Diary of A Norfolk Broad (An Oxymoron - The Joys of Parenthood)

Ah, the joys of Parenthood – the worry, the sleepless nights.
From the day they arrive into the world, it is the sleepless nights which are the horribly recurring feature of those early weeks and sometimes months. Exhausting and unexpected, no matter how prepared you think you may be. Tell your friends you are with ‘Bun in the Oven’, and predictably at least half will alert you to the fact that you’ll never have a good night’s sleep again. Ignore them at your peril, it’s absolutely true.
I don’t just mean the nights of feeds and nappies and wind, of pacing the house and even the streets – no, I am talking about the nights of fitful sleep or none at all when you lay in bed simply worrying about the things you can no longer control.
Snip, snip go the apron strings, and so the gut-wrenching anxiety begins; when they take their first steps into the school playground, when you are no longer there to hold their hands to keep them safe, or mop away the tears when knees get grazed – Ah, the joys of Parenthood.
Having gone through it twice with my twelve year-old, from the first day of Primary school to the first day of Senior school, you’d think I’d be getting the hang of it all by now, wouldn’t you?
Funny thing is, today was my youngest son’s last day of nursery, and come September, I don’t imagine that sending him off in the world will be any easier than on previous occasions but at least this time I know for sure I will be better prepared with a family sized box of Kleenex to wipe that snotty, tear-stained face – after all, at my age it’s starting to become embarrassing.

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Anyone For Tennis?)

The Men's Final, Wimbledon.
Decisions, decisions.
Who should I support?
Federer? - Nice cardie, embroidered initials on the pocket.
Or Nadal? - Bit of a chav, sleeveless vest, white sellotape around his legs (?!), and Nike logos over absolutely everything; from sweat band to socks and probably pants but I have no proof - Mmm, Nice.
Two sets in I was firmly behind Federer. He was losing badly but looked no more perturbed than if he'd just discovered the battery had run out in his Cuckoo Clock - what a gent.
Nadal on the other hand, grunting like a pig in labour, muscles bulging out of his vest, with baggy nylon-looking shorts waggling about in the wind (is it me or are the girls' skirts getting shorter while the boys' shorts are getting longer?). No wonder he was sweating so much.
And not a flicker of a smile, not once. Just a permanent sneer - it wasn't nice and it certainly wasn't pleasant. Just very stressful. So stressful I couldn't bear to watch. So I went to do some ironing, and pondered, like you do, when engaged in some mindless, pointless, domestic activity.
And then it struck me. With horror I realised my allegiance was totally and utterly misplaced. If I had to choose between Switzerland or Spain, which would it be?
Or to put it another way,
Paella or Chocolate?
Definitely Paella (unless I was premenstrual, in which case I'd probably have both) - the juicy, succulent prawns, the squid, the tangy pimientos, some chicken, perhaps a little spicy chorizo, the glowing, yellow, saffron-infused rice. I just can't drool over chocolate in the same way, sorry Roger. It was at this point that I took a sneaky peek at the match, which by now had Roger fighting back heroically to win the third and then the fourth set, making me feel slightly less guilty for abandoning him. I also discovered that watching on widescreen upstairs made Nadal's muscles far more bulbous and his sneer far more evil than on the old box I was now watching downstairs - I think he was probably just really concentrating. Which was just as well.
And so jubilant was I when he did finally win, that I immediately went out and bought a Toblerone to celebrate - well they'd hardly be selling paella at the petrol station, would they?

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Is it a government conspiracy or is Life really so depressing?)

Someone tell me please, because I would really like to know, who invents the phrases that wiggle their way into our daily life as if they'd always been there? Credit Crunch, Weapons of Mass Destruction, Carbon Footprint?
Is it the Press? Maybe the Government? Whoever it is, I'd like them to stop.
One minute we've never heard of it, the next we're all saying it with such confidence and alarming regularity that we can barely remember a time when we didn't say it.
Is Credit Crunch a nicer way of saying RECESSION? If we call Nuclear Bombs weapons of Mass Destruction will it hurt less when they go bang?
And Carbon Footprint?
For goodness sake, let's just spit it out and be honest. We're not just leaving dirty marks on the new carpet, we're killing the planet!
I've had enough, really I have.
And anyway its all so depressing. If 'they' are going to carry on making up these silly phrases, how about some nice ones for a change? Life's hard, we could all do with a bit of cheering up. Who wouldn't rather hear some good news than some bad? So never mind the dying housing market, unemployment, war and famine and ask yourself this;
As my four year old son enquired this morning, "Daddy, do you prefer Credit Crunch for breakfast or Cheerios?" I know which I will be choosing.