Natural Born Swimmers

As another cold front came over from Scandinavia this week, March became colder than January and February. Could this be as a result of Global Warming, or just a cold March? We will never know. It snowed last night and there is still an enchanting feeling when you wake up and see a familiar vista covered in white.

I wonder if the same feeling is experienced in a place where snow is more common. I wonder if the Eskimos would feel the same if they woke up and saw rolling fields of green, and a sun high up over everything. The ice hole that they had once used for fishing had now become a babbling brook meandering through the landscape on its way to the estuary. They would probably be too concerned with the fact that their house had become a puddle around them, and the reason that they had woken up so early was the fact that they were wet and their possessions (some furry boots, a furry hat, a stick with a spike on the end, and a 1973 edition of The Kayak Annual) were floating around them.

I think it probably best on that scientific evidence to leave the meteorology to the experts and to just plough on (get it) with the rest of this blog. But as a last point on the matter, if this Global Warming thing does take off and is as successful as people are predicting, then it will be commonplace to see young Inuit’s washing up on Mediterranean beaches in nothing but furry Speedos. I hope that the G8 Summit have planned for this catastrophe, but I’m sure Bono will be all over it. Praise the Lord for St. Bono. But I have just realised that this would be horrendous as it is an anagram of Nob Tos.

Anyway, I have digressed far from my chosen path. The introduction and enlightenment of the kids first ever swim. We have waited for a year, due to one reason or another, and the most practical point is that Claire cannot hold them both up at the same time. I was off work for a couple of days, and we seized the opportunity much like our ancestors would have seized lunch.

We rang to check on Wednesday morning that Stockport Pool was open for small people, and after confirmation via a recorded message, we set off with this destination in mind. On an aside, have you ever considered how ahead of his time Stephen Hawkings is? 20 years ago he started talking like a Speak and Spell, and now he has influenced probably 50% of all telephone calls and rising. How long before people begin to speak in this way to each other, face to face? It will save energy if you can pre-record conversations that you are going to have with people, and for teachers, they could record lessons from the National Curriculum, and then finally the Government will be able to control minds. Hawkings is a prophet in biblical proportions, and like 1984, this fictional material is becoming a reality. Watch out.

So we set off for Stockport Pool, only to get there and not be able to park anywhere within a midget tossing distance of the place. So we turned on our heels and headed for Cheadle Baths. A smaller, private leisure centre type affair but we had incredibly timed it perfectly with a Tots session, which was just about to begin. Claire and I thought this might be a bit too much, you know, an instructor on the kids first ever visit to a Pool. I’m all for encouraging them but this sounded a bit too “Pushy Parent” for us. But considering that we had driven around all morning I was reluctant to then go home without tasting even a morsel of concentrated Chlorine.

I took Dylan and Claire took Sophie, and we met on the other side of the footbath transformed. It always reminds me of an episode of Mr. Benn, where you leave someone dressed quite normally and then see them again in a couple of minutes as if you were on a beach, busy pinning things to your person. I quickly noticed that I was the only Dad there, which instantly made me feel a little awkward. Once this would have been a dream of mine, but now everything was so much different. We slowly walked into the little pool with them, and showing their breeding, they both absolutely loved it. Claire and I were both keen swimmers in our former years, and so any offspring should really have some kind of attraction for weird acoustics and chemistry lab smells.

We have a little inflatable chair that we put Dylan’s legs in, and he enjoyed the kicking around under the water, like an over excited duck. Claire then tried to get him out of it, and to her surprise, she had found that he was stuck. After some struggle, which in water is always harder than if on terra firma, we finally managed to free the boy from the boat. Which then instigated uncontrollable laughter from Claire, which made others in the pool turn around and stare in our direction. She told me that his nappy was still on under his new baby Speedos, which at first I did not realise was the reason for the humour, until I then looked at it and realised that it had blown up like a bike tyre. How was I to know that you weren’t meant to take a disposable nappy into the pool? After a bit of thought I probably should have worked it out, but there you go, that’s life.

I then had to perform the walk of shame, carrying Dylan out of the pool, past all of the other Mums, back into the changing room. Only to then appear again a minute later with a leaner, meaner version of Jamie Oliver in trunks. After that it was plain sailing, and the instructor was not from the Dave Heathcote School of instructors, but more just a co-ordinator that sang some songs and we all stood in a circle around her. Very nice.

But now another milestone has flashed before us, and equally important is that it happened without any real major incident. Tick.

Last week, Claire did not have her pick of day trips because of a birthday party that we had to attend for one of our friends, but today we are going to go to somewhere mysterious. Like I said before it has snowed so it should be great where ever we go. I know you will all be on the edge of your seats, so hold tight and I will update you next week.

One more point of interest is that Dylan has made his first ever card from Nursery. A lovely rabbit, which looks as though, it has been hopping around close to Chernobyl. But it is the first present that we have received from either one of them, and this made me feel very proud.

Grand Tudor Design

The inevitable anti-climax of the birthday week has finally passed and we have now resumed normal service. Sophie has had a few episodes, and Dylan has a cold that seems like it has come from the very depths of Siberia, but with this aside we appear to be winning. So much so, that I am writing this from about 20,000ft above the North Sea on a Swedish adventure that has actually gone ahead as planned.

Similar suits surround me, reflecting the type of person that I might become if I don't do something about it. These trips are great for my own personal ambition of getting out of this life and doing something else that fits me better. Although something has just amused me, a soulless face asked the Air Steward," is there a choice?" when asked if they would like the meal. He clearly meant if there was a choice between Beef or Chicken, or something, but the Air Steward just replied, “It is either Yes, or No.” This amused me because the guy’s reaction didn’t even change; he just nodded his head and took the Beef.

Anyway, on Sunday we decided to travel to the oldest Timber-framed, moated country house in Britain, Little Moreton Hall. I thought that it would take about half an hour to get there, so I kept it a mystery to Claire whilst hilariously pretending that we were going to approximately 50 other venues along the way. Although Claire didn’t rise to any of these pretences, I thought they kept getting funnier and funnier. Eventually, it even tried my patience and when we finally turned up after an hour I started thinking, “this better be worth it.”

But surprisingly, it was beautiful. It stood alone as a quite humble, Tudor house amongst green fields and farm buildings. It was exceptionally uncomplicated around it and presented the property with a certain amount of reverence. It was built 500 years ago at the time that Elizabeth I was being crowned, and boasted one of the first examples of bay windows. There was intricate glass windows everywhere that must have given the house an amazing brightness inside compared to other houses of the era, much like the modern houses made with walls of glass. The Tudors were on it, even if they didn’t have the technology at the time.

We tried to go on a tour of the house, until Sophie thought that she clearly knew more than the guide from the National Trust and after a number of frustrated looks round from the audience, we thought it best to wander around on our own. But this allowed us to get in to the coffee shop that was actually in the house. A strange experience, having a spotted dick with custard in a room that is half a millennium old, and still being able to pay by card at the end. It makes you wander about the events that have taken place in that room alone.

This house was being built, as an example of new architecture, at the time that Shakespeare was writing Romeo and Juliet. Isn’t that incredible. We take for granted the amount of history that we have in this country compared to other places. Of course the anorak types, the National Trust lifers that seem to permeate all of these buildings, surrounded it. But I think these buildings are cool. They offer a glimpse through another life, and considering Cinemas are crammed with people experiencing that 2nd or 3rd hand, you would think that these places could be given a promotional push to a different market.

Sweden should be a few degrees colder than the UK, but pretty close. I am going to take the opportunity of visiting where I used to live and meeting up with a friend that I met when I was there. These trips are always a conflict for me between looking forward to the freedom that they offer, but conversed with the guilt I feel of leaving Claire with the kids and the anxiety that something will happen while I am away. But I did just read a quote that said, “ that this day will always be ‘twenty years ago’ one day.” It all passes. These are just moments added up together in some random fashion. And a bright one will eclipse a dark moment, because that is the way.

The First of Many

As a wise old Chinese man once said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.” This can be equally said for a lifetime of many years beginning with one year, and what a year it has been.

It was a year ago last week that we were rushed in to the emergency caesarean situation at Stepping Hill Hospital after receiving the news that Sophie, or Twin 2, had stopped growing in the womb. From that first initial shock, through the exceptional anxiety of the first two weeks, through the 3 months that we then spent in hospital every day watching Sophie grow as much as she could, through the scares that we have continually had since she has been at home (and also one scare with Dylan), and the ongoing struggle to give each of them the support that they need – I think that it is safe to say that Claire and I have changed infinitely.

I almost class myself as naïve and carefree a year ago compared to the man that I have now become. I know that through the tests that have come our way I can cope with most things that life can throw at me, and this has given me a sense of invincibility. It has helped me to put life into perspective and understand what’s important, and what really isn’t. Southampton struggling in the Championship is still wrangling with me, but it is under control and pigeonholed in the slightly irritating box.

Life is something to be grasped at immediately, because you never know what is coming up, and the biggest tragedy of it all is if you do nothing. If you give something a go and it doesn’t come off, then at least you’ve tried.

Anyway, after the year that we have had we thought it would be nice to have some friends round to the house to celebrate their first birthday, and the future. But in true neo-Holley style it all went pear-shaped and we had to tell 40 people that it was off due to Claire feeling as rough as some heavy-duty sandpaper. So in the end the celebration was kept low-key, with just a couple of friends coming over to have a cake.

But we did manage to get out on their actual birthday, which was on Thursday, and we travelled to Chester to the Blue Planet. Unfortunately this was not a museum for Pornographic material, or a tribute to Blue Peter, but an Aquarium. It had one of those tunnels that you walk through and can see Sharks willies and stingray mouths. But the kids loved it they were looking wide-eyed at the fish probably thinking that we had taken them to, literally, another planet. It must be quite astonishing to experience fish for the first time, no-one ever knows what that feels like because by the time we become adults we have erased all of this memory. But imagine trying to work it out in simple terms. They’re in the bath but they don’t come out for air, they don’t have any arms or legs but they still move, and strangest of all, they live in a television set. Crazy.

So we blew their minds for an hour or so, and then came back to reality. But it was a really nice day.

This gave Claire and I the catalyst for another one of our ideas. We would try and have as many day trips as we could in order to visit places around where we live that we have never been to before. The rules are that every Sunday one of us picks the destination and we then take off and explore. Only conditions are that one of us has not been there before, and we have to go where the other person wants. There is no negotiation.

Then, in a Bill Bryson manner, I will report on the trip in the following Blog entry, reviewing all aspects of the place and giving any funny anecdotes that have occurred whilst on the journey. This will provide the reader with a better insight into the beautiful world of the Northwest, and also stop being bored so much with your heroes’ incessant philosophical rubbish that ends up being written each time in the absence of any real content. So, today is the first day of this new plan, and as I won the toss in a strict ECB rules flip, I will decide the first destination. Now, as usual, it is raining in Manchester, so I must come up with somewhere that will not dampen our spirits as much as it dampens our clothes. (Brilliant)

Little Moreton Hall is the venue for the first day trip. It was built in the 15th Century, and is apparently the best example of a timber-framed moated country house in Britain. How can we possibly never have been there before? How can anyone be expected to carry on living without seeing the best example of a timber-framed moated country house in Britain?

The Rumble in the Jungle

As one season moves into the next, it provides one with time to look philosophically at the changes in nature and how these are reflected in my own personal frame of mind.

Winter is traditionally a time for keeping your head down and letting the cold storms blow over and with any luck escape without any lasting effects. Expect the usual floods in some areas, and the snow concerns in another, hope your heating keeps working but be prepared for the annual whinge about how much it costs.

Then Spring slowly comes out of its hiding place. It gradually becomes a little bit warmer, and then all of a sudden the sun starts shining and you remember what it feels like to be alive. The same streets that looked depressing and grey a fortnight ago, are now joyous with the hope of spring. The whole of nature comes to the party. The flowers start shooting up, and young animals come out of their winter beds for a first look at the big world.

All of this goes on at this time of the year and so it is no wonder that people also perk up. For me, this year especially, I feel that I have come out of a long hibernation and I am now energised to achieve what ever I want.

This winter has been particularly bad, and without dwelling too much on the negatives, I have compared myself to Rocky in the final round against Apollo Creed. I’m in the corner of the ring and every event is another punch winging its way on to my face. I’ve looked over at the Ref to stop it but he can’t see me through the blood and puffiness. Another trip to the hospital… bang… the worst Christmas I have ever had… bang… Claire’s Grandad dying… bang… Sophie again in hospital… bang… cancelling the New Year plans… bang… guess who in hospital… bang… work being the most stressful it has ever been… bang…

And then the sound of a distant bell can be heard amongst the din of leather on flesh, and the primal screaming from anyone within earshot. Is it the iron bell that they talk about at the end? Then the sun shines through, and you are bathed in light, you can’t feel the pain anymore as it subsides into the experiences that will one day make you richer.

My “bell” (to keep the analogy going) was the news that I had passed my final exam for CIMA. Now to most people this would be quite a routine event and although cause grounds for celebration, you would then continue with your normal life. But for me, this exam had almost taken human form by this stage and was acting as a monstrous devil dancing on my future grave, taunting me with failure. Five years has gone by in the time that it has taken me to pass one exam. It had affected me so much, I knew that the only way that I would win would be to pass it and then close that chapter and move on. Until I had passed it I knew that it would never end.

So the relief of passing this, otherwise quite meaningless, exam is that it has shone a different perspective on my future path. In the short term it has resulted in a pay rise and promotion prospects, but in the long term it has enabled me to once again dream of other avenues in which my destiny lies. Now that I am qualified you would think that I would now put on my battle dress, and march into a corporate career that will achieve outstanding honours and command the utmost respect from all of my minions. But to me it means that I can now concentrate on other opportunities in the time when I am not working.

I plan on writing these blogs more often again, so that I can look back and work out what is happening. When I first started writing these, the revolution was already under way, it has continued changing and now I feel as though I have the energy to continue with it.

Happy Days!

The Wheel

As the winter sun was setting on another busy Monday, and the early finishers were making their way’s home, Claire was also making her journey back across Stockport. She had been required to make the journey in order to hand deliver some important documents to a solicitor connected with our imminent house move.

The rain was, as usual, a companion for the wanderer, and this was the reason that Claire decided that with a new pushchair in tow, laden with two cherubs, the train would be an efficient means of transport. With the old pushchair that we had, it was impossible to use the train. The width of a double pushchair is slightly wider than the girth of an average-sized fat man, and this is the measurement that Rail companies use in assessing such decisions.

So with a touch of excitement about her, due to the kids experiencing their first train journey, she boarded the choo choo and off they went. The time it takes to put your bags down and unzip the rain cover for the pushchair is roughly the same amount of time as it takes to get from Stockport station to the hamlet of Heaton Chapel. As Claire tried to reach around the chair to open the door, and then try and alight on to the platform through an opening that seemed a lot smaller the second time around, she managed to wedge the front of the pushchair between the edge of the train and the platform. This area is infamously known as the “GAP”.

A little push, a pull, a wiggle, a big push, a slam, and eventually a sideways shimmy made the front wheel come away from the pushchair and drop right down the “GAP”. Claire then finally broke through on to the platform with all of the coolness of the Tasmanian Devil. A little ruffled she ran to the conductor, who was stood at the end of the train, and explained the tragedy in easy to follow syllables. The response to this was a sympathetic shrug, and a comment that she should see the stationmaster. Off the train then went, leaving Claire in the rain, on the platform, with a pushchair balancing on its two back wheels, and an angry disposition.

The wheel could be seen on the track, but was just out of reach. She looked for the stationmaster but inevitably he had already left for the day. He had probably had to go home to lift his mother out of the bath, so that they could continue the jigsaw that they had started the night before.

When Claire finally reached the house, she phoned several numbers to alert someone to the situation, and try and receive some help from the department that helps get things off of tracks for people. Suprisingly, this department does not exist, but a few people recommended that she ring the station at 8 o’clock the next morning.

On my return from work I was informed of the drama, and we decided to write a note to the stationmaster and put it under the door of the station, so that he would see it and rush immediately to the damsel in distress first thing in the morning. We had written our phone number on the note and, when he had rescued the wheel, he could ring us and we would collect it.

The following morning came and the rain was once again tapping at the window as we waited in the kitchen for the phone to ring. I know that you will not be shocked to hear that the phone never rang, but when you are in these situations you would rather believe in humanity and hope, instead of negative cynicism.

At 8 o’clock I decided to go to the station personally and speak to the stationmaster, and hopefully retrieve the wheel that he had probably collected and been too busy too have let us know.

But life seldom turns out the way that you think, and when I did get there the chump behind the ticket desk muttered something about health and safety, and that he wasn’t insured to go on to the tracks. He pointed me towards a timetable that had a customer services number on the back of it, and that maybe they could help.

I picked up the timetable and then walked down on to the platform just to see if I could find it and check that it was still all right. I had images of it being snapped in half and poking out of a bush that ran parallel to the platform. But, as I walked passed about 40 commuters on their way to Manchester, carefully scanning the tracks, I then found it at the end of the platform in perfect condition.

It was just resting on the nearest track, and was teasing me to grab it. I quickly weighed up the hassle that would be involved in having to ring up customer services and explain to them what the problem was, and then wait for them to arrive so that we could collect it from them; and the off chance of getting electrocuted and dying.

I am not an expert on the mechanics of the modern railway; I know a few tricks for fare dodging but technical knowledge has evaded me. So, I quickly asked a girl dressed in a nice business suit if she knew if the first rail was electric, or not. She shrugged, but in her eyes she was thinking who is this mad man that is talking about touching tracks.

A new pushchair wheel was, Claire and I had assumed to be, about £70. I quickly decided that £70 is enough to make me gamble on my own health, and so jumped down into the tracks and flicked the wheel off the rail using a rolled up timetable. I grabbed the wheel and then jumped back up on to the platform.

I was expecting everyone to cheer, and hail the hero that had just fought the system and won. Instead, they all just looked at this suited man jumping on to train tracks and coming back with a pushchair wheel. Their eyes were wary as if I would strike out at any second, or put my tie around my head and roar. I thought it best to just make a quick exit, stage left.

So the moral of this story is don’t drop anything down the “GAP”, when it says “MIND THE GAP” it damn well means it.

Property Ladder 2

I haven’t written an entry in this journal for nearly eight weeks. The reasons are of course endless, and you probably don’t care anyway, but for the record I have been exceptionally busy at work and have also taken my last exam again. It has been a busy time, juggling different aspects of my life simultaneously whilst all reach fever pitch at the same time.

Life tends to spit out these phases where you have to deal with everything at once. It isn’t so bad as long as you prioritise what the most important thing is at that moment and then try to do it to the best of your ability. You hit a snag when, because of the constant effort given to each pursuit, you are so tired that your best ability is still not that effective.

However, that is the reason and now things will resume more normal levels of intensity. At least for this week, because I now have a grand announcement to make… We have sold our house, and finally bought another in the village of Marple Bridge. It is a picturesque 18th century hamlet that has kept its olde world charm, whilst still installing phone lines and traffic lights.

The house we have bought is a humble 4 bedroomed house with views over the neigbouring hills and a garden that backs on to parkland and the River Goyt. We are quite excited to be getting this house, especially as it is out in the sticks in a nice area where there seems to be a real strong sense of community still.

However, it will still be sad to say goodbye to our current house. Heaton Chapel has been good to us over the years, and Claire especially has met a lot of nice people over the last year that all live nearby. But the promise of Marple Bridge will offer the kids a safer, more innocent childhood as we move away from the irritating element that occasionally stray into the “Chapel”. I’m hoping for no more pitched battles outside my house in the future.

We have only just had offers accepted at this stage so there is a myriad of obstacles to still encounter and navigate through, but we are confident that it appears quite straightforward in terms of a chain. I expect that we would be looking to complete at the end of January time 2008.

Enough of the house for the time being, you will hear plenty about this in the near future. A completely different thought occurred to me the other day.

Why do daytime television programmes interview the actors of soaps about the plot that their characters are involved with? I admit that I am not a subscriber of the various soaps on TV; my opinion is that if you want to see real life then turn off your telly and live your own instead. But I can still understand the concept of a soap and the need for people to escape from their own life and absorb themselves in a make believe world.

But what is the point of talking to an actor about their opinion of the, character they plays, destiny in a script that has already been written. It is because of the constant demand that there is for these soaps, that consumers cannot get enough of the people who are now part of their lives. But would it not be a better idea for interviews to be conducted in character, in the set of the soap. This way they can still provide additional material to the market without ruining the illusion of a parallel world. Also, it could provide the actors with more challenging work that would involve them being responsible for ad lib answers in character. Is the world ready for this? Just remember where you heard of it first.

Another idea that I have had will revolutionise the card giving culture of the UK. I don’t mind mentioning it here with the risk of the idea being nabbed and presented in front of Dragon’s Den in a year’s time, but I am asking for 25% of the profits when someone makes millions. But I am going to look in to the Patent possibilities before I unleash it to make sure that it is protected.

The Battle of Britain

Last Friday night was a night like many other Friday nights that are common in the Holley household during these times. The wind was mildly wisping from a south, south-east direction and the darkness had made itself welcome on Manchester Rd. Not the band, but the part of the day that follows the afternoon and early evening. Claire and I had settled the kids to sleep finally, and sat down to watch Jonathan Ross. Claire fell asleep, and eventually at the big hour of midnight that was enough, and like the runner-up of an endurance contest we took ourselves up to bed.

Then, all of a sudden, I was alarmed to hear some raised voices in the street outside. I quickly raced to the window (one step from bed) and looked out at the mystery scene that awaited me. Four blokes walking to the east suddenly turned around and started tracking back towards the west, shouting abuse at an unknown recipient. All of a sudden one broke from the formation, running at the target, and when reaching the target began to knock him over and proceed kicking him on the ground.

It did not look like it was one of these travelling minstrel shows that tour the country putting on impromptu shows for their supper. Nor did it resemble the meeting of two old friends. It looked very similar to a scene taken from the musical “Italia ’90 – The Fans Fight Back”, and this similarity became closer when the three amigos that were a bit slow in the initial confrontation joined in taking on all comers.

Just as I was trying to commentate on the display of one-sided pugilism to Claire, and also thinking how handy it would be to have a red phone that connected me direct to Commissioner Gordon, the Boys in Blue turned up. Screeching around the corner with the Fanfair of the Sirens blaring out, the scene became one of chaos. The brave foursome that had obviously started the proceedings were well versed in this particular melody, because when hearing it they all tried to run off and hide somewhere. Two of which went down the side of our house, hoping for a Bat cave to appear out of our gable wall. When realising that the wall was pretty solid, they both turned around and then ran over the road to the alley opposite us. Thus escaping the long arm of the law, that actually wasn’t very long at all.

But the Police, like the Canadian Mounties, had their man. I could not tell if it was the first of the Famous Four, or another one of the supporting cast, but they did not seem happy. The Police, however, did seem happy. If there is a pet hate that any Officer harbours around the world is the feeling of going back to the station to fill out a desk load of paperwork without the inside glow of another job well done.

So, the scene began to calm down and the truncheons were re-sheathed. And after a couple of eyewitness reports were jotted down, everyone went back to have a post game drink of tea and discuss the possible winners and losers.

But, this event has spurred me on to want to move house more than ever. Not that my wanting to move house will actually move it on any quicker, but at least it will add to my frustration of not being able to sell my house. Running street battles outside your house is fairly high on the list of reasons to move.

Pete, Claire’s brother, has also travelled back from the US to visit us this week. This is nice, as he last saw us a couple of years ago, and since then we have been married and had two children. There is no worse a moment than, when you meet someone that you have not seen for a number of years and asked, “What have you been up to?” you can only shrug your shoulders and look vacantly at the speaker. It makes you feel that you have not contributed anything to your life in those years, and that you may as well have said that you had been in prison for the product that you had produced.

This was avoided though, and pleasing it was to be able to talk through the events of our life that had been missed by both parties either side of the Atlantic. The only problem is that the next time we meet we will have set a standard, and nothing less than a par performance will be satisfactory.

Also, nice for Dylan and Sophie to see their Uncle Pete and cry at him for a couple of days. But for a man that would admit himself that he does not specialise in childcare, he has taken to the task with grace and composure, and I am sure that one day the kids will pick up some valuable lessons from him.

Before I go, I nearly forgot the next edition to the Hospital saga. Sophie picked up a water infection, and also caught Bronchalitis last week, and had to remain in hospital for a few days to be monitored. She is perfectly well now, and is on the road to recovery. However, she is on anti-biotics that have turned her waste into a crayon type colour of blue and green. It does not look right, and the sooner they pass through the system the better for all concerned.

Both are now eating solids, to a degree, and they are making big improvements to the way they interact with us. Hopefully soon they can master the can opener, and the kettle, so that Claire and I can go out for five minutes.