Multitasking...

We've heard it for so long that we accept the lie. It's been repeated so often that we blindly accept it as a universal truth. Men can't multitask.

So I ask you this: How come the people who complain we can't multitask (women, for those struggling to keep up) see no conflict between this claim and their other universal complaint about us men.

I am referring, of course, to our innate, God-given capacity to read and take a dump simultaneously.

This, I'm sure you will agree, is multitasking on a grand scale.

The other side - greener grass and bluer sea...

[Written on return from holiday in 2008]

My first brief mention on arrival back from holiday has to be a cursory apology to the owners of the Mediterranean for the substantial amount of their sea which is now missing on account of one or other of my sons drinking it. But such is life, and I'm sure some other child has replenished the missing fluid with wee by now anyway.

It's been a while since I really went to the sea properly (I regret to inform residents of Barry Island that the chips-and-gravy off their shore does not count) and going to the sea with kids is really quite different to going without.

I used to like the idea of being able to strike off from the shore, swimming confidently out, floating over gigantic waves as the whim took me, and generally mimicking a piece of driftwood in a relaxed and aimless fashion. The fact that I seldom went out of my depth is I hasten to add, entirely academic.

So imagine my dismay on discovering that I would be forced to abandon such tranquil activities on account of one little boy who was scared of waves (Dominic) and another who refused to wear armbands (Oliver, for those who had lost track already) - each intent on drowning the other.

Initially I was quite annoyed until I asked myself the obvious question. Would I rather not have them there? Of course I wouldn't. They're adorable, and I wouldn'd be without them for anything - cerainly not for the simple chance to float a little further. That simple realisation put my annoyance in perspective, and brightened my whole holiday.

It reflects in some way a conversation I had with a friend recently. He is single with no kids. Married people with kids sometimes tell him how lucky he is for that freedom. He's not so sure. It boils down to the fact that we see so very easily what other people have that we don't (be it kids, or be it freedom, or be it any one of a thousand things we all seem to want) and what we used to have, but don't any more. The grass is always greener on the other side - and presumably for holday-makers, the sea is always bluer.

We have an innate tendancy to let this block us from seeing what we do have. At any given time God gives us more blessings than we can imagine. They're just not always the same blessings we think we want, and some blessings appear to be mutually exclusive.

Personally, I find it easier to imagine that heaven will work differently in this respect. And it doesn't actually matter whether I'm right or wrong, because once I get there I'll be so blown away that it won't matter anyway.

In the meantime, I promise to try to remember the great things I have, and not let that be clouded by thinking about what I don't.

Small Print

Apparently my recorder is insured for almost anything. Exceptions include: Riot, radiation, terrorism or nationalisation, confiscation, requisition or destruction by the Government.

My thoughts on the issue are this:

Suppose I whimsically take my recorder on a guided tour of Sizewell B, on the off chance there is a touring mediaeval consort who are a man down. Whilst there, it slips out of my bag and, during the panic at a slight increase in the plutionium reaction rate, is mistaken for a missing cooling rod.

Naturally, I rescue it post-haste, but it emerges that the real missing cooling rod was snaffled by a group of militant environmentalists (led by Jeremy Clarkson, though in disguise lest he be identified and associated with tree-huggers, thus ruining his carbon-fuelled career) who swiftly find themselves in a three-way clash with the police and the Chiswick townswomen's guild (best not to ask), the latter siezing my recorder in the mistaken belief that it is a side-handled baton.

A passing member of the MMMMM (Militant Mennonite Movement for the Massacre of Mankind) recignises the true terrorist potential of a radioactive recorder, and quickly removes it from the clutches of the treasurer of the Chiswick townswomen's guild (still best not to ask) who has been using it to play drums upon the helmet of the chief of the local constabulary (with his head still inside).

Fortunately he is momentarily distrated by a sharp blow behind the ear from our dear friend Mr Clarkson (resulting in concussion, memory loss, and an eventual conversion to the Mennonite faith - clearly conversion in this case is valid, since he had no memory of his previous Mennonite involvement) and I am able to reclaim my rightful property.

There is clearly something of a story in all this, and within hours of me posting the tale on Facebook, my radioactive recorder has something of a cult following.

Such is its appeal that within weeks I am able to sell of 10,000 shares in my recorder on e-bay at a penny a time.

Sadly the government spots the security risk of a broken arrow (figuratively speaking) and enforces a compulsary buying order to bring my recorder into their ownership, before bringing in the bomb squad and blowing it up.

All completely feasible, and apparently not covered on the insurance. Makes you think, eh?

Theology of a one-year-old

Being a dad has many advantages, not least of which is seeing how our kids relate to us - and sometimes it can bring a whole new perspective to how we relate to our heavenly father.

I recorded this event when Oliver was one year old. I've sent it to a few people, but it bears retelling...

The theme of how we cope with the unknown has probably been preached quite enough times, but if we can relate to God as father, then Oliver's teachings of 6AM on a wintry Tuesday morning are invaluable:

I had got up early to make coffee and get ready for work. Oliver had got up with me, and we were pottering around the kitchen. Monica was having a well-deserved few extra minutes of sleep. The kitchen light was on, but all the other lights were still off, so we didn't wake her up.

Suddenly Oliver vanished, and I heard him a few seconds later at the start of the hallway, shouting "Mama! Mama!"

I ambled through and asked "Do you wanted to go and see mummy?" He nodded.

"Go on then." He shook his head. The light from the kitchen just reached where he was standing, but the rest of the hallway and the bedroom were dark.

"Are you worried because it's dark?" I asked. Nod.

"Are you worried because you can't see where you're going?" Another nod.

So I held his hand, and said "Shall we go and see mummy together?" Another nod, and off he went.

Suddenly it didn't matter that it was dark, or that he couldn't see. Daddy was holding his hand, and daddy knew where he was going, so that was OK.

Perhaps I can learn...

Starter for nothing...

Addiction is underrated. I have a few of my own addictions, including coffee, verbosity and writing occasional Facebook notes.

But Facebook seem inclined to make the writing and management of notes progressively more difficult, so I thought I'd giving Blogger a try.

There is little in the way of theme in my ramblings, though God manages to find his way in quite a lot (that may be an illustration in its own right) and I hope I balance things of meaning well with the downright bizarre which seems to be my ground state of existence.

In a tribute to the ancient art of laziness I plan to start by simply copying some of my Facebook notes over here. I beg your indulgence, and hope you enjoy.