I enjoyed starting the series of things I’m going to teach my son. It struck us that it was only fair to share the other way round. Because sharing’s important, isn’t it. Especially when it means somebody gets to “share Mammy’s iPad.” With her.
- Life is full of injustice. When one’s little compatriot takes exception to the felonious removal of the train of which she was in possession, violence is likely to follow. A mournful relating of that injustice is lightened by the toddelorial re-enactment of “the cross face.”
- Names can change. The Royal Welsh College of Music & Drama is “Mammy’s Little Toot Toot Band House.” The Wales Millennium Centre is “Daddy’s Big Toot Toot Band House.” Cufflinks, shaving brushes, French horns, remote controls and the variety of implements needed for a log fire all have their own new names.
- There is no rushing an umbrella. Gene Kelly danced, sang and generally lit up the stage. We have been known to bring the whole of Cardiff to a standstill as a three-foot parasol commando does his stuff in a busy pedestrian lane.
- Help is not always good. Especially when it means that a belly-bulging full toddler sits on your lap to “my help you eat your dinner, Daddy.”
- The finest jazz quartet in the world is the group of superb musicians playing the soundtrack to Curious George. I should know. We’ve listened to them enough times.
- We are being lied to. The locomotive history of Great Britain has been revised in a sinister, Stalinist way. There was no steam engine on the Isle of Sodor called Emily. Yet an insultingly tokenist female engine has been added in a Pravdaesque post-revision to the May Day Mausoleum lineup of Thomas and Friends.
- History can still be made at Cardiff Arms Park. A tiny pink-trousered figure shouting, from the distant pitch, “my running in straight line, Daddy” is certainly a first for this long-suffering Cardiff supporter. Never seen that before at CAP. Regional Rugby Union on the TV can be summarised as “catch, kick, hooray.” Out of the mouths of babes…
- Damaged cars have a broken wheel. After our recent familial disagreement with a boy racer, it may have taken assorted blue-lighted chaps from the South Wales Fire & Rescue Service a good two hours to remove the car roof and doors, extract his mam, and pronounce the final commendation of the Blessed Red Rover 75 of Late Memory to the automotive knacker’s yard, but the oft repeated diagnosis reflects that “Daddy’s car has a broken wheel.” And there you have it. Which is a shame when you hit a pothole, because he’s waiting excitedly for fire engines, ambulances and policemen to rock up when his quietly cursing father is simply changing the front wheel.
- Socks are a lottery. When the CEO of your organisation comments that your socks are a trifle sudden, you have to blame the fact that your diminutive sartorial sidekick selected this particular pair of yellow and crimson striped hosiery. It’s one of his constitutional duties, but he isn’t great at choosing which colours go perfectly with the sober navy suit, of course.
- You will never finish a cup of coffee. At least not in your own time. And forget having your shoulders to yourself.
Tom, it is a privilidge to share the pleasure that you find in your son and vice versa. Keep sharing!