>My son can eat like his old man, I’m very proud of this.
You can tell when he likes something by the simple “mmmmmmmmm” noise he makes. It’s awesome and man, can he pack it away.
Using Sherlock Holmes’ deduction methods I’ve come to the conclusion that he is some kind of human TARDIS.
There’s no other explanation. He simply must be bigger on the inside.
I used to be like that, but lately I’ve feel like it’s no longer happening. When I have a curry I tend to spend the rest of the night propped against the sofa like a tree that hasn’t quite fallen over. Well, either that or the foetal position, but that’s mostly reserved for when the boy accidently kicks me in the gonads.
He’s got a hell of a kick by the way, once I was changing him and he delivered a kick so powerful that it made my balls bounce of the top of my ribcage and back down again. I sounded like Frank Spencer for the best part of the day.
But anyway, I may have mentioned it before but using Holmes’ methods once more I think I’m getting old. Not just old but premature mid-life crises. There’s plenty of evidence.
First of all, I’m going grey. But that’s been happening for a while. I’ve got a line of white in my hair that would make peppe le peu jealous. Or possibly aroused.
(Great now I’ve got the disturbing mental image of peppe le peu trying to hump my hair).
I don’t like much new music, mainly because its horrible generic Godawful shite. The stuff I like I thought would still be cool. But then one day I saw an advert. That advert has for the “Best Dad rock album in the world, ever!!!” and my insides died a little when I saw that it had a lot of stuff on there that I like. I know I’m a dad, but come on. Those albums are for stuff from the sixties surely?
I often think the dreaded phrase “in my day”. But it’s true, have you seen the price of a chomp these days? Seventeen pence? Surely they’re only supposed to be ten pence. Fifteen at a push.
Teenagers annoy me, I’m looking to see what’s on G.O.L.D far too much and I make a very old man noise when I sit down. There really is no hope.
Technology I’m still ok with though, but I fear it’s only a matter of time before it’ll get the better of me. I imagine it’ll happen when I have to ask one of my boys to help me with a computer or phone, and when that day comes I’ll buy myself a rocking chair, a cardigan with leather elbow patches and blow my brain out with the nearest ray gun.
But I’ll probably need help with that too.