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Norfolk

Head to the East of our great country and you’ll see birds with very few clothes on, out for a good time on a Saturday night (so I gather). I’m thinking of Newcastle and Essex. Norfolk is no different. Birds love it in Norfolk. Stunning sandy beaches, plentiful food & drink options and many fields to land in. What’s not to love if you’re a goose? I know geese love it there, because hundreds (if not millions*) of them were calling incessantly outside of our bedroom window in our Norfolk holiday cottage this week. The bloody things never seemed to go to bed. 

I couldn’t sleep because of all the noise, so instead of counting sheep (wrong county for that), all I could do was count the number of geese I could hear, to get me off to sleep. As it happens, these weren’t just any old geese, these were pink-footed geese. I haven’t seen the M&S Christmas advert yet, but I imagine it will be along these lines. “This isn’t just a goose. This is a pink-footed goose. This isn’t just an expensive Christmas. This is an M&S expensive Christmas.”

Our holiday cottage was in a little village called Stiffkey, on the north Norfolk coast (we didn’t have a problem with any of our door locks, so no writing material came about from that). You see, not all of the place names in Norfolk should be taken at face value. Take Wells-next-the-sea. Firstly, it sounds like a pirate named the town. Secondly, it’s hardly next-the-sea, it’s half an hour’s walk to the beach, so it’s more of a Wells-not-farrrghh-from-the-sea if you want to be more precise and even more pirate-like (and who doesn’t). If you do make it to the beach however, it is stunning.

We discovered that Stiffkey is pronounced Stoo-key by the locals. On Friday we walked from Stiffkey to Wells-next-the-blah-blah-blah-sea and we saw more enthusiastic bird watchers than birds along the way. The twitchers were clad head to toe in camouflage, presumably so that they could sneak up on a goose and bag it for free without having to pay M&S a penny for their Christmas lunch, the tight bastards. They might have been filming for a new hit TV Series titled Loosey Goosey, the latest in a line of shit TV to rival the likes of Geordie Shore and TOWIE.

Having successfully made it to Wells-etcetera without inadvertently walking into any well hidden twitchers, we headed for the town centre. One shop sign promised to sell its customers “stuff you didn’t know you needed in your life”. This had “tat shop” metaphorically written all over it and I was confident that I did not need it in my life, nor did anyone else. I decided that what I did need in my life was a pasty and a brownie from the bakery, so that is what I bought. It wasn’t described as a Cornish pasty, but if it looks, smells and tastes like one, then that’s good enough for me.

If you’ve ever walked any of the coastal paths in Devon and Cornwall, you’ll know that they’re rarely flat. Each time you clamber down to sea-level, you then have to stagger up a near-vertical slope to reach the summit of the next cliff. You need a cream tea just to get your energy levels back up after each up and down. Not so in Norfolk. It’s pretty much flat as a pancake, so you won’t be tucking into a cream tea every half an hour to keep your energy levels up. Unless you’re a massive fatty.

When we got the bus back from Wells-etcetera to Stiffkey, I was told that I must ask for a ticket to Stoo-key, otherwise the bus driver couldn’t possibly understand me (despite the village being the next one along the coast). The most common phrase in Norfolk is “Ar yer orrite bor?”, so should I also be greeting the bus driver with this line? I wasn’t ready for all these decisions that had to be made. I just wanted to get back to my geese, I’d almost grown a little fond of them.

Where you won’t find any shops selling tat that you don’t need is Burnham Market and Thornham. Any village that has a Jack Wills in it (either a shop or a person by that name) is going to be a bit fancy. Tesco Express? McDonalds? Forget it! Every other dog there is a black labrador called Monty (I’m fairly confident they are not the most diverse villages for humans or dogs). The houses for sale in the estate agent’s window didn’t have the number of bedrooms displayed on the advert, just a spiel about how brilliant every house was. They expected people to buy their properties based on a couple of pictures and the fact that they’re buyers had a shit load of cash. Clearly the number of bedrooms was an aside as this was very much second home territory.

What else do you need to know about Norfolk? The US Air Force (not all of it, obviously) are stationed in the area. In the skies above, it sounded like Tom Cruise, Ice Man and Goose (oh wait, no Goose didn’t make it) were filming Top Gun III. They had some very important training missions to execute over the North Sea and coastline a.k.a They were to piss about in the skies pretending to shoot each other with their jet aircraft, with Goose trying not to bail out and land in the sea. Had they even heard of the Noise Abatement Act 1960? 

Horatio Nelson, the British naval officer, was born in Norfolk. Better known as just Nelson (not to be confused with the school bully from the Simpsons), and who would blame him for dropping his silly first name. Delia Smith (she’s shortened to Delia rather than Smith) shouted “Let’s be ‘avin’ ya!” at a Norwich City home game (please look up on Youtube if you don’t know). Delia wasn’t trying to drown out the sound of fighter jets or geese, she’d just had a couple of drinks. Kettlechips are made in Norfolk don’t you know, but founded by an American, which might explain the name. Calling crisps chips, when they are actually crisps is poor form, but they taste too good for me to care. Norfolk, with yer fields, yer food and yer beaches… yer mor than orrite!

*the UK population of over-wintering pink-footed geese is estimated be around 510,000 (I counted them while I couldn’t sleep and I’d say that that’s an accurate figure)

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Speech!

It’s been said on more than one occasion, that getting words out of me is like getting blood out of a stone. So I could just make this speech by saying four words “Helena I love you”, leave it there and prove some of you right, but I’m not going to do that.

Meeting

Helena and I first laid eyes upon each other on a walk through open fields and woodland to Arundel Castle. This all sounds very romantic and the start of a fairytale romance, but she actually has no recollection of me being on this group walk. They say that opposites attract, but maybe they just need a little time.

On another occasion, Helena eventually got over her shyness and spoke to me. In the first ten minutes of our conversation I learned a lot about Emily’s dog George and his visits to the Chipping Norton Lido for the end of season doggie swim. Helena learned that I was into skiing and we discovered we were both booked to go away on the upcoming 8th Day Adventure ski trip.

Skiing

Once Helena found out that I had friends living in Colorado and that I was planning to go skiing out there, she started to take notice of me all of a sudden. Little did she know at the time, that we would be flying out to Denver later that year to visit both of our friends. She also didn’t know that we’d be travelling standby, that we’d be told 45 minutes before the flight that there were seats for us and that we’d have to run for the plane in a mad panic. No time for that leisurely airport lunch that Helena usually looks forward to.

In March 2018 we went on our first 8th Day Adventure ski holiday together to Les 2 Alpes. On the first day we were in the same group, which was a group of good skiers and one or two gung-ho men who thought they were good skiers. As we were gearing up for our first black run of the day, I casually mentioned to Helena that I was in fact a ski instructor. There had to be a few minor details about myself that I wouldn’t offer up freely from the beginning.

On the Friday of the holiday, we had a fancy dress day with a Monsters vs Aliens theme. Just before breakfast Helena and I had a chance meeting in the corridor, where she helped me into my costume a little too enthusiastically, by zipping up the back of my inflatable Grim Reaper costume. The zipper shot straight off the top of the zip and remained in her hand, which meant I was now sealed in my 7ft inflatable until further notice.

I wasn’t worried about skiing in the ridiculous outfit, in fact I rather enjoyed the attention. If there was an avalanche, I’d least I’d be floating to the surface, with the grim reaper’s head signalling my whereabouts. My biggest concern was how I was going to use the bathroom, now that the zip was broken, without having to part ways with my beloved costume. Helena and I spent many a chairlift ride that day, thinking of ways in which I could stay in my £25 eBay purchase for the rest of the day. Helena’s friend Doireann, being an Engineer suggested that I should pass a plastic bottle up one sleeve and relieve myself in the empty Evian bottle. And so that’s what I did. And the costume stayed on.

Despite knowing that I was a man that would wee into a plastic bottle, just to save a silly outfit, Helena still seemed to like me. We kissed in the falling snow later that night, like a scene from a Richard Curtis movie, just without Hugh Grant (unlucky Helena).

2018

Our first official date in Walthamstow saw us go to a hipster cafe named Bulah. Helena ordered the French toast, a smoothie and a hot chocolate. I ordered a veggie fry-up and a hipster coffee. That was another thing we had in common. We both ate well.

I later discovered from Duncan that Helena was not one to share her food, particularly anything sweet. Despite this, Helena gave me half of her sweet French toast in return for some squeaky halloumi and a couple of pieces of kale, so I got the good end of the deal. We have returned to Bulah a number of times and continue to share to this day.

I then invited Helena to the Italian restaurant just up the river from here, which according to our neighbour, Chef Tom, was the best Italian he’d ever been to. He also claimed a sushi restaurant in Staines to be the “best ever”. Helena and I started referring to everything as “best ever” this, or “best ever” that. We still call the roundabout by Burger King “Best Ever Roundabout”, because it took so long to complete.

Our first date in Staines saw us go to “best ever” Sushi Nara. Although Chef Tom said things with conviction, not everything he said was completely accurate. Chef Tom was adamant that the cherry tree at the end of our garden was in fact an apple tree and he would not be told otherwise, even by my Dad. As you can see, clearly a cherry tree.

The summer of 2018 was also the “best ever” for weather. Helena would come here most weekends and it felt like a Runnymede Rivieria with temperatures nearing 30 degrees for what felt like months. Four years ago yesterday, we were boating on the Thames with Amy and Mo in glorious sunshine.

On another weekend we were building IKEA furniture in our underwear, not because we were early on in our relationship, but because it was so damn hot in the house. I would be testing Helena’s patience by spending too long reading the IKEA instructions, while Helena would be banging in the first drawer that she found, only to find that she’d put it on back to front. We butted heads slightly with our two different approaches and the sauna like conditions tested us, but just like a hot yoga class we pulled through, with a very well priced set of drawers to show for our efforts. Our differing personalities brought out the best in each other eventually.

Engagement

Fast forward past two redundancies, driving go-karts around Tokyo dressed as a ninja turtle and Tigger, a bucket list ski trip, a global pandemic, an extended house built around Helena’s beloved bifold doors and a street dog named Ray, we arrived in 2021, the biggest year of the lot!

After speaking to Big D about my plans to propose, I then headed from my Mum & Dad’s, where we were staying, to the Jewelers in Guildford. With my best poker face on, I told my Mum a white lie and said that I was off to the library. On returning from my secretive trip to Guildford without any library books, I came clean to Mum about the ring, who knew my little secret all along, as Mums do.

When I went back to the Jewelers a second time to pick up the ring, my cover story for Helena was a Sainsbury’s food shop. As I was on my way home Helena sent me a polite, but slightly annoyed message, ‘Can you hurry up please? I’ve got a work call to take and Ray is being a nightmare.’ At least my cover stories were working on Helena and I now had the ring!

One of Helena’s University friends got engaged on a helicopter ride in the Grand Canyon and another friend by Niagra falls. A precedent had been set, except I knew (at least I really hoped) that Helena didn’t want a grand proposal in public and definitely not in a restaurant with lots of prying eyes.

So one Saturday morning, I bundled Ray into the car, checked the ring was in my pocket a thousand times and set off for what Helena presumed was just another dog walk on Chobham Common. For the first 15 minutes of the walk, I was looking out for the right spot to pop the question, changing direction frequently and with a look of concentration on my face. Surely, Helena must know something is up, I thought.

Once I’d decided that the backdrop was as idyllic as possible, I got down on one knee, at which point Ray looked at me as if to say “What are you doing?”, then Helena looked at me and said “What are you doing?!” There was a yes, a kiss and a hug and a LOT of over-excitement from Ray.

——

Thank you all so much for coming today, and now for a few individual thank yous.

Dad, thank you for your love of rugby and Take That, neither of which has been passed on to me, but it has allowed me to show interest in two of Helena’s great loves.

Mum, for your deliberate emphasis on the second word or symbol, like a dJ or HeathROW. So that when Helena talks of the NEW forest, Center PARCS and CashEW nuts I understand what she is saying. Amy said I was going to marry a strong woman like my Mum, and she was right.

Amy & Rebecca, for still reminding me 39 years on, that I looked like Orville as a baby and for dressing me up as a child in your favourite costumes. Without that, I wouldn’t have had the imagination for the inflatable grim reaper outfit.

Mo, for always getting the first round in, for always being our DJ and for not playing Take That yet.

Beverley, for your amazing cakes and pavlovas, which mean I never go hungry in Chipping Norton. Can you believe it, Helena has even shared her pudding with me on more than one occasion.

Duncan, for your love of growing lettuces. Before I met Helena, she used to watch crap TV. The Only Way is Essex, Made in Chelsea and Selling Sunset to name a few. The first time Helena saw me watching Monty Don’s gardening program, she said “Ooh Gardener’s World. How exciting!” Now she is the one prompting us to watch it together every week.

Emily and Mick, for hosting us in your house over the last few years. Mick was a big reason that our relationship flourished, by providing us with Liverpool football sheets on our first stay, sprinkled with rose petals. Aidan and Eva for being happy cousins and so caring with little Max.

Maxy, for helping me find my voice, for getting me to sing Disney songs and watch episodes of Bluey the cartoon dog, even after you’ve gone to bed. 

All jokes aside, big thanks to the Cowells and Sedgwicks for your love and support over the years and your help with today.

Helena, thank you for taking my jokes in good humour and for bearing my Dad jokes. Thank you for always listening, I know I can get better at this. For always being positive and cheery, even when I take time to warm up in the morning. For encouraging me and getting the best out of me and doing the best for our family. To the best ever friend, best ever mum and now best ever wife. To Helena.

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Half-year Report for Max Cowell

We are pleased to announce that since joining our team 6 months ago (delivered courtesy of the NHS), Max has now passed his probation period. He’s settled into the role well, hitting his sleep KPIs, thank goodness! Whilst he’s mostly been WFH (wriggling from home), he has been out and about expanding his network. It’s mostly other mums and babies at baby development seminars, but the occasional Dad braves it sometimes!

In terms of productivity, Max hasn’t brought much to the team yet (and he falls asleep on the job), but what he lacks in output, he more than makes up for in raising morale. The onboarding process has gone to plan and the health visitors gave us the stamp of approval, telling us we were both very “relaxed parents” (we decided to take it as a compliment). Mum is doing well and is fortunate to be working for a company that recognises the needs and wants of working parents and is happy to accommodate them.

Max is looking well, despite the shoddy haircut I gave him last week (all part of the job). Word of advice, when you next go and get a haircut, don’t flail your head around when you’re in the seat, it makes it difficult and honestly terrifying for the hairdresser.

Despite being hit by COVID last week (us having avoided it for two years), he’s also in good voice, but it must be corporate jargon, as I have no idea what he’s trying to say. Add mind-reading to the list of parenting responsibilities then. Generally it’s one of three things that he needs, so if in doubt I’ve got a 33% chance of being right.

Max has reached out to me on several occasions now, and the other day his reaching out sent my coco pops (don’t judge me) swimming across the table, leaving a chocolate river in their wake. Max is an expert in going after low-hanging fruit, it’s one of his strengths. We learn from these experiences, fail fast, and keep any enticing assets at arm’s length from him. 

I have thoroughly enjoyed my time so far as CPO and I wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone considering the position. Past performance is no guarantee of future results, so whilst I can’t guarantee what the next 6 months will bring, I am excited to keep the ball rolling.

Reach out to me if you have any questions (just not when I’m eating my cereal).

Simon 

CPO and Co-founder

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Big Boy

HELLO SQUIRRELS (that’s you, by the way)!!! I’ve been watching a fair bit of Hey Duggee recently, he’s a big cartoon dog that says “woof” a lot and calls things squirrels, that are not squirrels. Sorry, I should have given a spoiler alert. It’s better than Peppa Pig if you ask me, I suggest you check it out (kids or no kids). Bluey is also a good cartoon (also contains dogs). I’m learning a lot about how to be a parent from the Bluey’s Dad, unlike Daddy Pig who’s an incompetent buffoon. Perhaps it’s why Boris Johnson is such a fan of Peppa Pig.

Hey Duggee is narrated by Alexander Armstrong (from Pointless and Classic FM). Occasionally I tune in to Classic FM in the car, in the hope it will help me feel more relaxed or intelligent. I’m not sure it does either to be honest. I heard his voice on the radio and half expected him to say “Isn’t it time for… Duggee!!!!”, but instead I had to endure a piece from Beethoven (the German composer, not the 1992 classic film about the very big dog). 

As I went to put Max down in his cot this week, Helena made the point ‘I’m worried Max is going to get a flat head if he lies down too much.’

‘Is that a thing?’ I said. It sounded like a theory a flat-earther or anti-vaxxer would come up with.

‘It is a thing. Their young heads are so malleable at this age.’

I wasn’t becoming a conspiracy theorist, but I picked up Max and felt the back of his head, just to be sure his head was still round. It was. I haven’t put him down since.

The only thing on the back of his head are dreadlocks (we do wash him regularly!). Yep, less than 3 months old and he’s already managed it. In my teenage years I stopped washing my hair one summer so I could develop/nurture/amass dreadlocks, but they failed to materialise. I thought that hair started self-cleaning after a while, in much the same way that dogs’ hair self-cleans, but they still have a certain whiff about them. Do wet dreadlocks smell as bad as wet dogs I wonder?

I’ve moved on from watching age inappropriate TV with Max. Goodbye Squid Game, Hello Jamie Oliver. ‘Put it in there, Big Boy!’ Jamie says, (I assure you it’s age appropriate). This is Jamie getting help from his son in the kitchen. Jamie calls him “Big Boy” at least 3 times in one shot. I started to think that was actually his son’s name. He’s only 11 years old and not even that big.

Jamie’s kids’ names are as follows (take a deep breath): Poppy Honey Rosie, Daisy Boo Pamela, Petal Blossom Rainbow, Buddy Bear Maurice, River Rocket. Slot in “Big Boy” after Buddy and no-one would bat an eyelid. 

Jamie is the 2nd biggest selling author in the UK, after J.K. Rowling, and Helena will tell you that I’m largely responsible for this. That is until she found out there are 24 Jamie cookbooks, and I only have half of them. I tailed off buying the books at “15-minute meals”, after a recipe took me 42 minutes to finish and the kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it. It might be a 15-minute meal if you have a sous-chef, a pot washer and have worked as a full-time chef for the past 20 years. “Jamie’s 42-minute meals” doesn’t have the same ring to it, but at least it’s honest. Jamie, you must be running out of ideas, so have that one on me for next year’s book. Happy Christmas.

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Open Water Swimming. What do you mean, you haven’t tried it?

Last year I tried open water swimming. According to articles in the papers and on the internet, if you hadn’t tried out this new activity, you were somehow less of a person and should be ashamed of yourself. Every man and his dog was doing it. The dogs had been doing it for hundreds of years, so all it needed was the man (or woman) to join in. Open water swimming was supposed to bring along with it a sense of calm and connection to nature. More than you’d get from swimming in your local chlorinated leisure centre pool. I was swapping the kids wee in the pool, for ducks pooing in my chosen body of water (and no Google Docs, I don’t want you to correct this word to “pooping”, I am English after all).

I bought a bright orange swim float and swim cap and Helena bought a pink one, because pink is for girls and blue is for boys, don’t you know (at least that’s what we’re led to believe when buying baby clothes/cards/paraphernalia). We opted for wetsuits, rather than smothering ourselves in goose fat. We had all the gear and no idea. All the kit, still shit. You get the idea. Actually buying all of the gear was a prerequisite at this swimming lake. In case we were to sink into the abyss, at least we’d be dangling from a float if we were to give up the ghost mid-swim. We were swimming in an old quarry, and as such, I didn’t really want to test the depths of it. I would be staying as close to the surface as possible, channeling my inner pond skater. 

We thought of ourselves as pretty strong swimmers. Several rungs below Michael Phelps and Rebecca Adlington, but we’d ditched the armbands many years ago and moved on from doggy paddle. We took the plunge, and quite quickly felt like everyone was cruising past us on the lake, while we were left in the dust. Either we were really crap, or there were a lot of strong swimmers there, the kind of people who do an Ironman for “fun”. I’d rarely ever swam more than 25m without hitting the side of a pool, with the possibility of taking a breather every 30 seconds. Now we were swimming 2000m without touching the sides. And it actually felt pretty good, despite the Iron men and women leaving us in their wake.

Even in the privileged society that we live in, it’s not always the case that adults know how to swim. My housemate at Uni had never learned to swim, and yet he decided to take up rowing. I imagine there was a sign at the Freshers Fair saying something like “Can’t swim? Travel by boat! And have angry people shout at you, like the little cox that they are.” The rowing club must have seen him coming; he was a big guy and I don’t think he had anything better to do at 5am every day, than to get up early and sit in a boat. Before he was allowed in a boat, he had to pass a swimming test. Whether he was made to swim in pyjamas and fetch bricks from the bottom of the pool, I’m not sure. I hope he did have to do these skills tests, as that’s what we had to do as kids, it’s surely a rite of passage to becoming a swimmer. Why are swimming instructors such masochists, and are they still allowed to do such things to young children? Still, if my house does ever flood, I’ll be ready to evacuate in my pyjamas and confident that no brick will be left behind.

I’m not the strongest swimmer of my family. My sister used to train at Dorking Swimming club, and post-training on a Thursday night she would be taken for a KFC by my Mum. I was missing out on this fast food treat, I had to have some of this! So I joined the swim sessions and earned my Zinger burger fair and square (all the bap, still crap). In the end I got fed up with being overtaken in the pool, and decided my talents were better suited to wrestling with the dog at home.

I’ll get back to open water swimming in 2022, but for now I’m back at the local chlorinated pool to keep me ticking over. If I want a meal cooked by Colonel Sanders afterwards then so be it, but I’m pretty sure I won’t.

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Dad

LinkedIn: Our team has grown by 50% this year and we are delighted to welcome our new addition, Max. He is performing well so far, with growth of around 75% since Day 1; the ROI has exceeded expectations and KPIs have been met. Approaching Q1, we are delighted with his fit within the team and we remain optimistic moving forwards. He doesn’t come with much experience or any qualifications, but we believe in giving young people a chance. I am now transitioning into the role of Chief Paternal Officer, while our exceptional co-creator returns to her career in January. It’s a full-time volunteer role for me, involving night shifts and early starts. Risk management, financial analysis, mentorship and support will not be outside of my remit. I’m excited about the future, and I would like to take this opportunity to wish Max the very best of luck and success with us.

Reality: I’ve become a full-time Dad

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Ray the Romanian Rescue

We rescued our dog Ray from Romania a year ago. He wasn’t being held captive there, like some kind of canine Julian Assange accused of espionage. Romania let him go freely; in fact they were probably grinning from ear to ear when they saw his big fluffy tail wagging off into the distance. ‘So long Ray, you’re fun, but boy you’re not easy!’ 

I always said I wanted a dog to wrestle with, and as Romania is pretty successful at the sport of wrestling, that seemed an obvious place to go looking for a dog who would fit the bill. Oh that, and the fact they have a lot of dogs with no homes.

In Ray, we’d taken on less of a Greco-Roman Wrestler, more of a Mike Tyson . He’d bite your ear given half the chance and you wouldn’t want to go twelve rounds with him. It would start as nibble, and unless you nipped it in the bud (pardon the pun), he’d progress quite quickly to biting you. He’s eaten several ears in the past year. Pigs ears, cow ears, rabbit ears, he’s really not fussy. It might explain why his hearing is so good.

He also has incredible vision, not in the kind of way Steve Jobs had great vision, in that he can see things moving on the horizon. He’s always on the look out for a wolf or a bear in the distance. I’ve told him that a) those predators are now extinct in the UK and b) he doesn’t have a flock of sheep to protect. It might sound like I’m bigging him up, like a proud parent over exaggerates the qualities and achievements of their own child. I’m not. It’d be easier if he had crap eyesight and hearing.

On walks, people love to know what breed Ray is. We think he’s some kind of Shepherd (take your pick out of Carpathian, Bucovina, Romanian Raven Sheep Dogs), but we’re not sure, so I just tell them straight. He’s a Mutt. He’s also a really good actor. We went to meet Ray in November 2020 at his temporary home in Lincolnshire after arriving from Romania. Lincolnshire is quite a hotspot for EU migrants, bloody dogs coming here and taking all of our jobs! Of course I’m joking, there is very little chance that Ray could become a Guide Dog or Drug Detection Dog. He wouldn’t be able to resist biting the Guide Dog owner and eating any drugs he found.

We drove home from Lincolnshire while Ray slept peacefully in the boot of the car for 2 hours. A dog that walks well on the lead and sleeps soundly in the car? The Perfect Dog, we’ve lucked out here, we thought. All the while Ray was plotting what he had in store for us. Chewing furniture, barking at 5am to wake the neighbours, guarding things, frantic behaviour, humping guide dogs, chasing everything that moved and barking at things that didn’t move. 

What a world we live in. If you’d told us prior to last year we’d be adopting a Street Dog from Romania (via facebook) and we’d be having Zoom calls with a Dog Behaviourist, we might not have believed it. Three grown-ups analysing videos of Ray and formulating a plan of action, all the while Ray was in the room and none the wiser. I’ve had 38 years of dogs in the family, surely I was qualified to take on an 8-month old, intelligent Sheep Dog? He’s quite unlike any other dog we’ve had in the family. For a start, he loves going to the vet. During the COVID pandemic we’ve had to sit and wait in the car in the vet’s car park during appointments. By the look on Ray’s face when he reappears from the surgery, I can only assume they pour dog treats down his throat to keep him happy. He’ll eat vitamin tablets and medicine like they are treats (absolutely could not be a Drug Detection Dog). For normal dogs you have to surreptitiously hide the tablets in pieces of ham or cheese to get a dog to hold them down. Even then, they’d still eat the ham and spit out the tablet!

I’ve spent more time studying Ray’s diet than my own. I’ve taken a healthy interest in his poos, which any non-dog owner would find unsettling. He has more silly nicknames than I’d care to mention. As if the name Ray was not ridiculous enough already. He’s terrified burly workmen with his ferocious bark and he’s made little girls coo over his cuteness. He’s a bit of a conundrum. It’s been a journey and there’s still a long way to go. So here’s to the next year Ray. In fact we’ll just take it one step, one sit and one staaay at a time.

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I Beg Your Pardon

In the last 8 weeks I’ve been saying “Oh good burp!” to Max several times a day. At what age should one stop complementing others on their burps?  If we could harness his wind energy, then maybe China and India could “phase out” the use of coal, rather than just “phase it down”.

New babies smell good. They are a bit like cars in that sense. Even baby poo smells sweet (sort of). Wait until you get onto solids, they say, that’s when it starts to smell bad. Our midwife said the poo should be like a Korma. With enough mango chutney and rice, who knows, maybe it would be palatable. Ray wouldn’t turn it down, if the offer was there, that’s for sure. I was never a massive Korma fan, I like a bit more heat personally. 

We’re now on Downton Abbey Season 4. Yes we are 12 years behind the times, but if there’s anything a baby forces you to do, it is to sit still on the sofa for extended periods. Lady Mary has yet to drop a good burp at the dinner table, to be congratulated on by her father, Lord Grantham. We still have 3 seasons to go, so a lot could still happen.

In China, if you burp, it indicates to your host that you enjoyed your meal, the same goes for slurping in Japan. I did go full on slurp at the airport in Japan to test out this theory, but the look I was shot from Helena told me I shouldn’t continue. I shall be leaving the burping to Max and the slurping to Ray from now on.

I’m less inclined to say ‘Oh Good Fart!’ to Max, conscious of the fact this might be closely followed by me needing to go change a nappy. There’s so much toilet chat in our house nowadays. I rarely get asked how my trip to the loo was and whether I went for a number 1 or 2. Max gets all the attention now.

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Don’t Knock It Until You’ve Tried It

We’ve been binging on Downton Abbey recently. It’s cheaper and healthier than other addictions and there are no banging headaches in the morning. So thank you Lady Mary. Helena reckons it’s now the highlight of our days. That doesn’t mean that the rest of our life is really dull. It just means that Downton is really rather good (and better than expected). We’re a bit late to the party and I confess I did snub it when it was first aired on TV. Why would I want to watch a load of pompous people mill about in a big stately home?

I’ve never been a big watcher of soaps. But I can see how people get addicted. It’s a good thing Downton isn’t on once a day, or I’d probably be losing an hour a day to it for the rest of my life. Neighbours, Home & Away or Downton Abbey, how would one decide between these masterpieces of television.

Our Health Visitor came round recently and gave us a new parent questionnaire. ‘Do you drink?’ She said.

‘No. No, not really,’ we said.

‘OK, do you take any substances?’

‘No.’

‘OK what is it you do for fun?’

‘Watch Downton Abbey.’ Actually that’s not true, at this point we didn’t know this would be a new addiction for us.

I recently finished George Mahood’s book “Did Not Finish” (his book ‘Free Country’ is hilarious, if you like childish humour like me). In this new book, George runs marathons and fuels himself with pork pies and grated cheese sandwiches. Not your standard runner’s diet, and it gets him a lot of strange looks from his running companions. He explains that by grating the cheese in the sandwich, you take it to another level versus plain sliced cheese. So I thought I’d give it a try.

‘Would you like a grated cheese sandwich?’ I asked Helena

‘How is it going to be any different to a normal cheese sandwich?’ She said. I explained to her the concept of texture, after which she politely declined. Her loss. By grating it, it does take it to another level. Now I’m thinking, what else should I be grating! I’m not sure I can go back to plain cheese sandwiches.

Downton Abbey and Grated Cheese Sandwiches. Try them. You just might like them.

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Lads Lads Lads

I’m going to be a Dad. I should clarify, I’m going to be a stay-at-home Dad. We’re not having another baby yet. That would be moving quite fast.

I’ve decided to ease back from work in January to be the primary carer for little Max Power. Helena will be the bread winner, I’ll be the bread maker. She’s good at winning bread and I’m good at making it (and eating it). So that’s a win win.

Who am I kidding, I’m not going to be baking any bread. The last sourdough I made took more than a week to make from start to finish. The ingredients didn’t cost much, but if I factored in my time making it, it was a bloody expensive loaf. And then there’s the small matter of keeping Max and Ray alive and well.

My Dad has recently bought a bread maker (much to the annoyance of my Mum). So I’m expecting their house to have a constant smell of freshly baked bread. Which will come in handy if they ever come to sell the house. Ah the smell of freshly baked bread, it gets homebuyers’ senses going, apparently. You can actually buy freshly baked bread air fresheners. Ideal if you want to feel hungry all day, or if you’ve ever felt like living in a Greggs.

Max, Ray and I are going to be living the dream! Living the sleeping, feeding and nappy changing dream that is. Both Max and Ray are pretty good at sleeping and eating, but I can hold my own in those areas too. So we’ll all be learning a thing or two from each other. Apparently, my sister slept through the night from six weeks old. Max will be six weeks on Monday, so he has two days left to master it. Wishful thinking.

Us lads can’t lounge about all day, so I’ll be getting back to work in 2022. It turns out you need to win quite a lot of bread to pay for nursery and all of Ray’s counselling needs (he’s a complex mutt). Helena’s Money Tree hasn’t delivered good returns yet, in fact it’s looking a bit sad moving into winter. I have explained to her that it doesn’t actually produce money, and she should just keep winning the bread for now.