Saturday, 11th July 2015

Who remembers Derek Redmond?

Look him up on YouTube, and the first thing you find should be footage of what happened to him during the 1992 Olympic 400m final. Three things will happen when you watch this:

1. You will cry beautiful tears of compassion.

2. You'll probably have to listen to Coldplay in the background. Sorry.

3. You will, hopefully, appreciate the tenuous link I am about to make, which has something to do with the power of sport to magnify the love between a parent and their child.

Yesterday morning was my oldest daughter's first school sports day. I was on a late shift at work, so I was able to witness what was a momentous landmark in her burgeoning existence.

I loved a bit of sport when I was young; I still do. So I'm keen for my children to share my instinctive passion for organised competition based on co-ordination, determination and physical prowess. I don't think we're quite there yet, but I remain hopeful.

I was thoroughly impressed by the logistics of the occasion. The pupils were divided into small teams, each of which would complete circuits of a particular activity involving some combination of hoops, beanbags and cones: quintessential P.E. paraphernalia. After three minutes an authoritative whistle would sound, prompting the pupils to halt and sit with an immediacy as impressive as it was terrifying. A second whistle provoked each team to move, as one, to their left, whereupon they would commence a circuit of the next activity. 

And so the sporting entertainment progressed, in an efficient and orderly fashion, like North Korea in airtex tops.

My eldest, for her part, performed nobly. Her hula hoop work was particularly strong, as was her valuable ability to run with a beanbag balanced on a plastic tennis racquet. That beanbag didn't get a sniff of the ground; not on her watch.

But the real pride, on my part, kicked in when I discovered that the more conventional running races which followed were in fact finals, the fields for which had been previously determined by heats, held in prior weeks. There were six in contention for the Panda Class final. My daughter was one of them. And she was there on bloody merit!

And I'm here to tell you that fifth is a very respectable position to finish in, after a race during which one is relentlessly distracted by one's hat attempting to blow away. I struggled to rein in the impassioned cheering my pride demanded.

She didn't twang a hammy in the middle of the race. But I have no doubt that, if she had, I would have been there like a bloody shot, drawing beautiful tears of compassion from all and sundry. I might even have allowed Chris Martin to whine morosely in the background, trying to fix me.

http://youtu.be/ws8vIqkMh44

Monday, 23rd February 2015

I was trundling quite happily along the A2 today, maintaining a consistent, sensible and, above all, legal speed of seventy miles per hour, when the exciting, digital signs above the road proclaimed that there was an OBSTRUCTION ahead, and that all were thus to reduce their trundle to fifty miles per hour.

I fell victim a few months ago to a police officer armed with a speed camera. This left me deeply conflicted between my natural inclination to protest my innocence on a vaguely defined, moral level to anybody within earshot, and my natural inclination to avoid agreeing with Jeremy Clarkson.

I knew, deep down, that doing 61 miles per hour when the speed limit was fifty was more dangerous than doing fifty miles per hour. So I was less reluctant to attend the requisite speed awareness course than I would be, for example, to watch an episode of Top Gear.

On the speed awareness course I learnt three things in particular: 1) driving too fast really is more dangerous than not driving too fast. It's more more dangerous than I thought; 2) the correct definition of a dual carriageway; and 3) when the exciting, digital signs above the A2 tell you to keep to fifty miles per hour, there actually is a good reason for it, rather than - as I had always suspected - someone sitting behind a computer somewhere, laughing maniacally as they feed their thirst for power over the speedometers of Kent by arbitrarily imposing temporary limits upon them. No: it's usually because there's an OBSTRUCTION.

All of which confessional nostalgia is to explain why, upon noticing these signs today, I obediently slowed down to a trundlier trundle. The police car behind me was merely incidental.

As is often the way, a couple of miles with no evidence of an OBSTRUCTION began to make me question its existence. Only my newly unshakeable faith in the authenticity of the exciting, digital signs kept these doubts at bay. Eventually, we passed a lorry, innocuously stationed on the hard shoulder. My confusion about whether this could have been the cause of the revised speed limit was exacerbated by further '50' signs, half a mile later.

I hesitantly kept my speed down, until my doubts were allayed by the police car which had trailed me throughout this dilemma, when it pulled out from behind me and sped up. This was all the invitation I needed to conclude that the OBSTRUCTION was, indeed, in my past. So I, too, sped up into the empty lane ahead of me.

This was how the awkward situation occurred. The driver of the police car, having pulled out to overtake me, had as a consequence prompted me to speed up and negate the requirement for him to overtake me. So he pulled sheepishly back in behind me.

I must stress that this gave me no satisfaction; merely a mildly confused indifference. But this quickly transformed into unbearable frustration at what happened next. A cursory glance in my rear view mirror revealed to me that the driver of the police car was shaking his head at me in disbelief. He was outraged at my actions.

My conclusion was that his conclusion was that I had sped up to prevent him overtaking me, presumably because of either a perceived hatred of The Law on my part or, worse, some ridiculous, Clarksonesque pride. I get very frustrated when I feel I've been misjudged. It's worse when it's on the road and I'm powerless to reason with my false accuser. It's worse still when my false accuser could arrest me if he wanted to.

Impotent rage.

Of course, it could be that I glanced in my mirror just as he expressed his incredulity at a story his passenger was telling him about something unrelated. I hope I haven't misjudged him.

Monday, 2nd February 2015

When I was young, I kind of enjoyed hurting myself. Not on purpose. But I appreciated the accidents I had. I didn't like the actual pain but, within reason, I considered it a worthwhile price to pay for the prestige it could bring. My friends and I would compete for the best quality and quantity of A&E anecdotes. Bruises, wounds, bandages or - best of all - plaster casts were badges of honour. At primary school, if someone turned up on crutches they commanded awe and respect. When Mark Filby threw a stone in my eye at lunchtime one day, I genuinely felt that the attention my temporary eyepatch generated was enough to justify the 48 hours of literally eye-watering agony.

Then, as I reached my grumpy adolescence and developed a powerful aversion to any kind of commitment or social interaction, I would relish the potential benefits of injury; sudden disability, to my irrational teenage mind, represented the perfect excuse to avoid any awkward situation. Frequently, when driving to my part-time supermarket checkout job, I would fantasise about crashing my car, such was my resentment at being paid to sit down for a few hours in Tesco. Only a lack of courage prevented me from acting upon this misguided judgement, meaning that - instead of learning the hard way - I had to grow up before I would appreciate the ungrateful, insensitive arrogance of this attitude.

I certainly value my health now, and I have developed a sensible fear of pain. Yet I still have a residual sense of the benefits of injury. I think it's more of an emotional coping mechanism really: while I avoid the prospect of hurting myself, I still think the associated drama and attention would be of some consolation.

Throughout all of these phases, I have never really appreciated the impact upon those who care for me of my being in physical peril. But this morning I was provided with a stark new sense of perspective when I dropped my older daughter off at school.

A combination of my insistence the night before upon attempting to stay up to watch the Superbowl (I just about made it to half time before giving up when Katy Perry started prancing about), my snot-addled reluctance to get up in the morning, and the car being all icy, contributed to this morning's school run being rather more hurried than usual. I drove safely, of course - the big, slow lorry which insisted on being in front of me for most of the journey left me little choice - but I only parked the car on the road outside the school in the nick of time.

As I desperately grappled with my daughter's two unreasonably heavy school bags, the car door and the keys to lock it, I had to find from somewhere an extra hand to grab my daughter's as she spotted a couple of her friends, whose parents were only marginally more punctual than hers, and attempted to run across the road after them.

Somehow I managed to restrain her from doing so, before escorting her calmly and sensibly across the road, into the school grounds and up to the gate, where only the headmistress and an incidental secretary by now remained; all the other pupils were already in, with the exception of my daughter's two friends, about to disappear out of sight. She sauntered off in pursuit.

"WAIT!" I cried in sudden alarm, causing her to halt. I was still holding her bags (she normally only has one, but we had been asked to provide additional, dispensable clothing in service of muddy, outdoor fun). I've got form for sending my daughter in without her stuff. I had to go to the office and arrange for it to be delivered to her classroom. It was embarrassing. I wasn't about to go through that humiliation again this morning, so I beckoned my daughter back to me and weighed her down with her pair of bags. Finally, I watched her dash through the gate. She could still probably catch up with her friends before they got to the door. My work was complete for another morning.

And then she fell over.

Usually when you trip, putting out your arms to break your fall is an instinctive reflex. Unless you're a four year-old with a heavy bag in each hand. If you're a four year-old with a heavy bag in each hand, you land on your face.

If I was in any doubt about the integrity of my parental concern for my children, it was dispelled in this moment. I think I actually pushed the headmistress out of the way a little bit as I ran to my daughter's aid. I was now on the wrong side of the gate through which parents may not pass, and I didn't even care. I picked her up, subconsciously established the absence of blood, and just hugged her and hugged her until she stopped crying. But she wouldn't. Her chin had borne the brunt of the impact and she was in pain, and none of us were under any illusions about it being a good thing.

Mum, Dad: I'm sorry for all the times I saw hurting myself as a positive. I understand now that you probably didn't, did you? It probably quite upset you, didn't it? Sorry.

Of course, like any parent, I've seen my children hurt themselves many times. It's never pleasant - this is hardly a revelation - but somehow this occasion was so much more harrowing than all the others. Perhaps it was the dramatic nature of the events conspiring to cause the accident. Perhaps it was the setting: I had just successfully given her over to the care of trained, responsible adults in a safe location and was lulled into a false sense of security. Or maybe it was the fact that the incidental secretary turned out to be a crucial player in our story as she gently but assertively led my still-wailing child away from me and into the school, luring her with promises of an ice pack for her grazed and swollen chin. I could offer no more than a feeble goodbye as the doors closed on the secretary, my daughter and her distraught tears. I was no longer welcome in the effort to appease her.

As I drove home I was helplessness personified. I even phoned the school in search of reassurance as to her wellbeing. But I could not be fully consoled until the time came to collect her some six and a half hours later. She emerged through the same, fateful gate with a ridiculous, Looney Tunes bruise disfiguring her chin, but she was smiling. She was fine.

And, to tell the truth, I think she's quite proud of that bruise. So am I, to be honest.

Monday, 17th November 2014

Apologies for my failure to contribute to this literary masterpiece yesterday. The truth is, I was distracted by the fact I had to go back to work this morning, after my week off. This is never a pleasant experience for anybody, of course. But it's worse when you work in retail and it's nearly Christmas, and it's worse - dare I say it - when you suffer from anxiety and depression.

I'm well aware that, in any given year, a quarter of people experience mental health difficulties. I know a number of people who have or have had such problems, for a variety of reasons, most of which are - in my opinion - more valid than mine. But, as the past 24 hours have demonstrated to me, the validity of the reasons for your symptoms don't necessarily always correlate with the the severity of your symptoms.

Since I've created this forum for myself, I thought it might help me to use it to express my troubles. I want to be clear about the fact that I'm writing this for my own benefit, but I'm doing it on here because, in general, I think it's useful to have an audience in mind (however intangible) when I'm writing. The following may well appear self-indulgent or cringeworthy, but I think it will be pointless if I shy away from that possibility. This is absolutely not a cry for help or sympathy. I'm just seeing if I can help myself by writing it. So please only read on if none of that bothers you. I won't mind if nobody reads it, but I hope that anyone who does at least finds it a bit interesting.

As a manager in retail this time of year, building up to Christmas, is always stressful for me, as the workload for my team and I increases exponentially. There is a lot more of everything to do and, as someone who puts great stock in my ability to stay in control of my workload by foreseeing things that might increase it, this inevitably worries me. So, periodically (maybe a few times a year), but especially in November and December, I develop a growing sense of anxiety.

When this anxiety grows to a certain point, it makes me lose all sense of perspective. 'It's only a shop,' I'll tell myself, or 'It's only a series of feasible tasks; take them one at a time.' Often, I'll end up losing sleep; lying awake at night worrying about things I can do nothing about until morning, and this inability to do anything just makes the worrying worse. Or sometimes I'll lose my sense of priority and end up literally running around, trying to do everything at once, in the hope of getting to the end of infinity so I can stop. But, of course that end point will always elude me, so my anxiety grows even more. Usually, though, much needed interventions from friends, family and colleagues, and mantras like those above will eventually help me to see sense and calm down.

But sometimes I reach a dangerous tipping point before I can calm down. This morning, as my to-do list grew faster than I could make any dent in it, I tried desperately to delegate my way out of the trouble I could feel coming. But I'm not very good at delegating, which is part of my problem. All the while, I felt increasingly short of breath, nauseous and, worst of all, detached. It's as if my mind goes into a state of denial about the problems I perceive, and refuses to let me think about them. But at the same time, another part of my mind is aware of the desperate need to think about the problems, which only increases my sense of panic about my inability to deal with it all. In the end I'm left with no choice but to write off tasks I know I shouldn't write off. But I feel like I'll go under if I don't relieve some of the pressure.

Somehow today (mostly because of the support and hard work of my colleagues), I got through the day. I got home from work and was genuinely delighted to see my family. They are, after all, the good in my life; the people whose wellbeing motivates me to go through all this. I made a point of cherishing every moment with my children until they were in bed - even refusing to look at Facebook during dinner! But, as their bedtime drew near, I was increasingly aware that it was taking some effort to keep smiling at them; enjoying and engaging with their thoughts and actions. I was overwhelmed by a sustained feeling of needing to cry. It didn't feel like it had any specific, tangible cause, but I think it was to do with the list of incomplete jobs from earlier, lurking in the back of my mind, waiting to be joined by tomorrow's impossible workload.

I busied myself with chores to try to distract myself. I tried, as is natural for anybody feeling low, to think of reasons to be cheerful. But, despite the obvious abundance of such reasons I have available to me - my beautiful, wonderful family, our comfortable home, the food in the fridge, the quite good book I've just started reading - none of them made me feel any better. Some sort of indefinable, physiological response to these prompts just wasn't there. I couldn't bring myself to look forward to anything.

And this was when I realised that my anxiety is very close to spilling over into depression. I can't be sure at the moment whether it already has. Hopefully writing this will have helped me cling to the edge of the cliff, rather than falling off. But I've got a nasty feeling I'm not going to sleep tonight. And being awake all night when you feel like this is a cruel torture. It's like somebody stamping on your fingers for hours when you're clinging on to the edge of a cliff. It leads to despair, dread and helplessness, no matter how disproportionate.

I know that so many people have experienced this and much, much worse, and I'm not comfortable with self-pity. What can I say? I'm indulging myself. I suppose I could justify it by claiming that I'm doing my bit to break the painful taboo around discussing mental illness, but that would be to claim credit I don't really deserve. I've fallen off the cliff a few times before and eventually made my way back up. Hopefully, the fact that I'm still self-aware enough to be slightly embarrassed about all this - the fact that I know, on some level, that I'm being irrational - proves that I'm still clinging on. I just wish I was better at staying away from the edge.

Saturday, 15th November 2014

I'm watching World War Z as I write this, so I might be a bit distracted from my usual high standards. We got it for cheap from the supermarket. No idea if it's any good. So far, it mainly consists of Bradley Pitts ignoring ominous helicopters while he talks about pets. Sorry. Where was I?

Now something's blown up and there's some very inconsiderate driving going on. There are lots of bitey lunatics everywhere, but it's quite entertaining actually. Basically, it's like watching Luis Suarez.

Sorry. This morning looked like turning into one of those days that just fizzle away into pointlessness.

They're looting now. Shameless.

We planned at first to get out and do something interesting. But the relentless rain dampened (!) our spirits, so we ummed and ahhed and prodded half-heartedly at chores which really needed more attention than I was prepared to give them until, eventually, I was booted up and ready to get out the door, en route to Chislehurst Caves. But then we realised that we'd need to eat lunch out if we left at that point and we couldn't really afford that, so I took off my shoes and we stayed at home for a bit longer.

Turns out their New Jersey tower block haven is crawling with the Suarez creatures. Pitt's standing on the edge of the roof now. He's totally lost it. Oh no he hasn't: there's a helicopter. How fortuitous.

I struggled to understand or suppress the frustrated rage I was feeling at that stage. But then my wife invoked the astonishing powers she uses on an almost daily basis to create entertainment, calm and joy from nothing. Out came the crafting stuff and, in no time, our daughters had created some rather magnificent foam snowmen on the back window. Christmas cards, dripping with glitter glue, and home-made Santa heads soon followed and, by the time my wife had spontaneously invented an impossibly thrilling game of Guess the Mystery Object in the Big Box Full of Beans and Pulses While Blindfolded, I think we had all tacitly rejected our earlier plans. Sorry Chislehurst Caves: you're less appealing than some beans in a box.

I think Brad Pitt just called nature a bitch. Go Brad.

We filled the rest of the afternoon effortlessly, with a viewing of The Nightmare Before Christmas, some more crafting, a trip to the library (which far exceeded my expectations), and even found time to collaborate on what turned out to be a delicious lemon drizzle cake. I'm truly glad we stayed at home today.

I'm sorry, but the film's winning the battle for my attention, so I'll leave it there. The scientist who was going to sort everything out just slipped over and shot himself in the face.

I will just say this: Brad Pitt needs a big gun to save the day. All my wife requires is some foam and a box of beans.

Friday, 14th November 2014

My week off work is drawing to a close. I was going to write about the bitter irony of being unable to enjoy the last few days of annual leave on account of the growing fear of it ending. But I'm trying to fend off that problem - and its mental health implications - by not thinking about it. So I'll leave that cheery subject for another day. Instead, I want to talk about something I've had the opportunity to experience more than usual this week: the slightly less perilous anxiety that is picking up my child from school.

I have always been on the shy side, but I have no recollection of it causing me any major issues when I was at school. Evidently, I was sufficiently polite and friendly by the age of four that little problem was posed by my need to know somebody for about six months before I'll have a proper conversation with them. I muddled through.  More recently, several years of working in customer service have honed my previously non-existent small talk skills. I can chat inane nonsense with the best of them, when I have to. I've even developed what I imagine to be a winning smile.

But my victory of sorts over these social demons didn't stop me fearing for my older daughter's emotional wellbeing when she started school in September. In her early years, she had shown signs of having similarly bashful characteristics. Everything we had seen of her at nursery suggested that she enjoyed her own company, as the euphemism goes. Of course, there's nothing wrong with that, but only if it's not because you have no other options. The thought of any four year-old being the one in the corner, looking on longingly at the groups he or she is excluded from, is heartbreaking. The thought of this being your own child is unbearable.

I needn't have worried. Within days, my daughter had made what promised to be good friends. Now, two months later, it's difficult to imagine her ever parting ways with some of her companions, such is the bond they've formed.  My pride in her for being a better mingler than me is matched only by the guilty relief I feel as a result of having doubted her in the first place.

No: the problem is still me. When I waited outside the gate for her at 3.15 this afternoon, I realised that my own demons are far from fully conquered. I stood in the corner, looking on longingly at the groups I'm excluded from. Some of these groups I shall lose no sleep over: the ambitious business types, tapping their expensively-shoed feet impatiently on the playgound in an ostentatious demonstration of how precious their time is, falling just short of resenting their children for wasting it by needing to be collected; or the young mums, who still have the energy and motivation to invest time in their own appearances as well as their children*. I have nothing against this faction; I just have nothing in common with them. I can't imagine them enjoying my company, which of course is really the root of all shyness.

But what really hurts is to find myself on the outside of one particular circle: the bald dads.

I'm told that baldness is a symptom of high testosterone levels in men. Perhaps this explains the surprisingly high correlation between fatherhood and being follically challenged. I was painfully aware of this phenomenon in my own case, but only discovered its prevalence when my daughter started school, and I was surrounded by gloriously reflective pates like mine. At that point, I dared to dream that I had found my people; here was somewhere I might belong. There was even an early trip to the park (with our children), during which I cracked a couple of funnies which seemed to go down well amongst my depilated comrades. I flashed them a winning smile. The early signs were promising.

But I rested on my laurels. Instead of pressing home my advantage and cementing my place as Funny Bald Dad, I fell back, too content on the periphery of the mid-afternoon circle, unable to bring myself to contribute to the conversation. I could blame it on the fact that I haven't been able to do the school run for a few weeks, due to my work schedule, and have thus missed out on valuable bonding, but that would be to overlook the simple truth that - for all the meaningless conversations about the weather or the football scores I have shared with customers at work - I'm still just really shy.

This week it has dawned on me that the ship has sailed. I can now only dream of the periphery. A couple of days ago, I took my younger daughter as a psychological prop, which gave me the courage to stand within earshot of them. Oh, how I yearned to chip in with my own thoughts on the pros and cons of the home-delivery of groceries! But I couldn't do it. Why would they care about my Asda Online anecdotes? They probably don't even remember that day when I made them chuckle politely at the park! Maybe things will change one day, but I can't help feeling that this was my last chance, and I blew it.

One of them's not even bald!

*Before you infer an accidental insult of my wife, here, let me be clear that she is fortunate enough to possess a beauty that requires no effort.

Thursday, 13th November 2014

Nothing interesting happened today. And I'm quite enjoying my book at the moment.

Sorry.