Reference Back.

I feel like kids today are pretty lucky in what they learn about at school. I mean, when I went to school, dark matter wasn't something we learned about. It was what we had for lunch, or what some of us thought we were made of, if we'd been listening to The Cure. Also, the computers we used back then had the same amount of memory as today's calculators and the calculators had no memory at all, due to the fact that they were small piles of stones or bone shards. 

Bleak House.

I am currently doing some work which obliges me to wear a suit. This bothers me because whenever I wear a suit, I'm convinced that there's a faint yet unmistakeable whiff of the Victorian counter clerk about me, the kind of character who has a dewdrop permanently wavering from the end of his nose, ink-spots on all his shirt fronts, cuffs too long for his coat, broken shoes and a collar perennially poking up at one side like the secretary bird in Bedknobs and Broomsticks. No matter where I am or what I'm doing, for as long as I remain so attired, my mind's eye pictures me thus, cramped in the front parlour of some crooked Chancery lawyer's rooms while my master spends his days loitering around the courts waiting for a nice fat legacy to prey upon – and I, at the end of my long day, retire to the Magpie and Stump to drink thimblefuls of gin and complain with my equally unloved and unlovable peers.

Existentialism for Beginners.

Sometimes, to provide relief from the occasional (wonderful! rewarding! heartwarming!) monotony of hanging out with the kids all the time, I talk nonsense. Occasionally, this strays into cod-existential blatherings. 

For example, if my daughter tells me she’s scared, I now think I am being very funny by telling her ‘We’re all scared. It’s the human condition. Better get used to it, kid.’

Because I am funny, you see.

And that would all be very drôle and clever if if weren't for the fact that my daughter has decided to play me at my own game. 

It all started yesterday. We were walking to school as usual, talking as we went. My daughter was busy telling me that there were crocodiles in the gutter. And dinosaurs. And lions. Then, in a blinding flash of revelation, she had her epiphany. ‘Everyone is monsters,’ she said. 

'Everyone?’ I said, kind of worried. 

‘Yes! Everyone is monsters.’

I had no idea. I mean, sure, in my darker moments, the thought had occurred to me. But to have it confirmed like that, well, I’ll be honest, the air took on a sudden chill, the sun shone a little less brightly.

And the worst part? The worst part was that she found my anguish so damn funny. 

Needless to say, I've hidden all the Kierkegaard.

Money Problems.

It is midday and the kids are off school and getting settled for their afternoon nap. I have gone into the next room, leaving them playing with their rucksacks, as they’re in a rucksack mood. I go back once to help my son with something and notice that my daughter's asleep. As I leave, my son is busy filling up his rucksack with all the junk that normally lives in the drawers of his bedside table. Fine. Whatever gets him through the nap. But then, after another five minutes or so, I hear the unmistakeable sound of money rattling around as a piggy bank gets banged repeatedly, rhythmically against the bedroom floor. I don’t bother to go in this time, just shout from the next room, telling him to get back to bed. The noise continues unabated so I go in, a little angrier now. I find my son squatting on the floor with the rucksack, now full, on his shoulders. ‘Get into bed,’ I say, really not messing around by this point. ‘I can’t,’ he wails mournfully. And then I realise what the sound is: every time he tries to get up, he bumps back down again, dragged inexorably earthwards by the weight of his rucksack, which is really far too big for him and which now contains – at the bottom, beneath a multitude of books, toy cars and action figures  – his piggy bank. I help him into bed and soon after he falls asleep. 

My Toy Gun.

I can still remember the exact weight of my toy gun, the way it fitted snugly into the palm of my hand. Actually, I can remember everything about it. The way the hammer pulled back and snapped to. The way you pulled out the pin to release the quick loader and then span it and snapped it shut. It was so light, just a few pieces of black plastic held together with glue and a couple of screws. It was nothing like the real guns I've held. Those were solid and heavy and murderous. In my mind, it was stored in the same compartment of pleasure as all my favourite sweets, synonymous with chocolate and coloured foil and cola bottles. When I held it, I was the Green Berets and Blackbeard and Murdoch from The A-Team all rolled into one. I would sit and wait in the fir tree for hours, keeping watch over the garden, protecting my parents from the nameless yet awful peril lurking just over the horizon. The funny thing is, I don't think there was any fantasy of violence associated with the gun. I didn't want to hurt anyone with it. I just wanted to be a goodie till bedtime.