and baby buggies, and out into the clearer air of the Trinity Centre. The sweet, elderly lady on door duty looked at me aghast. To her I looked like a weeping member of the congregation, fleeing the service in tears. She must have presumed that I was overwhelmed by the awesome responsibility of my godfatherly duties, or so moved by singing about mountains being laid low or what have you, that I was having an emotional and spiritual breakdown. She immediately placed a hand on my shoulder and told me everything would be all right. I assured her it would be and she reluctantly let me go without counselling.

Later, after the service, several people asked me if I was okay and remarked that I looked rather red and flushed. I'm sure I did, though whether from an allergic reaction or embarrassment I couldn't tell you.

The rest of the day was lovely. We had a buffet lunch together and Elliot, slightly bemused, is now presumably safe in terms of his immortal soul until such times that he is old enough to take responsibility for it himself. Maybe, when he is older, he will be told how his godfather was moved to tears on the occasion of his baptism. Be happy, Elliot, God bless.

A Grand Day Out

On Monday the boys had an Inset day and so had an extra day off school. The weather had been uncharacteristically good and so it seemed a pity to waste it hanging around at home doing nothing in particular. Polly and I decided on a grand day out. We piled the boys into the van and set off.

“Where are we going?” asked Sam.

“Somewhere where you have to behave very well, keep very quiet and you absolutely must not smile,” I told him.

“Not smile? Why not?”

“Because they don't like it.” Sam looked doubtful.

“Is it a museum?” chipped in Matty untangling himself from his ipod headphones.

“We're going to the Shed and Fence Panelling Museum,” explained Polly. “ But remember, you mustn't touch the exhibits, however tempting they are.” Matty and Sam exchanged glances.

“Why are we going there?” asked Matt not unreasonably.

“There's nothing like the smell of creosote,” I assured him. At this point we turned into a huge car park and started trawling the lanes for a parking space less than an hours trek from the entrance where a surprisingly large number of fence panel enthusiasts queued for admittance.

It took only a few more moments before the boys faces broke into excited grins. “Chessington World of Adventure!” shrieked Matty. “Can we go to Beano Land?”

I won't write a review of our day at the theme park, there are plenty out on the web if you want to know which rides are worth queuing for. Since I am unable to transfer from my wheelchair to the rides my enjoyment is vicarious. It is Polly who gets to accompany the boys on various thrilling experiences. This wasn't so bad when all they wanted to do was go on rides inspired by the Teletubbies or Postman Pat but nowadays Matty, in particular, wants to go on rides with names like Transylvania and Ramases Revenge. Polly, who gets travel sick on merry-go-rounds, spends a lot of time looking faintly green and in need of regular cups of tea. While she and Matthew hurtle round some flimsy looking scaffolding poles experiencing 4 g inverted turns at 60 miles per hour I get to take Sam to the petting zoo. We both look enviously at each other.

We did all get to enjoy the Sea Life Centre equally together. Oh, and a peculiar 3d haunted house type experience. I loved watching the boys enjoy themselves, dashing from queue to queue, and being remarkably agreeable with each others choice of ride or experience. I did find the uneven pathways and occasional steep hill exhausting and have to admit to being grateful for the odd chance to sit in the sun, reading my book, while my family were catapulted up, down and around.

Towards the end of of our day we found some rides the boys could both queue for and go on on by themselves while their mother and I enjoyed tea and coffee and tried to blot out the infuriatingly incessant jolly music that blasted from hidden speakers all around. Chessington is a fun place to visit but I would go demented if I was there too often. We both agreed that the next time we go to a place like this we will take a teenager with us to do the queuing and the scary rides with the boys. I doubt there will be a shortage of volunteers.

Eventually, as I carried an exhausted Samuel, cuddled up on my lap, out of the park and back to the van he asked sleepily when we were going to see the sheds and fence panels.

A Rite Of Passage

Thank you to everyone who commented via the blog, email, IM, phone or, indeed, in person on the post about my dad. He would have appreciated knowing he would be remembered so fondly by so many.

Obviously the best thing to do with children is keep them locked up safe, wrapped in bubble-wrap and away from sharp pointy objects and strangers wanting to show them puppies or offering them sweeties. Even when they are at their most obstreperously demanding or cantankerously unreasonable you want your children to be safe. You keep them away from fast flowing rivers and you hold their hand when crossing busy roads, however much they protest and try to wriggle free, you refuse to listen to their demands for independence, explaining that you have a responsibility to them that you take seriously even if they are 23 and getting married next month.

Today Matty (now aged 9) took a big step on the long road to independence. He went to the local shop all on his own. Polly and I have been having an ongoing 'discussion' about how much freedom the boys should have. The back of our garden opens via an electrically operated gate on to a paved area in a cul-de-sac where a number of local children play, particularly a semi-feral young girl who regularly calls to ask if Matty will play with her. Despite the area being in a cul-de-sac a number of cars do use the road and we have been reluctant to let our boys play out there unsupervised. However, as the summer draws on, and the little neighbour persists, I have significantly weakened in my resolve to deny Matty the opportunity to play and have recently started allowing him to go out, much to Polly's tight-lipped concern. My reasoning is that he has to have a certain degree of street-smarts to survive in life and, frankly, if he can't survive in our quiet neighbourhood, with us in shouting distance, he won't be able to survive anywhere without an adult standing over him at all times ready to swoop in and sweep him away to a place of safety. Polly has visions of cars hurtling around the corner, driven by drunken car thieves, intent on ploughing down local children to score points in some video inspired game of Deathwish. Matty has been out, played and returned safely, even on occasion accompanied by little brother Sam. I felt it was time to move on to the next step.

We have talked about it on and off for a while. We have a newsagents and little general store just around the corner. The only problem is that you have to cross a narrow but very busy road that acts as a rat run for drivers who want to avoid the village. Fortunately they have recently sited a new zebra crossing a little way up this road. I felt this made it an ideal first trip to the shop alone type store. Eventually, and with many reservations, Polly finally agreed.

Matty was commissioned to go and buy a packet of crisps and a bar of chocolate. Clutching a £5 note he set off. Unbeknownst to him he was trailed by Polly, in her best SAS urban soldier mode, hiding behind lampposts and parked vehicles, all the way there. She hovered anxiously when he entered the shop and ducked behind a wheelie-bin when he came out grinning and carrying a plastic bag. A passing dog walker gave her a strange look but she mouthed an explanation to him and when he was satisfied she posed no threat to the little boy she was watching he went on his way. Polly dashed home and Matty found her casually leaning on a rail in the garden when he returned waving his spoils.

He was so thrilled and pleased with himself. Polly, on the other hand needed a strong cup of tea. The last time I looked she was on the computer Googling tracking devices she can sew into his clothes.

I Miss My Dad

It was a Sunday evening in April 2000, our three week old son was fitfully asleep in his mother's arms and Polly and I were watching the final episode of the first series of Monarch of the Glen, one of those interchangeable 'drama by numbers' that populate the Sunday night television schedule. Archie had declared his love for some pretty Scottish lass and Hector, played by the always good value for money Richard Briars, was causing comedic curmudgeonly confusion as the show built to the series finale cliffhanger. The phone rang, it was my mum, who in a sad, composed voice, told me my father had just died. On the television, in Glenbogle, Scotland, there was a fireworks party.

I haven't written an awful lot about my father in this blog, not for any nefarious reason, and not because it hurts to remember him. The pain and shock of those first few days and weeks have long since past to be replaced by a poignant background gentle sadness that ebbs and flows, waxes and wanes, but only reaches high tides on the occasion of significant anniversaries, such as Christmas and birthdays and as now, the ninth anniversary of his death. Most of the time he hovers happily in the background of my conciousness, a benign and gentle spirit. His death was sudden and relatively unexpected. Only a week or so previously he had come to visit us to see his new grandson, Matthew. But the Muscular Dystrophy he was afflicted with had deteriorated to the extent that each day had become a wearying trial and, when I spoke to him, as I often did, I could sense a depression circling, like a carrion bird, high above him. “Don't ever get old, son,” he said. “Don't ever get get old.” He was sixty-five. He died of heart failure. His name was Roger Harry Deal.

I didn't get to know Roger myself until 1961 where upon we immediately adopted the relationship we would maintain for the rest of his life. I was his son and he was my dad. He never became my best friend, my mate, or my buddy. He was always my dad. From the first day of my life to the last day of his I could not have wished for a better father. I am sure that my brothers and sister feel similarly. He always tried to be fair and ensure that each of us got similar chances and opportunities throughout our childhood. He never resorted to favouritism however much we tried to explain why the other three did not deserve equal treatment. He was remarkably patient with us. On more than one occasion he was summoned from an important meeting to answer the telephone from one of us requesting his permission to substitute the tin of baked beans Mum had left out for our lunch with a tin of the more exciting Alphabetti Spaghetti. Another favourite telephone call he loved to recount was the one that started "don't worry dad, the Fire Brigade has gone now…"

Anyone who only knew him in the last few years of his life might have been unaware of the many things he was justifiably proud of doing in times past. Born in 1934 he grew up in Wallington, south of London, with his sister Judith and his parents Lois and Gordon. Much of his childhood was spent living through the last world war. He particularly enjoyed collecting scrap metal for the war effort and often reminded us that he'd had to sleep in a shelter down the garden.

As a young man Dad cycled all over Europe. I once found a photo of him standing stark naked about to dive into an alpine lake. When I questioned him about it he came over all wistful and said, "Son, there's nothing like swimming nude in glacial cold waters." And this from a man who moaned if you left the front door open for a second longer than necessary.

In his teens Roger was a Queen's Scout and he maintained an affection for the Scouting movement into adulthood. For many years he ran the 21st Wansdyke cub pack in the local primary school hall. My brother Mark reminded me of Bum football, a game Dad invented. It was just like proper football except that you had to slide around on your bottom, which reduced the chances of injury and exhausted 30 to 40 energetic small boys into the bargain. It was a matter of no small amount of pride to me that I achieved whole armfuls of merit badges. The uncharitable amongst my wolf cub friends put this down to being Akela's son. Dad's innate fairness would never have let that influence him. The truth was simple. I was just a little boy who wanted to please his father.

Another of Dad's claim to local fame over the same period was at the Wansdyke Primary School Bonfire night celebrations. My father would stroll out across the playing field, his distinctive gait easily recognised, and the crowd would hush as he lit the rockets and then cheer as they whooshed into the sky, signifying the start of the display. He was the Rocket Man. Dad loved being centre of attention but was not so keen when irate gardeners held him responsible for aiming his gunpowder propelled missiles so that they'd land on local residents greenhouses, smashing countless panes of glass.

If you had only known Dad when he was confined to a wheelchair you may have been surprised to learn that he used to ride a motorbike. As children we would take it in turns to dash to the red letter box around the corner and wait to be given a ride back home on the little Honda 50. The bike eventually went after he was knocked off it one to many times. Indeed, one of my earliest memories of him is him lying on the settee with his leg in white plaster after he came off worst in a collision with a Danish bacon lorry.

All of Rogers working life was spent in the service of the law. He worked for a variety of solicitors such as Shepherd Norcott & Co, Mead King & Co and Wansboroughs before finding a long-term home in the legal department of Avon County Council. One part of his work involved doing conveyancing work for the police. This involved going out in to the countryside and looking at radio masts. I asked him whether he could tell anything by just looking at a 200 foot high metal tower. He confessed that he couldn't but that he always went on the trips because he enjoyed the ride in a police car.

Dad worked at Avon for twenty years and became a well known and easily identified figure regularly seen coasting along corridors of county power in his electric wheelchair. In 1994 his service was recognised when he was invited to Buckingham Palace for one of the Queen's Garden Parties. Although it has to be said that when it came to an option between sitting in the baking sun on the off chance of meeting Her Majesty and going and getting a cup of tea the choice was not a difficult one.

After retirement he took up voluntary work at Bridge Farm Infant and Junior School where he listened to children practice their reading. One can only imagine the impression he made on the Offsted School inspectors if they ever heard him threaten to flay some little child alive or have them keel hauled if they didn't sit quietly. The children found this hysterical because by this stage dad was so disabled they had to hold up their own books and turn the pages for him. They appear to have loved him. Dad was also a governor of the infant school.

Throughout our childhood family holidays seemed to involve driving vast distances to various windswept parts of the country. Not for the Deals were cushy beach holidays and warm sunshine. Armed only with a Thermosflask and a Tupperware container we'd set out visit various exposed lengths of Hadrian's wall. And let me reassure you, this was in an era long before softy visitor centres had been built. Even today I can't look at an expanse of moor land with out mentally inserting windscreen wipers and a tax disc in the corner.

All this, of course, changed the moment my brothers, sister and I left home. Suddenly Mum was able to persuade Dad to jet off around the world with her. Together they visited Australia, Thailand and much of America and Europe. In 1990 Simon, Helena and I went with them to California. It was a fabulous holiday but I missed the Tupperware.

On one occasion Dad was in Turkey with Mum and his sister Judith. My mother and Judith had gone in to a mosque that was inaccessible to Dad because of the steps. Dad told me that he'd settled down in his wheelchair along side the mosque and dozed off in the shade. He awoke with a start to find local people dropping money into his sun hat. "No, no," he cried. "I'm not begging. I don't need your money, I'm English! English!"

Dad was never more English than when he was abroad. Helena tells of a time she and Mum were in Madrid with him. One evening they dined early in a sea food restaurant which was virtually empty when they entered. A huge platter of shelled and betentacled creatures was placed before them which Dad enthusiastically crunched his way through. (Helena maintains that one of the delicacies was little turtle's feet.) Dad's bonhomie so won over the staff that they plied him with generous glasses of free liqueurs. When the time came to exit the by now crowded restaurant Dad was weaved through the tables in his wheelchair proclaiming that Gibraltar was British and that he was a Cointreau lout.

It was amazing that Dad would eat exotic fare whilst abroad. At home he was deeply suspicious of all food he considered 'ethnic'. This, it should emphasised, had nothing whatsoever to do with race or creed but whether a meal contained the hated lentils. We would frequently phone home to be told in a morose voice that "your mother's cooking me something 'ethnic' for tea." We had visions of Mum serving Dad cus-cus with peppers and a mung bean salad. Usually it turned out to be spaghetti bolognaise.

Dad was something of a Luddite when it came to technology. He never learned to set the video and there are dozens of tapes with a half hour programme two thirds of the way through because he and Mum were going out for the evening. Helena and Andrew offered to buy him the equipment needed to go on line digitally via the television. They asked him if he'd prefer e-mails and the information super highway or an Easter egg. An Easter egg Dad replied. His pleasures were simple. Single malt whiskies and Brookside on the telly.

But his greatest pleasure was his family. We're proud to say that he was proud of us. He loved the fact that we loved him. He took pride in our achievements and would tell anyone who would listen what we all were up to. We take some comfort in that the last few months of his life gave him many things to delight over. Simon and Jaspreet regularly visited him with his grandsons Oliver and Oscar. He was proud at the fact that Mark is researching a doctorate in Disability Issues (which he subsequently gained). Helena and Andrew had just returned from living abroad and so he once again got to meet the then baby Alexander. His last Christmas was made especially exciting by the controversy and success of a song I had helped write going to number one in the charts. It was the first time he'd watched Top Of The Pops in decades. He was even happier when Polly and I had our baby Matthew Tudor and shared more than anyone our relief that Matthew had not inherited the Muscular Dystrophy that has affected our family in so many ways over the years. It will be one of the great sadnesses of our futures that our children will grow up not knowing their Grandfather. But they will of course hear all the stories. I also find it sad that he died before two of his grandchildren, Theo and Sam, were born.

I once asked what was the best thing he'd ever done. He replied "I married your Mother." Roger was married to our mother, Dilys, for nearly 40 years. I cannot adequately tell you how much he loved her. Oh, he would moan and grumble that she was studying for her degree or at the Disabled Living Centre or in London on the Arthritis Care Help Line or off saving the world. But hardly a phone call went by with out him extolling her virtues in some way or telling us how wonderful she was. I don't wish to give the impression that theirs was some kind of Mills and Boon romance. Hardly. Theirs was a marriage forged in the cut and thrust of family life. They both worked, had four children at the local comprehensive school, and half the family was increasingly disabled, but, thanks to our mother and father, we never once experienced instability or insecurity. I know that I speak for my brothers and sister when I say that if our children grow up loving us half as much as we loved Mum and Dad then we will have been good parents.

Nine years on I still hardly go a day without some passing thought of him. Things happen that I would have enjoyed sharing with him, or would have sought his advice over. He, more than anyone, could have related to recent changes in my condition.

Many different people will remember my father in many ways. He was a quiet man with a huge personality and a sandpaper dry wit. I don't suppose there's ever a really good time to die. But we, his family, take a little comfort in that there were no family schisms left unhealed. Dad knew we were proud of him and I know he was proud of us. I suppose that is at least one definition of a successful and happy relationship.

Roger Harry Deal, 1934 -2000.

One Year On

Well I made it. I've kept this blog going for a whole year. 166 posts, well over 90,000 words, over 2,600 individual visitors and a whole heap of comments. And that's just here on the 'mother-site' so to speak. I've lost track of all the Disaboom readers, let alone those who follow it on Facebook. All told I reckon around 2,000 people read these words every month.

I've enjoyed writing these posts over the last year and have, like most bloggers, particularly enjoyed and appreciated any comments I've received. It's nice to know there are people out in the blogosphere actually reading this stuff and who are prepared to take time to write and provide feedback. So thank you if you have been one of them.

I set out writing How To Be An Inspiration because I wanted to chart the ups and downs of day to day life living with FSH Muscular Dystrophy whilst at the same time living with (and indeed within) a family. Looking back a lot has happened and a lot has changed over the course of the last year. I had a quick glance at the first post and was transported back to a time of chickenpox and marathons, but also a time when I was transferring myself from bed to wheelchair and from wheelchair to toilet. I had dexterity enough to manipulate a stylus to write this blog with a handwriting recognition programme rather than picking it out one letter at a time on an on-screen keyboard as I am now. I had a whole different team of carers who only came in the morning rather than morning, nights, some lunchtimes, some teatimes, some afternoons and sometimes all through the night. In terms of the Muscular Dystrophy it's been a year of rapid deterioration, one of the worse I can remember. Fortunately I don't have to define my life solely in terms of my disability. Polly and the boys give me both purpose and happiness and are the true measure of how my life is going.

Today is Easter Sunday and I'm writing this whilst watching Jonny Depp as Willy Wonka on TV with Sam. Matty is happily playing on the computer and Polly is pottering in the kitchen. All in all it is a very normal family scene.

Thieves Paradise

Since today is Good Friday I thought I'd share this sketch from the show Burning Questions. I have to admit that this is one of my favourite sketches, not least because, although it always got big laughs, I was once accosted after a show and told I would probably burn in hell for mocking our Lord on the cross and should be ashamed of ever having written it. A little harsh I thought but see what you think.

THIEVES PARADISE

[THE SKETCH TAKES PLACE IN THE BAR OF THE LOCAL PUB. THE TWO
CHARACTERS MAY BE SUPPING FROM BEER GLASSES.]

A:
It near broke my heart to see old Barney hanging there.

B:
Hanging where?

A:
On a big wooden cross.

B:
So why was he doing that?

A:
Well mostly because of the nails.

B:
What, real nails?

A:
Yes.

B:
That's a bit barbaric. You could kill someone like that.

A:
They did. Barney, Jim and that Jesus.

B:
So Barney's dead is he?

A:
Yeah, he was crucified.

B:
Nasty.

A:
He was a good bloke.

B:
Well, he wasn't that good. He was a thief. That's why they crucified him I expect.


A:
Yes, but he was a good thief.

B:
No he wasn't. He got caught.

A:
He never had any luck.

B:
No.

A:
Fancy breaking into a geezer's house when you absolutely posit­ively know he's not going to be there, and then being caught in the act when he comes home totally unexpected.

B:
Yeah. What was that bloke's name again?

A:
Lazarus.

B:
Chance in a million that.

A:
Yeah. Poor old Barney.

B:
Mind you, Jim wasn't much better. I mean, fancy breaking into a house only to find the owner had given everything away.

A:
Blooming Zacchaeus.

B:
And fancy both of them breaking into that gate keepers house...

A:
Only to be spotted by an eyewitness.

A and B:
Blind Bartimaeus.

A:
Still, in their line of work they knew they were taking a risk.

B:
What about that other bloke?

A:
Who, Jesus?

B:
What was his crime?

A:
It was funny that. No one seemed to know.

B:
What was he? A thief? Con man? Fraudster? Mugger?

A:
Rabbi.

B:
What, a holy man?

A:
Apparently. He had a sign on his cross saying he was the king of the Jews. But I heard people saying that he was the Son of God.

B:
If he was the Son of God, what was he doing nailed to a cross?

A:
That's what Jim said. He gave him a really hard time, mocking him and shouting at him to save himself and them.

B:
Jim was a hard man.

A:
As hard as nails.

B:
Not quite... What about Barney?

A:
Barney was a bit different. He seemed to recognise something in Jesus.

B:
It's a pity he didn't meet him earlier. He might not have ended up where he did.

A:
They seemed to get on well enough though, given the circum­stances.

B:
How do you mean

A:
I heard Barney ask if Jesus would remember him when he came into his kingdom.

B:
As if Jesus didn't have enough on his plate.

A:
That's what I thought. But Jesus made him this promise, see?

B:
What kind of promise can you make to a dying man?

A:
He said, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise".

B:
What do you think he meant by that?

A:
That he was for... for... for...

B:
Four sheets to the wind?

A:
No, that he was for... for... for...

B:
For he's a jolly good fellow?

A:
No, that he was for... for... for...

B:
Fortunate?

A:
Hardly. No, that he was forgiven.

B:
Oh.

A:
Yeah, nice thought that.

B:
Any way, I'm going to miss old Barney.


A:
Yeah, but at least his suffering is over.

B:
Was that Jesus the same bloke who's been preaching all over the place?
A:
I suppose so, yeah.

B:
I heard him once.

A:
Oh yeah?

B:
I hope that when he made him that promise he knew what Barney's profession was.

A:
What do you mean? A housebreaker? Well what does that matter now?

B:
Because it was Jesus who said, "In my Father's house are many mansions."

A:
Then Barney really will be in paradise.

© Stephen Deal, 1993

Deals On Wheels

Just a very brief post today.

We have just got back from Greenwich. We were visiting my aunt Megan who had need of small people to retrieve some pots that fallen down the side of her garage. As a reward for supplying her with child labour she took us all out for lunch at the restaurant in the park. Afterwards we spent time whizzing around on roller blades, scooters and electric wheelchairs reprising our Deals on Wheels turn in our local park, except that Greenwich park has much more space.

Now, I'm putting the boys to bed since Polly has gone out cavorting. (All right, she's gone to Pizza Express with Becks and Catherine.) How many times do you tell two little boys to stop talking and go to sleep before you have to act on the threat to a) confiscate their Nintendo DS's for the rest of the holidays, b) deny them any Easter eggs, or c) flog them to within an inch of their lives? I reckon once more should suffice. You'd think they'd be exhausted after a day of child labour and wheeling.

Killer Zombies

It must have been sometime before last Christmas when Matty came bounding home from school announcing that he absolutely HAD to try out a new game on the computer. The game, he informed us, could be found online at a web address he'd been told about at school. EVERYONE was playing it. Cautiously we typed in the address and were reassured to find ourselves at a game featuring little stick men getting from A to B by solving little logistical problems. Harmless and mentally stimulating. Go for it, Matty, we said, knock yourself out.

A week or so later Polly entered the bedroom to find Matty gleefully cutting down zombies with a bloody chainsaw. Horrified, she yanked him from the computer and demanded to know what he thought he was doing. “I'm killing zombies, Mum,” he explained helpfully. “You have to chop their heads off or they'll eat your brains. If you don't cut them just right they just keep on coming st you. I'm nearly at the next level.” With that he went to start his decapitation rampage again.

“Oh no you don't,” said Polly. “What do you think you are doing?”

“I thought I'd explained. I'm cutting the heads off the undead.”

“No. What do you think you are doing playing a game like this? You know you are not allowed on sites that daddy and I haven't checked.”

“But you did!” exclaimed Matty indignantly. “You said I could last week.”

It turned out that the site that had featured the harmless and, indeed, stimulating stick men game, was this week featuring the slightly less wholesome Killer Zombie game. It was a kind of sample shop for new online game demo's. A collection of a wide span of different game genres. One week, Fluffy Bunnies Dig a Hole type games, the next, Slay Granny with her own Knitting Needles. Polly promptly banished him from the site and he was forbidden to revisit it. Matty sighed but, unlike his chainsaw wielding zombie slayer, knew this was a battle he was not going to win. Used to the seemingly arbitrary nature of grown up's decisions regarding the can and can't dos of life with a computer he wandered off to do something more suitable like picking a fight with his younger brother over which TV channel to watch.

Now, roll on several months.

Polly is approached by the mother of one of Matty's classmates at the school gate. She tells Polly that her son had been found the previous evening playing on the computer a game featuring a bloodfest of zombies. Apparently, she told Polly, her son had found out about this horrible game from our own sweet Matty. Were we aware of the kind of games Matt was playing? Polly assured her we would take immediate action. Summoning him to her she demanded an explanation. “You know you are not allowed to go to that website or play the zombie game, Matty.”

Matty looked puzzled and not a little hurt at this display of mistrust. “I didn't go to the site or play the game,” he said indignantly. “You told me not to.”

“Then why does [your friend] say he learned about the game from you?”

Exasperated, Matty replied, “you said I couldn't PLAY the game. You didn't say I couldn't RECOMMEND it.”

The Blue Badge And A Grape

Yesterday I had an appointment with speech and physical therapists at King's Hospital. The appointment was at midday and we set out in good time and arrived within 100 metres with several minutes to spare. Then we tried to park. We circled the area several times. All the disabled parking bays were taken, of course. Predatory parking wardens lurked on every corner. Eventually we pulled into a permit holders only parking bay and hailed the parking warden who had materialised within seconds brandishing his electronic ticket issuing gadget. He asked us if we had a valid blue badge and we pointed at our fully legal, non-counterfeit, in date and valid badge which he inspected through the windscreen with the kind of intensity usually only seen from antiquarian book dealers validating a Shakespearean first folio, before nodding and saying we could park in that space. Relieved, and five minutes late, we rushed into the hospital and found where our clinic was within the maze of corridors.

It is many years since I've seen a speech therapist and spent time reciting carefully annunciated 'Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper' and 'She sells seashells on the seashore' type rhymes so I wasn't sure what to expect. As it turned out she wasn't interested in my 'Round the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran' but with how I was managing with eating and drinking. She timed me drinking a glass of water and studied me intently as I ate a biscuit and a grape, holding my throat as I swallowed. I've never been so self-conscious eating in my life. The reason for this attention was to check that I wasn't choking or, as my granny used to say, make sure the food wasn't going down the wrong way. I was all set for a fight if she recommended that I only eat mashed up or liquidised food but instead she only suggested keeping my head tilted forward when I swallow to keep my trachea closed off. It should help stop me getting so bubbly in the chest of an evening.

The physiotherapist was full of helpful ideas about who to talk to about various issues. A raft of letters are being written on my behalf. I might even get some new shoes. I'm told they will be comfortable but God knows what they'll look like. I'll only wear them if they are made in a Chinese sweatshop like everybody else's.

After the session Polly and I grabbed a sandwich and a coffee because the grape and biscuit combo wasn't quite sufficient for lunch, and besides, no one had offered Polly anything. Afterwards we made our way back to the car, on the windscreen of which was a bright yellow bag containing a £60 parking ticket. In the distance, a parking warden was vanishing around a corner. The smell of brimstone lingered in the air.