Back to Earth

I feel odd and very slightly unattached. I can't quite put my finger on it, nor can I quite capture it and put it into words.

I seem to re-discovered myself. Does that sound a little self-obsessed? Perhaps a tad new-age? Should I be lying on some semi-listening shrink's coach, talking about myself? Prattling on and on about myself?

The mask of Bryn-the-dad seems to have slipped. It's taken a long time. Far, far too long. And of course behind this mask of Bryn-the-dad there's the Bryn-the-person who's been stuck there for bloody ages and ain't too happy about it.

But I've only myself to blame. And I've Sarah to thank.

I'm in love!!

No I'm not, and there's the rub. I like Sarah enormously; she's good company and interesting and ... and now I'm struggling. Oh and she's attractive; perhaps too attractive for me. And she's maintained herself a great figure for her age (Yikes! There's that phrase again) that again is perhaps too good for someone so rapidly going to seed like myself.

Is there that spark? No. That spark belonged to Poppy and I think she took it with her to the netherworld.

But then is that a problem? What's the alternative? Two middle-aged people having lost their partners (one through divorce, one through death) facing a lonely future?

Of course it's a problem. I can't fool Sarah and it would be selfish for me to even considering doing so. If I put on the act just to prevent my future lonliness how could that be possible fair of me? She could certainly do better than me; she could find someone to genuinely dote on her every step.

Too much analysis and too much thinking as usual. I need to give it time; I need to see how things develop - although how they are going to develop when one hundred and fifty miles exist between us is one further question.

I rang Sarah on Sunday night, as promised. This time the niceties were out of the way at much swifter speed than usual, and we actually began to talk about us. Not about Sarah and I, the individuals, but as Sarah and I, the potential coupling. I guess once you've placed one particularily personal part of your body inside the particularily personal part of someone else it's a lot easier to talk about something as emotionally weighted as a relationship.

Sarah asked how I felt about things, meaning of course how I felt about things between us. I said I was a little confused but certainly felt nothing negative about the situation. Sarah said she felt exactly the same way. Then said: I suppose the most confusing thing is where we go from here. I agreed, then found myself saying how about you and Ruth coming up here and meeting the boys? This was evidently the correct thing to say as it was met with an enthusiastic response. We made arrangements for the bank holiday weekend. More fun and more people - a household of seven.

I decided to take the break away from Chez BrynT as a reboot moment and try and renegociate warmer relationships with the kids. This I did by completely ignoring the fact that I had departed on not the closest of terms. I'm sure I'd hammered the point home with my feelings towards their own lack of feelings to their mother's memory by my previous, admittedly childish actions. As much as such a point can be hammered into the thick skulls of teenage boys. So I considered it case closed.

The house was not as trashed as I thought it could have been. No teenage orgies seemed to have taken place, nor had it seems my address appeared on Faceachebook as an open invitation to half the world's ne'erthewells. But it wasn't exactly spring-clean clean as well, so I insisted we all jumped out of beds early on Sunday morning and have it out with the rubbish and the dust-bunnies. Both Lukas and Gabriel bounced out of slumberland with extraordinary (and unexpected) enthusiasm; Andrew proved a little more difficult to persuade as he claimed he'd made no contribution to the mess, to which Lukas opined: B0llocks. I spat on the fizzing fuse that erupted and began to work towards the powderkeg filled to overflowing with sibling fireworks by telling Andrew it was 'all boys together' and that I'd really appreciate his aid. So after a very long shower Andrew descended to the lounge and began to poke at things with a duster.

The return to a livable standard of cleanliness was hence a swift journey. As a reward (and as it was a Sunday) I said I'd cook one of my testicle-boiling chills for lunch. And not entirely out of bloody quorn.

I asked Gabe if an emergency had arisen that required the use of the twenty-quid I'd left them. He said it had. I asked him what had happened. He said he and Lukas had discovered the house's supply of take-away pizzas had reached dangerously sparse levels.

I also asked about the continually absent Colin. Lukas told me Colin had popped in Saturday morning and spent most of the day hogging the television watching rugby. I said I thought the rugby had finished. Lukas said he was watching the Lions verses the Tigers, or something. Then another game. Then he'd gone out. And had not as yet re-appearred. I am beginning to wonder just what little bro' is getting up to.

After such a pleasant and ground-breaking weekend it was inevitable the first couple of days of this week would see me sinking back to mundaneness. Meetings follow meetings as the people who act as the catalysts to much of what I do stand on their hands and do nothing but call more meetings. The only upside has been that Peter Handyman has been off sick for two days, meaning I've missed my latest one-to-one with him. I am quite pleased about that.

Hula Doll

One of my favourite The Wedding Present lyrics (although not from one of my favourite The Wedding Present songs: "Hula Doll") goes thus:

"You said there's nothing that turns you on more
Than waking up with someone you've not woken up with before"

This is not quite appropriate for me and Sarah as the song's about some dude attempting to explain a pointless one night stand to his beloved.

I think my re-write would be:

"I said there's nowt that turns me red more
then waking up in the nuddy with some woman you barely knew he night before"

Waking up was very odd (and like most people I've woken up in some strange places before). There was none of that comedy fall-back rubbish when you turn in your lovely snug bed to be mortally surprised by the person kipping next to you (an event that only ever occurs in the heads of sit-com writers who have run out of ideas). I think I was aware of where I was before I even awake, and it was a gentle awakening as I wafted like a feather out of unconsciousness rather than being plucked. I was not in my own bedroom - the pinkiness of my surroundings confirmed that. Plus there were far too many pointless cushions and a couple of soft toys at the end of the bed.

I risked a glance over to Sarah, but saw nothing but the back of her head with its cascading ginger locks. She was breathing lightly and regularly. I joined up the moles on her back and came up with a giraffe (heck, if the Ancient Greeks can conjour a giant bear out of a dozen stars...). I wondered what the polite thing to do would be. Maybe ease myself out of bed, get dressed, leave a 'Ta, Luv' note on the kitchen table along with £30 in fivers? Or nonchantlantly and noisily traipse around the bedroom with everything a-swingin', farting, belching and scratching my @rse as if I'd always lived there?

I decided to ease myself out of bed, get dressed, and make a cup of coffee. Then wait for Sarah to get up and deal with things from there. Maybe make breakfast? This is how I'd dealt with this predicament the last time I woke up with a female in my bed. But then as that had been Colin's daughter Amber the circumstances could not have been more different.

One toe out of bed and on the floor and Sarah stirred, turned, blinked herself awake, looked at me, and smiled. Then she reached across and gave me a quick kiss. She said: Morning. I replied in kind. Then she snuggled up to me. The feel of her mammaries pressing against the side of the body got Mr Pecker all excited again; strangely I hoped Sarah wouldn't notice. I pulled my foot back under the covers as it was getting cold.

Sarah asked how I felt. Oh dear, this was definitely one of those leading female-type questions to which any answer can be interpreted in any way. So I told her I had a bit of a head. Sarah said it was usually the woman's job to feign a headache. I laughed and for some reason said it wasn't that bad. Sarah then said well, that's good news, isn't it?

She'd noticed. Her right hand, which has been idly pulling on my chest hairs, began a slow (and slightly tortuous) journey southward...

Twice within twenty-four hours. Must be Christmas.

We made breakfast together. Well, I put on and then buttered up the toast. Sarah scrambled the eggs. I didn't go into a Colin-style tirrade about how eggs are acquired from hens. Mainly as I don't really know the ins-and-outs myself. Not a fan of them myself (unless they're an excuse to be served with bacon, sausages, mushrooms, hash browns, beans, tomatoes, fried bread, toast, tea, etc, etc) as they're a bit tasteless on their own. But eggs is eggs.

So we chatted nicely over breakfast and tea and coffee (not all together). The topic that we'd just made love to each other twice in a very short period failed to arise. It was like we were straight back to being half-hearted acquantences, not two people who'd discovered that their genitalia clipped together just as God intended.

But we'd made that next step. Which I guess was the important thing.

Sarah asked how long I was intending to stay around. I sort of shrugged and explained that I had no plans for the rest of the day, which I guess was nicely non-committal. I suggested she showed me the heady sights of Southampton. Sarah said that that should kill ten minutes. She then asked if I would come with her to pick Ruth up.

Uh - not sure how I felt about that. Was it a test? Was it to see if I was genuinely interested in her and any potential relationship or just wanted a suitable parking place for my todger? I left it to my heart and my heart heard my lips voice: Sure, that'd be lovely.

I didn't know fetching Ruth would result in a walk in a cold. Sarah guided me on a detour that meant I at least got to see the sea. At least as well I got to see a bit of Southampton. And the least said about this the better.

We reached Sarah's sisters (who gave me an undeniable and a little undeserved once-over with narrow eyes) and picked up Ruth, who was taller and plumper than I'd imagined (not that she was fat enough to become the subject of a Channel 5 documentary). I got introduced purely as "Bryn" - Ruth looked at me in the way that said: I don't know who you are and guess what? I care even less.

We all walked back, playing awkwardly-happy families. Time had creaked on to three by the time we'd got back so I chose to quit whilst I seemed ahead and made my excuses. Sarah seemed oddly crestfallen by my decision, but she'd added the random element of Ruth into the mix so she'd only herself to blame. She kissed me and asked if I'd call her tomorrow. I said I would.

Drove back home, buoyed with emotion, elation and confusion. A bit of an inner battle took place all the way, but elation won in the end. Took five hours to get back but I had dinner at halfway. Came home to pizza boxes on the living room floor and boys in nothing but grubby pants on the settees working their way through a selection of DVDs. All three acknowledged my return with a grunt.

Good to be home, eh?

Darn Sarf - Part II

As from yesterday, Sarah greeted my appearance at her front door with a heart-settling smile and an unguarded and natural kiss. She then told me that I smelt nice which was a tiny bit odd as I hadn't put on any aftershave or similar smelly, but I brushed it off as at least something positive.

Sarah took my coat and ushered me into a small and compact room with nothing but a small settee, table, a bookcase and various electronics. On the table was a breathing bottle of Rioja and a couple of glasses, which Sarah said I could help myself to if I so desired. I must cowardly admit at this point that nerves were playing a slight havoc within me, so I conveniently ignored my no booze for Lent policy and poured myself a decent portion, after Sarah had apologised for not joining me immediately but dinner was at a crucial point and was in need of her express attention. She asked if I was still a temporary vegetarian which I confirmed; but as Sarah I knew herself didn't do the meat thing it wouldn't have mattered.

I sat down and sipped my wine. I'm not a wine man - if I ever spit out wine after tasting it it's because I don't like it, not because I'm appraising it without getting pi$$ed. I hate all that false pretence in restaurants where the waiter pours you a bit to allow you to play the charade of tasting it as if you know the first thing about what you're about to pour down your throat. I do wonder how many waiters run back giggling into the kitchen after pouring a mix of ribena and anti-freeze into some pleb's glass and it receiving the thumbs up.

I sipped my Rioja and cast a discerning eye over Sarah's reading predilections. No idea what I'd expected to find, whether it be dusty academic tomes or the complete works of Barbara Cartland. In the end there seemed a variable mix of volumes with chick lit. winning the battle for supremacy. There were several well-thumbed Marian Keyes and a couple of Meg Cabots and a further odd sprinkling of various names I'm not well read enough to be familiar with. There seemed also to be a complete library of Harry Potters that were almost falling apart; but I hoped they belonged to Ruth.

There were also three bibles. I made a strict mental note to myself not to mention religion all evening. Aside from my monthly habit of sacrificing a new-born baby to the true king himself, Beelzebub, Lord of Darkness.

Five minutes passed with just me and my wine. Getting bored, I went in search of Sarah, and found her gently chopping up something orange in the kitchen. She smiled when I came in asked if the wine met my approval. I said it was nice but then wine was not really my thing; I was more of a single malt man. Sarah frowned and asked what single malt was. I informed her it was Whiskey; which seemed to throw her a bit, but then she laughed whatever it was off and said she barely drank herself ("aside from a glass of white wine in the bath" - to which I replied I wouldn't think a glass of white wine would be enough to fill a bath, which received a slight giggle in recognition of it being a joke of some description) and never touched spirits.

There was (horror!) a brief awkward pause which I filled by asking where Ruth was. She was at Sarah's sisters was the reply. This both annoyed me and relieved me as I was slightly looking forwards to meeting her and making comparisons to my own (male) children; but then again I would not have perhaps been able to cope with a little girl taking an instant dislike to me (or an over-bearing love of, as sometimes has happened in the past), so I guess it was balanced.

Sarah pointed me over to the dining table and told me to take a seat as dinner was imminent. So I yelled Heck no, bitch, ain't no lady gonna boss me around. No I didn't, I took my seat like a good boy and waited to be served. I scanned my mind for things I find utterly inedible (broccoli, brussels sprouts, cabbage boiled to the point beyond disintegrating mushiness) and the coping measures I'd instigate should any of them be served up before me.

I had no worries - it was a risotto with orange lumps in it; although they were completely palatable orange lumps. I didn't ask what they were, but they were either parsnip or squash or turnip or one of those other slight odd vegetables that come in medley packs but get chucked in the bin. At least in our household.

The meal went down very well, as did the Rioja and a second bottle, a Cabernet Merlot. As ever with Sarah, the conversation flowed freely and without interruption and we laughed genuinely at each other's jibes and asides and jokes.

We moved back into the little room with the bookcase and small settee. Sarah asked what music I liked and I came up the non-committal "all kinds" (as I doubt her CD collection contained "Touch Me I'm Sick" by Mudhoney) which was a mistake as she pressed a few buttons and Lennon & McCartney came on introducing Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. I can just about stick the Kinks from the forgotten sixties, but definitely not the bloody Beatles.

Quite swiftly the wine took full effect. The invasions of our personal spaces by each other became more pronounced until Sarah was virtually sat in my lap. Once John Lennon's nasal tones had spat out the final bars of A Day In The Life (and that pointless looped bit had come and gone), Sarah reached for my glass, put in gently down on the floor, then took my face and pushed our lips together. It was rather nice - or at least the long-forgotten dual-purpose appendage in my trousers thought so.

Things became a little confused for the next couple of hours. But they were very nice.

And Sarah fixed me eggs for breakfast.

Darn Sarf - Part I

I'd gotten into work at seven, after making sure the lads had enough food to last for the weekend. I'd hardly seen Colin all week, so I didn't make any provisions for him. He can look after himself. I left a twenty pound note in an envelope marked Andrew (the envelope, not the twenty pound note) as out of the three of them, I think I can count on him the most not to rush out of the front door when armored with a twenty and spend it immediately on frivolities. I wrote 'For Emergencies' on the envelope as well, and underlined it three times. Somehow, I can quite easily imagine at least one emergency arising over the weekend that will necessitate the spending of exactly £20.

Peter Handyman arrived at work around half eight so I gave him enough time for his first cup of coffee to take effect then cleared it with him that I was okay to leave at three as I was on my way down south for the weekend. I felt oddly nervous about asking him as despite him not being as fierce (at least to me) as the reputation that preceded him he still can be a little unpredictable. However he needs me in his good books at the moment as my new project starts on Monday and I have a week of intense data analysis to soldier through before my fortnight off and our trip to Germany. So he nodded and confirmed that would be okay, then asked if I was going anywhere nice. When I mentioned Southampton he guffawed and added: no, then. I said: Why, have you been? To which he nodded, then gave his opinion it was a pi$$-hole. Hey ho.

The day moved with predictable sloth-like swiftness. I remembered my resolution of joining the Friday lunchtime pub-throng but just was not in the mood (as I am still not drinking at present, plus I wasn't asked, anyway) so I didn't. Eventually I reached three o'clock without going completely ga-ga, grabbed my coat, ignored a couple of "on a half day, Bryn?" quips (which I think were made only half in jest) and left. Filled up the Focus's tank and was on my way down the M42.

My journey was all motorways because I like motorways. My dad refused to drive on motorways, making all our extended journeys - especially the ones to our bi-annual English sea-side holidays, loathsome and brain-bu66eringly tortuous. This meant that our holidays began at the bizarre time of 3am (the only day in the year I was ever aware that the powers that be had added another three o'clock to the clock) when me and Colin were wrenched screaming from our lovely warm beds and thrust into a freezing cold car. Sometimes it was fun watching the day warm up as we discovered tiny places that we'd never driven through before (although we were never allowed to explore them fully as dad refused to stop the car unless it was for petrol. And yes, that included toilet breaks. Woe was placed upon you should you express a need to relieve the pressure upon either your bladders or colons; and if you ever did you were told that you should have gone before the journey had commenced (which we had anyway). I don't think anything brought me and my brother closer together than those final hours sat in the back-seat of my father's Vauxhall Nova on our way to holiday, eying each others agony as we struggled to keep our kidneys from exploding or our anuses from prolapsing. Then would come the added pain when we finally reached our destination (usually a caravan) and we were actually allowed to whip out our knobs and vent high-pressure urine into the plastic toilet.

Only one person failed once, and it was me, and the punishment I received for colouring the crotch and entire upper part of my jeans a darker shade of blue was sadly memorable.

So I've always been a keen supporter and utiliser of the arteries of the UK's motorway system. To get to Southampton it was laughably simple. M42 to the M40 to the M4 to Southampton. I'd left early in the hope of missing the traffic around Birmingham and was largely successful, aside from one ten minute spell. I made expected progress until I got to the Reading region of the M4 when I experienced my one real snarl-up as millions of disparaged office-workers quit the Slough/Reading/Leatherhead area as quickly as feasibly all at the same time. I'd told Sarah I'd try and be at hers before seven, which began to look a tad unlikely, but eventually the traffic clog inexplicably cleared and I was bombing back down south.

Once I was off the M4 I seemed immediately to be in Southampton, although there seemed no sense I was anyway near the coast. Sarah had given me scant directions to hers - she said just follow the signs for St Mary's Stadium until you reach it then follow the signs to Portsmouth, turn left at Pizza Hut then it's your second right. This proved more difficult than it should have done and I came across Sarah's road purely by luck.

I hadn't done bad at all, as it was barely ten past seven. I knocked on Sarah's door, which opened with Sarah standing behind it. She made a huge show of being delighted to see me, reaching forwards with a eye-scorching smile and kissing me on lips. I can't remember that last time a woman kissed me on the lips - how sad is that?

She ushered me in and took my coat and told me Ruth was at her sisters and that dinner would be twenty minutes. I offered to help but she told me that wouldn't be necessary and that I could help myself to wine, which (chucking aside my Lent prohibition) I did.

I shall continue this tomorrow. For reasons which may become clear.

Is This The Way To Southampton?

Last night was the first time I'd had to referee the Thursday Night Conundrum, which is thus:

[A] Gabriel at Martial Arts 6pm-7pm, 20 mile round trip heading north

[B] Lukas at Basketball 6.30pm-7.30pm, 20 mile round trip heading south

This has never been an issue before, as Gabriel has only taken up martial arts at the behest of his re-united lovely AFTER Lukas suffered his now-healed broken arm which has caused his realitively lengthy absence from the basketball court. So the timings have never clashed and they didn't clash last week as Gabriel was estranged from Lian and didn't feel like going.

So there's the quandary. As far as I am concerned, I am keen to take Lukas to basketball as there is a sport I can at least watch and I do enjoy watching him play. But I am also keen for Gabriel to continue with his Martial Arts as it's the only non-school physical activity he indulges in and it's given him a notable if slight improvement in both his physical appearance and general levels of confidence and contentedness.

My only thoughts to this solution were to persuade Colin to escort Gabriel to the academy via the bus (I still consider Gabriel at fourteen and a week too young to be using public transport on his lonesome) whilst I drove Lukas to the leisure centre. This depended wholly upon Colin, who's attendance at home seems to be continually erratic (not that it's any of my business as he's a big boy), and his willingness to spend half-an-hour on the bus, then a further hour doing whatever he could do to find to pass the time, then another half-an-hour home. I had my doubts.

However, in the event (and not at all guided by Colin not being present) my solution was notably different. I took neither of them.

I'd wondered how the pair of them would tackle their need for transport, as I have been spending the week childishly but satisfactorily provided nothing for them other than a roof over their heads. After my outburst the previous evening I'd spent a good couple of hours in my bedroom watching stuff on the TV that succeeded in turning my brain to mush. When I came downstairs again the pair of them were routinely shooting each other via Call of Duty on the PS2. They pretended not to notice me, even when I stepped in front of the TV just as Lukas was about to relieve Gabriel of his head (which normally would have caused extensive howls of protest and dismay). I ended up in the kitchen, made myself a sandwich, flicked through Total Film and read articles on Starship Troopers and Walter Herzog, then returned upstairs and watched a documentary on pushy parents who have precious, sporty children (all of whom were portrayed in a probably deliberate slightly unhealthfully-obsessed manner). Thus ended my evening.

Back home after work it was another foot in the door moment as Lukas jumped on me; he'd obviously deduced his chances of winning in the Gabe/Lukas transportation battle would be increased if he stuck his oar in first. He asked (albeit slightly nervously) if I would be taking him to basketball this evening. I said that I was not (okay, so I was STILL in a bloody-minded mood). He asked me why, and I said because (a) I didn't feel like it (and I didn't, for several reasons, mainly that I have not been sleeping well of late and (b) I had better things to do with my time. Lukas just gave me a look that mingled disappointment with hurtfulness and scampered off.

Gabriel was next down, his expression one of concern that as Lukas had gotten in first he might have swayed me in my dad-taxi tendencies. He asked me which of him and Lukas I was taking out tonight. I said neither. He said why not. I repeated the reply I offered Lukas. I got the same expression except with Gabe the hurtfulness was clearly more evident.

If I was much more of a hard-hearted bar-steward I'd be enjoying this. But I'm not, and I intend to recommence things with a clean slate once the weekend is over; if the kids'll let me. I know I am teaching them a lesson by hitting in the face with the blackboard, but sometimes subtlety is not the most desirable policy. Especially when it comes to teenagers.

Andrew came down later to rummage around the fridge and told me that I was being an utter @rsehole and should jack it in. I replied that I knew very well that I was being an utter @rsehole but that was the whole point. Andrew asked if that made me proud. I said I'd abandoned any notion of pride a long time ago. Andrew said with the supercilious tone of his - well that's quite evident, then returned back upstairs.

I wish I cared a bit more, but currently, I don't. I realise in many ways this behaviour is quite out of character for me, but it's the way I currently feel. As I said, I am tired.

But not tired enough to consider abandoning my plans of driving down to Southampton and spending an hour or two or a day or two with Sarah (hopefully the latter). I've packed a very small suitcase of my nicer clothes and cheap toiletries. And I'm taking a condom. More in hope than in expectation, of course.

Even if nothing happens; if it ends whatever tentative relationship I currently have with Sarah; it'll do me good to get out of my familiar environment, and away from my house, and away from the boys.

Jesus - I'm actually looking forwards to something!

Timber

They're tumbling like dominoes now - the relationships I have with my children that is. I think I've done well to maintain them to at least healthy levels for longer than most parent-offspring relationships manage; but then our situation has been less than normal for almost a decade.

Now I am back in Andrew's blank books I did wonder how Gabriel and Lukas would react. Despite them being three of them I seldom have to deal with situations where two of them will gang up against the ostracised one. Conversely, we very rarely suffer situations where Child A is at loggerheads with Child B (whilst Child C watches with interest from the sideline, of course). The only times I can recall significant teaming is Andrew and Lukas ganging up very slightly against Gabriel, but on each occassion it was Gabe who was to blame for this.

I'd not exactly had a stick-it-on-a-postcard day at work. Out of the blue I'd been invited to a "Rewards Lunch" - which turned out to be a collection of sandwiches, savouries and other mouth-morsels in one of the conference rooms with the senior management team in attendance, each of whom ignored us mere plebians and mouthed in secret code to each other whilst tapping into their blackberries. Watching them saunter about, dressed in identical sombre suits, white shirts and company ties, reminded me of a group of a nervous pack animals which - if the rumours are to be believed - is a uniquely apt comparison as some of them are definitely for the chop.

Anyhow, here's the rub: This Rewards Lunch is an annual event, and is usually a luxurious event at some posh eaterie where dinner suits and dickie-bows are very much the order of the day. This is the first time I'd ever been nominated for one - and of course, with the current roller-coaster fiscal environment, they was no way my company was going to risk the threat of wasting money on self-congratulatory dinners. So I got a half-an-hour freebie lunch in a meeting room.

Still, I set out on proving that there is such a thing as a free lunch by gobbling down as much in the way of freebies as I could get my fingers on. It would save me the bother of not preparing any lunch for my sons or Colin once I was home. The sandwiches were very uninspirational but the mini Scotch eggs and pork pies found particular favour with my gullet. And we were allowed a glass or two of Asti Spumante, which I should not have done as I spent the afternoon fighting to keep my eyelids from meeting in the middle.

Came home to be greeted by a half-hearted hi from Lukas who'd pre-empted my lack of culianry willingness and was tucking into beans-on-toast, and a thunder of footsteps as one of my remaining sons seemed to tumble down the stairs. I braced myself in case Andrew suddenly exploded into the kitchen wielding a mace, but instead it was Gabriel wielding a expression of intense delight.

Gabriel yelled at me: Guess what dad! (and before I'd even had chance to formulate the mere inklings of a guess) Me and Lian are back together!

This is cruel of me, I know, but I just shrugged my shoulders and said: So?

Gabriel popped and went whizzing around the kitchen before deflating back down to the floor. He looked as if I'd just told him I'd reported Lian's family to the authorities as illegal immigrants and they were being deported back to Myanmar. He said: I thought you'd be pleased for me.

Yes, Gabriel, I said. I'm pleased for you. I'm happy for you, I'm ecstatic for you. It's taking me everything ounce of my willpower not to rip off all my clothes and go dancing down the street naked whilst singing "Gabe and Lian are back together, la-di-da-di-dah" - that's how happy I am for you.

Lukas chipped in. Why are you acting like such an @rsehole, dad, he asked. You've been acting like an @rsehole for a few days now. It's getting a bit boring, now.

So in defence, I said that if I am acting like an arsehole I think I have a very valid reason to, especially when one of my sons seems to expect me to take a keen interest in his relationship when not one of you apparently give you a toss about mine.

Lukas and Gabriel exchanged puzzled looks. After a moment, Gabriel said: Is this about that woman you keep phoning?

I laughed - as this was just so funny.

No, Gabe, I said. This is about my wife. This is about your mother. You know, that woman you've quite evidently forgotten. I just wanted us to spend a few moments in remembering her on Sunday, and not one of you could be @rsed to come with me. I didn't think it was too much to ask, yet apparantly it was.

But you haven't mentioned mum for years, said Lukas. How comes she's suddenly so important now?

I said just because I never mention her, doesn't mean I've completely forgotten her. And she's not so suddenly important. She's always been important. She just happens to be dead. She's certainly important enough for us to spend an hour or so together as a family in rememberance of her, even if it's just once a year.

Then Lukas said if mum is so important, how come you're after some other woman?

Seldom have I gone from simmering to boiling over so swiftly.

I said: Because I'm f*cking lonely, Lukas. All I've got is you three and I don't know if you've noticed but there's a bit of an age gap here. And you're all building your own lives now and soon you're all going to f*ck off and forget about me and I'm going to be a sad, fat bloke in a house with more rooms than he needs. You really think I'm going to let that happen?

Lukas and Gabriel looked at me, dumbstruck and blinking. I didn't feel like seeing their faces any longer so I went to hide upstairs.

Let Me At That Bull

Inevitably, it all came to a head, and last night was the time and the kitchen was the place. Maybe it's the mood I have been in since Sunday, but I was itching for a fight, or at least someone I could lump my tension upon, so when the opportunity arose I grabbed it and reeled it in.

After another reasonably uneventful and uninteresting day at work, I came home to find the kitchen trashed - well not trashed exactly, but not one of my sons had made any effort to clear up after they'd all prepared (it seemed) individual meals, each with at least two dozen ingredients, with each ingredient used but (if not completely used) not rehoused in either the fridge or the cupboard or wherever said ingredient originated from (and not from Tescos Online). I could have screamed and bawled and stamped my feet like someone trying to put out a linoleum fire but I felt too dog-tired and defeated. Instead I gathered up the post which has been liberally tossed across the kitchen table (at least someone had fetched it in from beneath the letterbox) and perused it.

There were three letters. One was to the former resident of the house, but looked like a circular, so I just ripped it up and tossed it into the re-cycling. The second was to me, and was a reminder that was subscription to Total Film was up, and if I cared to renew I would receive a box-set of three Stanley Kubrick films (A Clockwork Orange, 2001 A Space Odyssey and Full Metal Jacket) I already possess. The third was to ... Poppy.

No - no it wasn't. It was to me. It's just that a raindrop or two had splattered down on the poorly-printed envelope, and had merged some of the letters together. "Mr" had acquired a little squiggle that turned it into something just about halfway towards a "Mrs", and the bottom half of the "B" of my initial had been obliterated so it had become a very poor "P". If you looked hard enough, you could just have mistaken this as a letter for a "Mrs P" and not "Mr B".

I felt like a sit down so I had one. I looked about the kitchen, and started feeling crushingly alone. All I had in companionship was the steady, metronomic tick of the clock, and the pulsing and rhythmic throbbing of the fridge. Oh, and a the odd bump from upstairs signalling the teenage occupants of the second floor of my house.

Then I shot up out of the chair and was punching Sarah's number into the phone before I really had chance to get my head around what I was doing. I put the receiver to my ear, adopting the stance I'd assume a businessman would adopt when making a really important call that would guarantee him a seven hundred thousand grand a year pension for life even if every turd started hitting the fan.

Sarah answered, and I said with polite energy that it was Bryn, and diving straight into the converation I advised her that as I had I had no other plans for this weekend, would she be interested in me coming down to see her in Southampton?

There was a slight pause. Then Sarah said: Are you sure? It's a long way down here you know. And it's not the nicest car journey in the world.

So I told her Southampton was not exactly Beijing, and I'm sure I could amply stomach an hour or three of vehicular perambulation if it meant I could get to see her. Sarah seemed a little taken aback at this (for no reason I could readily understand), but then said with suitable chripiness that if I didn't mind the trip then she'd of course be more than willing to see me. When and where?

I said it'd probably be best for me if I nipped off earlier than usual from work then bombed down the M1 and got down there as soon as I could. As to the where, as I didn't know Southampton at all, that'd be up to her.

So Sarah said: I'll tell you what, as you're going to tired out after all that driving, I'll cook a meal, how does that sound? I said it sounded perfect; then hastened to end the call before the risque topic of my accomodation for the evening arose.

I put the phone down in infinitely better spirits than with which I had picked it up.

Such warm spirits lasted a few bare seconds before Andrew came down and asked if I'd seen his thin, dark green jumper as he couldn't find it anywhere. This was the opportunity I'd been waiting for - I said that I didn't know where it was, had he forgotten where he had taken it off? For someone so bright - I added - you seem to be very forgetful these days.

Andrew knew immediately where this was leading and what words said underneath the words I had actually spoken. He said (and I think, a little unbelievably) that he didn't want to talk about what obviously I wanted to talk about, so if we could both just left things unsaid and got back to normality it'd be probably best for all concerned.

So I called Andrew an arrogant little $hit and yelled a few other things around the selfishness of his attitude. I then got called selfish for the way I'd behaved over the past couple of days. So I countered by saying I think I deserved a couple of days off from never acting thinking about myself, which Andrew just laughed at and said: When do *you* ever think about anyone else but yourself?

I really felt like hitting him, but I refrained myself. The logical Andrew; such an unlogical mind when it suits him. So I asked if I was thinking about myself when I allowed Kevin to move in the house? Then I asked if I was thinking about myself when I didn't create a stink upon being portrayed as a violent, drunken father so Andrew could draw close to Mr Aldridge?

Andrew just gave me a killing look, then walked soundlessly away.

I was breathing heavily, but felt the best I had felt for several days.

Annoyances

So, once again my house has become not a pleasant place to be. I feel I have been really let down by my boys; I just wanted them to waste a couple of hours of their time in memory of the woman who at least gave birth to them (so what if she also gave death to them?). But as it turns out they had better things to do all day, and could not re-arrange their schedules. More important things got in the way, like spending hours on an essay that ought to have been polished off in barely a few minutes, or pining over a former girlfriend, or killing shadowy shapes on the PS2.

I seemed to have adopted an Andrew approach, becoming withdrawn and uncommuniative. This is not a deliberate tactic, it's just the way my emotions and feelings are decreeing me to act. I'm hurt and upset.

Communication happens by the interuption or the non-occurance of usual routines. When the tradition hour for Sunday Lunch came and went, and I didn't fill the kitchen with enticing odours, instead slapping a steak on the George Formby along with some onions and mushrooms and making me and only me a steak sandwich, the boys trickled down one by one and silently found things to eat from the fridge and the cupboards before noiselessly returning to their rooms.

They know they've done wrong, that much is evident. And they know I am in the right. I wonder how long they're going to keep dealing with it in this manner? What happens when the food runs out and the need for money runs in?

They had a responsibility to remember their mother and (as Colin bludgeoned home) a responsibilty to me to help me remember my wife before all those neural pathways degrade and Poppy slips out of my mind. If they can't live up to such a minor responsibility then why should I live up to a single one of the responsibilities I have towards them? That seems like a fair and equitable deal to me.

Already I know Lukas had to do P.E. with a dirty kit yesterday. I doubt he got much of a ribbing as such things mean little to twelve-year-old boys, but I at least hope it felt uncomfortable for him. The devilish part of me cannot wait until he runs out of clean underwear; although with the Lukas mindset this may not occur for several weeks.

Andrew will be the first to break, of that I'm sure. And he'll break by scoulding me for not living up to my parental duties, of that I'm equally sure. This will be the catalyst for an intense discussion about a frenzied number of subjects leaving me the victim of disparaging looks and a prolonged period of the cold shoulder. Heck, I can live with this.

Only Gabriel do I feel slightly sorry for. This could not have come at a worse time for him, with him still smarting over the loss of Lian. Not sure on the latest news of course but I am sure I could have perceived by his manner if a reconciliation had occurred. And from his manner I judge it to have occurred not, so obviously he hasn't taken any notice of my suggested he gets his apology in. If we were on speaking terms I would now be pushing him, telling him how easily girls of this age bounce from partner to partner, to act quickly so not to lose Lian to some other spotty adolescent. But I'm shirking my responsilibities, so it is his look out. Whenever I see him around the house though, it does break my heart a little as he looks like such a lost little boy.

Condequently by adopting this emotional stance lots of things are annoying me that really ought not to be annoying me. Ripley's habit of digging her claws into the settee and pulling herself along the laminate flooring is becoming annoying rather than cute, as practically-speaking it simply depletes the longevity of our furniture; in addition there's her continuing reluctance to perform her defecation outside rather than overnight in her litter tray. Maybe that's what becomes of enter the world during the winter months; one acquires one's habits based on the conditions of your formuative moments. Whatever, we have a kitty who possesses a great reluctance to ever venture outside and shake a paw with the burgeoning spring.

Colin annoys me, as he remains in my house and on my sofa, unemployed and seemingly unenthusiastic about anything, aside from his evening expeditions, of which I do not truly believe their truthfulness. I can't kick him out as yet (and I apologise if this seems appallingly selfish of me) as he's (hopefully) organised our little trip to Germany in about eleven days. Part of me hopes for a reconcilliation between him and Maria, or that the re-entry into his life of his little girls may spark some feelings of doubt that he's following the correct path (not that there have been many signs of that so far).

His days are numbered, anyhow. I've enjoyed having him around to a certain extent but this is a house (just) designed for four people, not five. Once we have returned from Germany my foot cometh downeth.

And then there's Sarah, the woman who prefers watching non-celebrities dancing amateurishly on ice to speaking to me. The woman who's hinted she'd be at least willing maybe to pursue at least the idea of a potential relationship between us, but then uses the excuse of one hundred and fifty miles of crow's flight to stop any possible connection from flowing freely. Maybe I need to get down to Southampton and see - if anywhere - this thing is going.

Hey, that's not such a bad idea, even if it is Southampton. My frosty-atmosphered house is not in Southamption, which is one thing that makes it not a bad idea, anyway. I could do with some time away from ... here.

Nancies on Ice

I came to realise one of the benefits of living in an all-male household last evening, when I rang Sarah at just after seven and she politely declined to speak to me as the final of Dancing on Ice was one and she and Ruth were watching it and would I mind ringing back after about a quarter past nine as that would give her a little bit of time to get Ruth nicely into bed. I could have grumbled and ascertained as to why she was watching such rubbish (not that I knew it is such rubbish as I hadn't seen any of it - it could be a rarified televisual treat for all I knew) but I just obliged and put the phone down.

As I was feeling low, both physically and mentally, I found myself flicking on the TV and watching the damned bloody thing. It was presented by a white-haired Philip Schofield (whom I'd last seen entertaining some squeaking sock-puppet on Children's telly) and some woman I'd never heard of but seemed notably encumbered in the chest department and seemed intent upon making the world in general aware of this fact.

There seemed to be six people in the final. It took me a while to gather that three of these were celebrities, and three of them were professional skaters. Out of the entire half a dozen, the only one who'd ever even slightly punctured my awareness was Donal McaIntyre (whom I'd always thought to be called Donald, so at least I learnt something). I'd no idea who Jessica Taylor was, and of the remaining twosome (Ray & Phillipa(?)) it was impossible to work out which one was the professional skater and which one was the alleged celebrity.

Anyway, all six did a bit of pointless ice dancing and Jessica Taylor was told to pack her skates and get stuffed and duly burst into tears because she'd wanted to dance for her mum because it was mother's day (ignoring the fact that I assume all the other competitors had mothers as well).

Next, the remaining four did a further ice dance to the Torvill and Dean (who were present to give expert opinion and too look old) inspired Bolero, or at least the bu66ered-up version of it (as the proper version lasts over seven minutes). Donal and his partner were frankly rubbish. One of the five judges (who was bald and camper than Charles Hawtrey in a tent) explained this to be the case and paid for such obvious honesty by being booed, insulted and finally thrown into the fiery pits of Valhalla. The other judges just whimpered and muttered jolly good effort.

That Ray then came on and quite frankly, took the pi$$. They should have called a halt after thirty seconds, chucked his trophy at him then filled the last hour with a Morse episode instead. I did finally worked out where I'd seen him before though - he was Edward and Tubbs' son from The League of Gentleman. No wonder he was so good with all the extra time he must have gotten at his nearest skating facility: "This is a local ice-rink for local people, there's nothing for you, here!"

But still they lumbered on. A whole troupe of nobodies suddenly emerged onto the ice. The only ones I recognised were Graeme Le Saux (Under-capped English left-back horribly ignored in favour of the brutish and thuggish Stuart Pearce), Ellory Hanley (formerly butch rugby legend) and Tucker from Grange Hill who quite obviously had never been within two hundred miles of an ice-rink in his entire life before that evening (perhaps Roland or Zammo chickened out at the last minute and Tucker was there for support?). Sadly, not one of them fell on their @rses.

Still no end seemed in sight. Torvill and Dean tossed their bladed zimmer-frames to one side for a few minutes and tottered around the ice for nostalgia's sake, one suspects. Then there was an advert break in which someone very obviously attempted to persuade me that I desired to give sexual oral relief to a pork sausage.

Back to the grind. Tubbs Jr and Donal(d) were lined up on the ice and Gordon-the-Gopher's ex-keeper announced who had won. Oh wait a minute, no he didn't. He got through much of the appropriate sentence without that crucial final bit. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. The camera settled on Ray. Then on Donal. Then on a baboon who had wandered into the arena. Then back on both couples.

Then: "RAY!!"

Cheers, yells, shouts, hugs, tears, and Ray doing his best to act like he couldn't believe it. He said, quite sweetly: Although it was obvious to anyone with more than three braincells that I have more talent and ability in one of my discarded toe-nails than either of the other finalists, I'm still going to do my duty and act like I did not expect to win at all!

Then I switched off, and wondered where the last one-and-a-half hours of my life has gone.

Today I have felt mostly poorly. I woke up yesterday feeling pretty terrible and as the day wore on, the worse I felt. I feel light-headed; but conversely as well as though my head is stuffed full of cotton wool. I might go to the doctors, I might not (they'd only say it's a virus, anyway).

Mother's Day

Poppy was always disinterested in Mothering Sunday, and now it seems the children she abandoned by stepping in front of a bus eight years ago are just as disinterested in her - or at least the memory of her.

The first year Poppy qualified as a mother on Mothering Sunday was 1994. Which seems a lifetime ago now (and in Poppy's case, it is). In tandem with that BBC advert (a phrase which should, in my honest opinion, have remained an oxymoron), the rubble of the Berlin Wall was yet not five years old and the change of the public perception of Nelson Mandela from a grainy stock photo from the sixties to a living and breathing sixty-two year man occurred barely four years previously.

Poppy's qualification as a mother place me in a quandary. I couldn't ask if she wanted her association with motherhood acknowledged on the traditional motherhood-acknowledging day as I would be in the wrong no matter her opinion, i.e.:

[1] "Of course I do! Why should you even need to ask that?"

or

[2] "Of course I don't! Why should you even need to ask that?"

So, I flipped a mental coin, influenced by thought-processes that decided I would be deeper in the sin bin should I fail to acknowledge the day than option [B]. So I got a cheap and fluffy card (which I hoped - if all else failed - Poppy would assume to be deliberately ironic), stuck a felt-tipped pen in the five-month-old Andrew's chubby fingers and somehow got him to scribble something within it. I added a small volume of poetry and hid them in Andrew's Moses Basket for Poppy to discover upon Andrew's initial nappy-change, which she duly did so and gave me a perfunctory kiss and thank you. We then went through that charade of my claim of having nothing to do with the purchase, it all being down to a person whose only method of propulsion would be to hitch upon his back and continually thrust his pelvis, bouncing down the road on his back-side.

This arrangement continued for the next few years, mainly due to our boys happening along at the frequent interval of seventeen months (with the interesting addition of Gabriel just a few days before Poppy's second Mother's Day), until Andrew was four and Poppy told me that she didn't want anyone to bother with Mother's Day that year. Her reasoning was thus: That it was inappropriate to use one single day to show an almost forced amount of appreciation for a mother when what was actually done by the mother deserved far, far more than such a mediocre and insincere measure.

This lasted one year, as the following year Andrew came home excitedly from school with a green cardboard concoction upon which he'd stuck yellow and orange circles of tissue paper and other various bits. I didn't want the younger pair to feel left out so I helped them put together similar constructs of their own devising, and we burst into Poppy one unsuspecting morning with a tray of tea and buttered crumpets. She took all this with good grace but the adult in me could very easily deduce the lack of enthusiasm with which she endured the upset to her morning routine.

But that was the last time. By 1999 the Poppy we knew and found it within ourselves to love went away and was replaced by the Poppy we didn't know who took every day as one further to endure on her long and collapsing road towards death; until she took that short cut to oblivion, that is.

But today I wanted to remember that old Poppy, the pre-Huntington's Poppy. The one who swore far more than any woman is expected to swear and whom, with the surreptitious addition of alcohol, could be relied upon to find even filthier expletives. The woman who presented a concrete skin to the rest of the universe and held me under pain of death not to tell a soul she had to switch off Sophie's Choice before *that* choice because her emotions could not handle it. The woman who could skillfully turn any conversation into a discussion about her within thirty seconds of it starting no matter how oblique the opening exchange.

And it would have been sad enough, to journey to the now quite-far-away place where there exists a too-small memorial stone dedicated to her memory, but the fact I had to do it all on my own made it all the more hurtful.

My boys I think knew what was going to be expected of them, and not just because it had been discussed the previous Sunday, as they'd all made themselves conveniently scarce at a ridiculously early time. For f*ck's sake - it was a Sunday morning. It is normally a feat beyond superhuman endurance to prise any of them from their beds on a Sunday. Today they all escaped without even acknowledging me by ten in the morning.

I thought about waiting for all three to return before I ventured off, but by one in the afternoon it appeared clear they were not going to be returning any time soon, so off I drove on my lonesome with only my darkened thoughts to keep me company.

Fifteen miles later I was stood at the tiny, light-blue marble plaque that signified that Poppy once blessed the world with her unique presence. I didn't know what I was going to feel, and in truth, I felt nothing. I couldn't connect this piece of chiseled and polished stone with the only woman in the history of my world I'll probably be able to call my wife. I stood for a measured amount of time before the chill content of the air upped itself and I chose to go home.

All three of my boys were back, almost as if they'd been hiding, waiting for my departure.

So the air has been fractious within the house all day. I have been uncommunicative and withdrawn and I feel I have every right to be. I have not made dinner, leaving everyone to their own devices. I know I have tried to bring my boys up to be independent, but I seemed to have brought them up to be selfish as well.

I'm confused

Two really good reasons to get out of the house today - the sun and the rugby.

Sometimes I long for the days when television failed to rule sport. When there were three channels, none of which showed live football, and all the games on Saturdays began precisely at three o'clock. I can't remember what times the Five Nations started on Saturdays, but I'm pretty sure both games began at the same time. But recently there have been two significant changes - the addition of Italy (which, I am amazed to find out, happened now as long ago as 2000, but as Italy have virtually finished last every year since I really don't see the point of them being in it) and the playing of each game at different times so that the beeb can televise every game.

This has not really affected me ever at all as I do not come from a rugby-luvin' area (Cannock, just north of Birmingham) and have never been remotely interested in hulking blokes tossing the old leather egg about. But since Colin has been staying with us (just for a few days until he sorts his life out which has since expanded into a seemingly endless stint of freeloading) he has monopolised the television every other Saturday (I think - I haven't really been paying that much attention) for an agonising stretch of three successive examples of a waste of eighty minutes. Today was quite important, apparently, as England were playing Scotland, whereas Ireland could win the whole thing by beating Wales and France were sticking it up the Italians. I don't think Colin appreciated it when I asked how he thought Macedonia would do over The Cayman Islands. Still - I did learn some good news, that this is the last week of the damn thing.

The weather today over the midlands has been surprisingly blissful. Last week saw us heading back into the lands of winter with freezing fog but today the sun swatted aside those pesky early morning clouds and chose to shine. Isn't it great - that first day of the year you go out of the house in the morning and discover the annoying chill in the air just isn't there anymore? No cuckoos as yet (not that I listen for them) but I did see one of the true signs that summer is possibly on the way: The First Nipples of Spring. This is the first time you see a boy walking shirtless along the street. March 20th is incredibly early for the initial sighting of this phenomenon, so it may indicate we're set for a blistering summer. Not whether to count this sighting or not; I think it was a little bravado on the part of the boy in question (who was walking up the hill in town from the centre as I drove past him whilst returning from the Co-op), showing off to his slightly lardier mates. No way would you spot me in public without me shirt these days. The approach of my moobs is enough to cause cats to race up trees and babies to vomit half-digested Farley's Rusks onto their bibs.

After the morning continued to show do sign of weather degeneration, I decided to go for a short walk around one of my former XC jogging routes (and it pains me to write former XC routes - running has simply fallen out of my life and I've currently no desire to return to it, even though I'm marking more entries in my chins index of late. One day. Maybe), fancying some company so I asked Lukas along who agreed to come with me as long as we could pick up Danny along the way (obviously in the hope Danny'd stay around afterwards).

I love Danny - or rather, I love Danny's brain and the unfathomably unique and oblique statements it habitually pops out with. And on an unfeasibly regular basis. Today's was an absolute classic - it's not that Danny is stupid (as he very clearly is not) or immature (he's your airfix-model kit of a fledgling teenager) but his willingness to accept truth thats so very clearly cannot be accurate (or even possible) can be quite alarming.

He and Lukas were just chatting over a continual stream of bull$hitty subjects when they eventually reached (as *all* debates eventually reached) religion. Danny said that of all the religions in the world Muslim was the best as "Muslims get longer days". I usually fail to interject in these discussions as by doing so it helps me to keep my sanity but I found myself asking Danny what he meant.

His explanation went thus: Because of where they are in the world, them being nearing to the middle of the earth, it takes longer for the sun to rise and set, meaning that their day is longer.

So I felt it my natural duty to disillusion Danny of this delusion. I pointed out that it didn't matter where you were in the world - the length of the day is the same: Twenty-four hours (I didn't want to confuse him by admitting it's actually 23 hours, 56 minutes and 4 seconds). Danny dismissed this as patently untrue. If, he pointed out, you were standing near the North Pole, you'd only have to go less than a mile to go around the Earth, so obviously a day is very short there. In England the day is twenty-four hours but on the equator it's a bit longer, something like twenty-six hours.

It's really genuinely scary that Lukas and Danny go to the same school, although as it's the school that's produced Andrew, I don't really think I've much to worry about.

I found myself questioning myself later. If you rotate a sphere around an axis, do all points on the surface of the sphere move around that axis at the same speed? It's all relative, I suppose. I tried to think about it a bit longer but my brain stopped working.

Tomorrow I am visiting my late wife's memorial stone. I genuinely hope at least one of my sons finds it within himself to accompany me.

Relationships

The past few days have been all about relationships. In fact I seem to have a fairly broad panarama of relationships within my life at the moment.

- Relationships that are broken and in no need of fixing (Me and my father)

- Relationships that are broken and are in need of fixing and should be easy to fix(Gabriel and Lian)

- Relationships that have been fixed and are now trundling along quite pleasantly (Me and my brother)

- Relationships that have been recently established that seem to want to go somewhere but because of time and geographical constraints they seem to be actually going nowhere (Me and Sarah)

- Relationships that broke but may be fixed although I'd prefer them not to be (Andrew and Kevin)

- Relationships that broke (if they ever existed in the first place) that I'd definitely prefer not to be fixed and will make substantial strides to make sure that they are not fixed (Andrew and David)

- Relationships that are completely solid even though they involve one party cleaning up the faeces of the other on a daily basis (bit of a unique one, this - Me and Ripley)

- Relationships that had a wonderful and heartening reunion last night (Lukas and basketball).

Colin managed to get me to talk about that first relationship on the above list this morning. He apologised for giving my dad my number; which he'd done in a moment of forgetfulness. I asked him to ask dad not to ring that number, but Colin said he couldn't guarantee that. Colin said: He's finally started looking at acting his age, you know. I asked how Colin knew this and he said he went up to see him last week (which is quite a trek, all the way to Inverness) but didn't tell me as he thought (quite rightly) that I would not be interested. Colin continued: He's ignored his age too long, Bryn. All those years he pretended never happened have caught up with him; he's realised actually how old he is and it's really hit him and he's not coping with it well at all. I told Colin I couldn't find it in my heart to care. Colin asked me would I care once the bloke is dead? I told him that I thought it unlikely.

Gabriel's ear is not looking very attractive. It bled overnight and he woke up looking like an extra in Apocolypse Now. I helped him wash all the blood off and it started bleeding again but not too badly, so I've stuck a plaster over it and we're hoping it'll sort itself out. I asked Gabe if he still had his ear-ring and he confirmed he had. Then I asked what he was going to do about Lian and he said he didn't know. They spent all day at school yesterday forcibly ignoring each other. I asked if he wanted her back as his girlfriend and he said that he did, so I told him he would have to apologise and see how things went from there. The longer you leave it, I advised him, the more difficult it'll become and the more distant from her you'll become. The more time you spend apart the harder it'll be for you to be able to patch things up. Gabriel said that she should be apologising to me but I told him that it was not going to work like that. I'm leaving it up to the pair of them to sort things out. If they both want it to be sorted out, that is.

I had a quick look around the internet last night for how people in Myanmar celebrate birthdays but Google largely came up blank. Found out though that in nearby Thailand the custom is for the birthday person to be the giver of gifts, rather than the receiver, so some of my original thoughts were very much along the right lines. Nothing definite so far on Myanmar though - I have another Detective Dad session tonight. If I can find out more it may give Gabe something further to think about when considering if he should apologise or not. No matter what I think of Lian (I'm perched on the Lian fence) she's a positive influence on Gabriel's emptions, which is good - if somewhat selfish - news for all of us.

Someone who has a positive influence on my own emotions is of course Sarah, although she's not having as much of an influence on my emotions currently as I'd like her to have. She phoned me last night and casual chattage ensued. Ruth has settled down after the weekend fun, and negociations with Daniel established the reasons behind her fleet feet at the weekend and an understanding. More efforts are to be made to intergrate Ruth into the new side of Daniel's family rather than just lumping them together.

I'm not sure where this alleged relationship with Sarah is going, if anywhere. When we said our goodbyes we'd made absolutely no arrangements to actually see each other again. I think if either of us tried to, the question of the distance between us may arise and that tenuous link between us may shatter. I think we're being too polite with each other - for A to come to B, A would have to endure a three hundred mile trip and six hours of their lives (or more); it's a tough thing to ask for. I need (yet again) to push myself and get my widening butt down to the coast. The further time that expands between now and the last time I saw Sarah, the less interested in her I become, but I think that is down to pure laziness on my part.

To end on a positive, Gabe's poor mood of yesterday meant no issues in getting Lukas back to basketball, as there was no need to ferry Gabe in the opposite direction to the Martial Arts academy. How strange it felt walking through those familar doors at the leisure centre after a three month break; helping Lukas get changed in the man-sweat-drenched changing rooms and seeing him sport that comically oversized green jersey. Typically, he didn't score a single basket, but made the usual menace of himself over every blade of grass on the court. His soaked face - in sweat and joy - when his game was over (the Lizards lost) was something wonderful to behold.

No real plans for the weekend other than thwarting my son's reluctance to visit Poppy's memorial on Mothering Sunday.

Time To Say Sorry

Happily enough, I managed to get to see Gabriel on his birthday, but not on the most pleasant of territories.

It was one of those 'first step through the door' moments. As I mentioned yesterday, I was not expecting much in the way of birthday celebrations for MiddleSon; at least not within my household - at Lian's it would presumably be a different matter. But this was not the case. Andrew collared me as I was removing my scarf and coat and said he thought I'd better have a word with Gabriel, as he'd barricaded himself inside his room as soon as he'd come home. I placed my coat carefully on the hooks by the kitchen door, then took the dozen or so steps up to Gabriel's room.

I didn't bother knocking on his door, or trying the handle - I am sure Andrew would not be likely to misrepresenting the situation as this is of course not the first time Gabriel has not chosen solitary self-enforced confinement as a method of dealing with something. I put my ear slightly towards the door so see if I could here anything, but nothing. So I said, Gabriel?

Still nothing - although maybe I heard a sniff; not sure. So I cleared my throat and said Andrew says you seem upset, can I talk to you about it?

In the past it's taken several attempts for me to break down Gabe's Leave-me-alone-cos-I'm upset resistance, but today it took barely a whimper before I heard sounds inside his room indicating his furniture being moved around. Then his door croaked upon a few inches. I wondered if he was about to come out, but when he didn't appear I recognised the door opening as an unspoken invitation towards entry. So in I went.

Gabe had re-seated himself on the floor with his head against the bed. His upset was obvious; his eyes were swollen and his cheeks were glisteningly red. There was also a trail of blood down the side of his face, starting around his right ear.

I parked myself down beside him, and said: Lian?

Gabriel sniffed again, then nodded, brushing some hair out of his eyes. I asked him why he had barricaded himself inside his room as I thought he was too mature now for such tactics. He said he didn't want either Andrew or Lukas to see him in this state. I could quite empathsise with this - when I began exploring girls at fourteen Colin's eleven-year-old-boy-pain-in-the-ass quotient exploded exponentially.

I went on to ask Gabe what had occurred. He said he'd had a row with Lian that morning and that she'd finished with him. I asked what the row was about and Gabe told me it was because Lian hadn't got him anything for his birthday. Gabe said: I said I got angry and tried to pull my earring out but it wouldn't come out so I made my ear bleed. The blood on his face looked quite recent, which I pointed out. Gabe said he'd tried to clean himself up once he was home but the ear just started bleeding again. I glanced at it and told him it'd probably be best to leave it alone for the rest of the evening.

Then I said did Lian say why she didn't get you anything for your birthday? Gabe said she didn't really say anything. Then he admitted he didn't really give her chance to say anything.

I asked if Lian had ever asked what Gabriel would want for his birthday. Gabe shook his head then said she never said a thing. I sort of guessed she wasn't that interested, but I still expected her to get me something. But she didn't get me a thing. Then when I got angry, she said she didn't want me to be her boyfriend any more - that's when I tried to rip my earring out. People started laughing at me then I started getting really mad and getting mad made me cry and more people started laughing at me so I ran off. I haven't seen her since then.

So I said to Gabriel: Did you ever consider looking up how birthdays are celebrated in Myanmar? Gabe looked at me with a puzzled-little-boy expression, then asked me what I meant. So I went on: I know Lian was born in this country, but from what little I've learnt about her and her family they still maintain their cultural standards around Myanmar rather then here. Gabriel said I still don't understand you, so I said Lian still does things as if she was living in Myanmar, and not in England.

Gabe said: What's that got to do with her not getting me a birthday present? So I explained: What do you know about the way they celebrate birthdays in Myanmar? Pressie-giving is a very capitalist thing, you know. You've no idea what Lian thought she was supposed to do. If she's never received presents herself on her birthday, she'd hardly likely to think of getting you one on yours. For all you know, she might have been expecting you to get her a present. That might be what they do in Myanmar, I don't know, I've not really a clue. I think you've been very rash and I'm sorry to say you're paying the consequences. I'm sorry, but it's just lazy thinking if you consider every culture does things the same way.

Gabriel's face began to redden further. He said: So you're saying I should have gotten her a present? I said not necessarily, but I think you should have checked first with, say, Maung, of what happens on birthdays in Myanmarese culture. You've just assumed things happen in the same manner they happen in Western culture and hence you're in a mess.

Gabe took in a huge lungful of bedroom funk then let it out slowly. Then said, okay, what do I do?

I told him I didn't really know, other than apologise. Gabriel frowned and said why should I apologise? I don't even know if I've done anything wrong - what would I be apologising for? So I told him: When it comes to women and apologising, it doesn't really matter if you've done anything wrong. Just say sorry and I'm sure they'll think of *something* you've done wrong.

Give Us Yer F**king Money

I've had my fair share of aggressive cold-callers in my time (including one numpty from Virgin Credit Cards who somehow thought he'd managed to ascertain my complete credit-worthiness via a thirty-second chat then liberally chastised me for when I expressed my desire to decline to take out payment insurance for my credit-card balance) but yesterday's really nicked the garibaldi.

He'd almost had me hypnotised with his speel. True, alarms bells were warming up as he went on and on, speaking in a unique form of English that contains no spaces or pauses between individual word, and off these alarm bells sounded once the word 'andnowsirifyou'djusttellmeyoursortcodeandbankaccountnumber' spilled down the phone at me.

And the strange thing was, he rang - or at least he claimed to ring - from Cancer Research UK. Naturally, when a charity cold calls you it'd be slightly rude to ignore them, so I listened to what he had to say. He'd gotten my details via a sponsored walk I'd done with Lukas some years ago now (at least three), and went on to talk about the marvelous advances that had been made in cancer research in recent months. He had me interested and enthralled, a little.

Then he moved on to asking me whether I'd be willing to set up a regular payment from my bank account of £10 to the cause. Even though this tickled my suspicious, I said I would. He went a little overboard in his thanks and then made that pertinent request: For my precious account number and sort code.

So I said I would be unwilling to do that, but I would instead go to the Cancer Research UK web-site and set up my regular donation via that method. I would have thought - having gained my support - it would have been enough for him. But this wasn't the case; he started blurting on about administration costs (whilst ignoring the obvious plot-hole about the administration costs of cold-calling people) and tax implications and the government taking some of my dosh.

After a few further moments of chest-beating my suspiciousometer reached max and I put the phone down on him, convinced now I was being played as a potential sucker.

I immediately phoned Cancer Research UK via a number on their web-site and informed an interested lady that I had suspicions that someone was perhaps using their goodwill and data and attempting to dubiously get funds off potential supporters. This lady immediately adopted a slightly weary tome and explained that the person calling me was very probably genuine as that was something Cancer Research UK have recently taken to doing public donations have been dropping rapidly sue to the current financial woes of the capitalist world. I said that I didn't think this too good an idea. The lady said she could place a mark on their database indicating I didn't wish to be called in this manner. I said I'd like that to happen and the call ended.

This mark obviously didn't occur with immediate effect as Mr Aggressive called me back, apologising for being cut off earlier. I stopped him dead in his tracks, reiterating that I was going to set up my payment via the web-site, that I did not wished to be harrassed in this way, and that I thought this an irresponsible and slightly dubious tactic. He began to bark at me so I just shouted over him that I was not going to argue with him and put the phone down.

He didn't ring back.

I am right, aren't I? That this is irresponsible? I can imagine someone less suspicious than me handing over their details to the charity and then when everything goes through hunky-dory-like, the next time they get a request for their account details (possibly for some Nigerian businessman to launder a couple of billion pounds into the UK for the estate of some recently-deceased distant relative) they may be that little bit more willing to be a little bit more naive?

Whatever - it's just my opinion. I didn't set up the direct debit but I will. Probably.

The brewing Colin v Bryn verbal boxing match is still yet to explode. I know this is pushing aside something that is inevitable but I'm not in the mood just yet. Today is a good day (Gabe's 14th) so I've no desire to allow dampeners to be placed upon it. I've already had a fruitless day of meetings. One guy in my last meeting called the queries I've placed over his specifications as 'you being pedantic' - unexpectedly Peter Handyman jumped in before I became enraged and smacked this upstart down. He said: I am sure Bryn has far more pertinent reasons why he has raised these queries against your designs other than being pedantic and you will take notice of them and you will re-submit your specifications and Bryn will review them again, Understand?

Wow.

And so today marks the fourteenth anniversary of my second little screaming bundle of joy adding one to the world's population. And we didn't give him the best of starts in bequeathing him the instant weight around his shoulders of being called 'Gabriel', but I can blame Poppy for that, and thank her family friend or aunt (I cannot remember which) 'Gabrielle'.

Hardly noble I know but I'd asked Gabe several times what he would like as a present but had grown tired of his usual answer of dunno, just give us the money. So I got him a card, stuck twenty quid in it and left it on his bed this morning just before I left for work (as middle-son was in the shower at the time).

I may see him tonight, and I may not. Probably may not. Thankfully I'm perfectly at ease at no longer being the most important person in his life. I cannot compete with someone who has breasts. Okay, so I have breasts, but I'm not suppose to have!

One Word Too Many

I've never been able to deal with the tensions that exist between two parties when some grievance has arisen between them, hence dirtying the air and making an argument or at the very least a warm discussion between them. I experienced this several times with Poppy - at many stages of our marriage on a daily basis. Eventually we both learnt that it aided the continuation of our sanity(s) if we slept whenever a disagreement arose, then awoke in the morning and ignored that such a disagreement ever happened. This only worked for the petty ones of course. The more major ones often required the services of a United Nations negociation to lessen the chances of a major world incident breaking out. Such as my reluctance to embrace fatherhood once Andrew flopped out of Poppy's womb and put my childhood things to one side. If she could see me now - having had fatherhood (and sole fatherhood) thrust upon threefold there's hardly anything of me left that isn't a father. I wonder if she'd approve? I doubt it - she'd find some chink of a fault somewhere. There was only ever room in the Universe for one perfect being as far as Poppy was concerned and of course that was the role she selflessly devoted herself to. Until *that* gene kicked in and started eating her brain. Then everything changed.

Back to the future. My current dilemma is with my brother, who - having obviously given my home phone number to my dad - has allowed accidentally the first word spoken between myself and my father to pass between us for well over a decade. And I ain't exactly feeling chipper about it. You can think of me what you want - I'd thoroughly both hoped and expected my dad to die without me ever speaking to him, seeing him or even acknowledging him as my father. I am a forgiving person most of the time, but some positions in your family and their associated responsibilities mean some acts - if perpetrated - cannot so easily be forgiven and forgotten.

Am I over-reacting? It was just a word. One word. And I didn't even have to say anything in response to picking up the phone, so it's not wholly not my fault. But just hearing his voice felt like the punch that killed Houdini. And for added power there was the additional consideration that the person I expected to be on the other end of the phone was someone I wanted to talk to a great deal; instead I got the one person I wouldn't speak unless you threatened one of my children with torture. That's what makes it so outrageous.

Colin has tried to broach the subject of this with me a couple of times but each time I've smacked him down with a dedicated affirmation that I've no willingness to discuss it. There are questions I have that I need answers to but at the moment I do not want to ask them. The highest in priority being why Colin saw any reason for him to give my dad my home phone number. He cannot pretend that he does not know how I feel about my dad and him having any association with me or my children. It was a stupid and thoughtless thing to do.

Moving on...

Of course I am not the only one having family problems; and I can add Sarah as a member of that club. She's having problems with Ruth, based around Daniel's girlfriend and *her* children. Daniel only has Ruth every other weekend, but since Christmas Ruth has shown a reluctance to go to her dad's because of the way his girlfriend's children treat her. I learnt all this when Sarah called me last night.

I asked if these children were the kind seemingly possessed by demons. Sarah paused a little and said she'd only met them once and they seemed okay - if disinterested, clinging and blank-faced qualifies as okay. She explained that Ruth is not the kind of girl that takes any form of ribbing or sarcasm or name-calling well. She's not a bully-victim, Sarah went on - She has an expected number of friends and seems to be warmly enthusisatic about school and there are no problems; or at least none that Sarah is aware of. But she likes to hang around with "nice girls" and runs a mile if any with more dubious intentions happen along.

I told her I could be of no help whatsoever as the father of three boys. Sarah went on to chat about them a little while. I updated her about Gabriel and Lian (not that there seems to be much to update there), then she said she was surprised Andrew had not gotten himself a girlfriend yet as from the photos I'd shown of him he looked quite a catch. This formed furrows in my brow until I realised I'd never let on about Andrew's preference for boys. It never occurs to me to - Andrew is homosexual and homosexuality is Andrew; it's nothing to pay special attention to. Unless he dates either ne'erthewells or his former teachers...

Back to Ruth, Sarah said that Ruth doesn't like going to her dad's because he now lives on the edges of Portsmouth meaning that when she visits she's well out of any sort of familiar environment, and she doesn't like to spend time away from her friends. So she may just be using the kids-from-hell excuse to create a stink. I laughed a little and said it's good to know I'm not the only parent in the world with manipulative children. Sarah laughed as well, so that was good.

Then I got a telling off for having not previously told Sarah that tomorrow is Gabriel's fourteenth birthday. She said she would have sent at least a card if she'd have known. I apologised and said his birthday seemed to have crept up on me (as do all events these days) and he hasn't made a fuss and doesn't like one.

We talk more without really talking about anything and then we mutually ended the call. I like conversations like that.

So, another big day tomorrow: Gabe's 14th. And yes, yet again, it makes me feel old.

Unwanted Encounters

I am beginning to hope that my chances of the kind of relationship I'd like with Sarah are not as elusive as she seems to be. I tried four times to ring her on Saturday, each time being rewarded with a ringing that went on longer than The Last Of The Summer Wine. Upon the third attempt I tried ringing her mobile (I didn't try that method immediately as I didn't want to appear completely desperate) but that came back dead and switched off.

This annoyed me intensely, initially. I would not think it would be too much to expect that a person who has requested you call them be available to receive your call - not to be available borders on rudeness. But this emotional state lasted bare seconds (on each occasion - although by the fourth occasion this period has extended to beyond a minute) until I came back to sanity with an understanding that there'd probably be a perfectly forgivable reason for Sarah's unavailability.

So I went to bed on Saturday with a tendril of unfinished business flapping about. Thankfully I was tired so my thought processes failed to remain fixed upon this minor issue for any notable length, and I wafted gently into unconsciousness with swift effect.

I chose to leave this business unfinished for much of Sunday, as I was in a practical mood and the fairness of the weather saw me outside performing a few minor jobs that winter had seen me procrastinate about. Then once inside I donned my curlers and housecoat and set about the necessary household chores and even lumping in a handful of unnecessary ones. That's me and housework - I'm never keen to embrace such tasks but once I seem to get going I find difficulty in stopping.

Then came dinner and the Poppy Memorial discussion and Colin swearing and Andrew stomping off. Oh and Wales beat Italy; which probably was totally expected (although I do know enough about Rugby to know that Wales are probably much better than Italy).

Finally, once the dishwasher was loaded and the boys were upstairs and Colin was back absorbed in the Rugby and I had a very small measure of Glen Ord in my hand (it being Sunday) I sat down at the kitchen table and punched Sarah's number into the phone one further time.

And finally it got answered. And finally, it was Sarah! She was profuse and genuine in her apologies for not being available, and indeed her explanation was perfectly reasonable and somewhat alarming. She'd tried to drop Ruth off at Daniel's (her former husband's house) at six o'clock as arranged only to find Daniel not home, so she drove all the way home only to be immediately phoned and sworn at to a major degree by Daniel who said he'd been delayed at work and that Sarah should have waited (a whole hour sat outside his house!?) until he'd got home and by not doing so was trying to stop Daniel from seeing his daughter. Sarah offered a timetable re-arrangement but this was deemed unsuitable for Daniel's needs who remained adamant that she bring Ruth over now. So she drove Ruth back and handed her over. Then on Saturday she'd gotten a tearful call from Ruth saying that she'd run off from her dad's house as Daniel's girlfriend's children were being nasty to her so Sarah drove back to where Ruth had told her she'd run off to to pick Ruth up and take her back to Daniel's where they'd all had a heated talk for far too long, the upshot of which being Ruth came back to Sarah's. This was at half-ten last night by which time understandably Sarah was slightly frazzled and just wanted to tunnel into bed and go to sleep.

Once she'd gotten all this out she asked how I was. I told her I was okay, and then (for want of anything better to talk about) I told her about my request of my boys to visit Poppy's memorial and their reluctance to do so. Sarah said: I suppose they've all dealt with losing their mum in their own ways, and perhaps are a little scared of taking some steps back in acknowledging that aspect of their pasts. I said I didn't think it ran as deep as that, I just thought all three of them could not really be bothered. Sarah asked if I was bothered. I told her not overly, but it felt the right thing to do. I then moved the conversation on from what was too morbid a subject.

Sarah asked how I was getting on with my Lent resolve. I told her I was sticking to it. I didn't tell her that last Thursday I'd completely forgotten about it and had eaten a ham sandwich for lunch.

Then I heard a doorbell go at Sarah's end. She asked me to wait and I did so. And when she came back to the phone I immediately heard how flustered she sounded. She told me that Daniel had just turned up on her doorstep demanding to talk to her, and that she'd ring me back once he'd gone. I'd barely time to say okay and bye.

I topped up my drink and began to re-read Saturday's Guardian. Barely fifteen passed before the phone rang, so I picked it up and said Hello with (what turned out to be un-) suitable brightness.

Colin? said an old and sadly still familiar voice. I seemed to have swallowed a grapefruit as I suddenly could feel one in my throat. I croaked out a 'No' then put the phone down and stepped away from it and into the lounge. Colin seemed to be in a Sunday-afternoon daze on the sofa, so I shook him back to full consciousness and told him he had a call. As he blinked back to full awareness he asked who from and very coldly, I said: Dad. I watched as Colin's face paled then he hurriedly vanished into the kitchen, shutting the door.

Fifteen minutes later he emerged from the kitchen, wanting to talk to me, but I told him not to speak to me.

And with grim inevitability, Sarah never rang back.

I Can't Go for That (No Can Do)

Sometimes, it is highly surprising how much resistance one can encounter from three teenage boys (or rather two teenage boys and one who's almost a teenager) when you present them with even the simplest of requests. Of course, I face these expected pressures whenever I nudge any of my three towards their allotted task in the household chores rotation (now fully back in use after Gabriel's shouldering of all tasks following his light-fingered Christmas activity), but that's fair enough. Housework and children go together like chilli and chocolate (no matter how much the manufacturers of Walker's Crisps are trying to persuade us) and it'd be ridiculous to hope otherwise. Even then I just get the merest rumblings of discontent rather than out and out rebellion - what comes with the 'all lads together' attitude of growing up motherless. At least that's my theory. Despite what Colin may say and think the house is never utterly spotless but neither is it dirty and chaotic - we've learn how to establish a happy equilibrium that functions the way that we want and need it to so we're happy. It was much the same when Poppy was still alive. She never burdened herself (or burdened us) with hours of pointless housework for the sake of keeping everything nice and shiny. As long as we were all practically and functionally clean it was good enough for her and it was certainly good enough for the rest of us.

So, when I suggested we all get together and visit Poppy's memorial stone next Sunday (I'd changed my original idea from this Sunday to next Sunday as next Sunday is Mothering Sunday - a day that very nearly escapes any attention from me every year as neither myself nor any of my sons any longer possesses a living mother) I was stunned by the frowns and groans and lack of interest my quite reasonable suggestion engendered. And when I became insistent that it was something I think we ought, as a family, to do, the frowns and groans became angrier and the resistance to this notion became substantially more pronounced.

I'd insisted in all three of them being present around five for a family dinner, as I'd slaved over a lasagne - a properly constructed one as well, nothing packeted and both sauces created from scratch. And of course a separate veggie one for eldest-son. This is largely one of my most efficient signature dishes and usually a winner. I'd even made enough for Colin, but he disappointed me in not joining the family throng at the kitchen table, instead insisting on eating his dinner on his lap whilst watching Italy v Wales. So, once all three boys were heartily tucking in to their grub I broached my idea of visiting their mother's memorial stone on Mothering Sunday.

The most opposed: Andrew. He said he just did not see the point. So I said to him that there really was no point, that was the whole point. It felt the right thing to do, and sometimes it just seems right to do things that you think it is right to do. Andrew said that I was making no sense and that he would not be going. When I asked him why and he just said it didn't seem right to him to be visiting a mother's memorial when he'd forgotten virtually all about his mother, was coping quite adequately without one and had not as yet forgiven his mother for leaving him and his brothers.

I got no support from Gabriel, who I'd supposed would use the excuse of his need to be with Lian twenty-four-seven (school and sleeping permitting) to turn down my proposal. Instead, he took a different route - he agreed with Andrew in that visiting Poppy's memorial would be pointless as - he rather cold-heartedly pointed out - she was dead, reduced to ashes and it made no difference to her whether we visited her memorial or not. He said: I hardly think she's in heaven looking down on us, in fact, don't people who commit suicide go to hell? Not that I think either heaven or hell actually exists, he added.

I said that that was a terrible thing to say, but Gabe just shrugged and said I don't make the rules.

When I pulled Lukas into the debate he said he couldn't even remember anything about his mother so there would be no point in him going as it wouldn't mean anything to him, but he'd come along if I twisted his arm painfully enough. I told him I wasn't going to force him to do something if he really didn't want to.

So, my hopes dashed. But then my trusty knight on a shining steed came unexpectedly forth from the rugby, looking ruddy-faced and brimming with temper.

He addressed my boys in general and said: You three really are selfish c***s, aren't you? And yes, he did actually use the c-word. The ambience surrounding the kitchen table dipped and became beyond silent. Colin went on: Before your mother became your mother you do realise that she was first your dad's girlfriend and lover, then his wife? And that perhaps because of this your dad would like to pay respects to his late wife, rather then your dead mum? And therefore perhaps it might just be decent of you to do something for him for a change, instead of continuing with the charade that everything just resolves around you?

No one replied to this, so Colin stomped back out of the kitchen and returned to the rugby.

I took up my fork and re-commenced dinner. Andrew was the one who broke the silence: He said, are you going to let him talk to us like that? Before I could answer, Gabe jumped in and yelled Shut it Andrew you d*ck! Colin's right and if you can't see that then you're the biggest d*ck ever!

And then Lukas sniggered.

Andrew calmly placed his fork on his plate, stood up, and left the table. We heard the opera of him stomping up the stairs then slamming his door.

We ate the remainder of our meal in silence. Andrew's went in the bin. And I've no idea who won the rugby.

This May Be The Start Of Something

So, in the end, I returned Sarah's call. I decided the best policy to be for me would be have no expectations; and make no rehearsals as I am habitually guilty of. Just pick up the phone, listen to what she has to say, make conversation and see what happens going forwards. I did have to wonder exactly what I was becoming. Apart from an idiot, of course.

Yesterday evening found me alone. I had no idea where Andrew was - I was just glad he was out somewhere as he's been a social hermit for about a fortnight now, which I don't think is good for him at all. Gabriel I assume was at Lian's, although I'd no evidence of that, but if he's not at home, school or kick-boxing there's hardly anywhere else he's likely to be. Lukas had left me a note blu-tacked to the fridge saying he was at Danny's. Colin was not around - which was the biggest relief - and indeed has hardly been around all week. I genuinely hope he's carving inroads into his alleged quest for employment and accomodation.

So I came home to emptiness (aside from Ripley who immediately set about playing with my socks which soon became a tad annoying as I was still wearing them) and Lukas's note, fixed just below Sarah's phone number. As my solitude wasn't broken as I fixed myself a cheese salad sandwich and once I'd wolfed it down I decided that I really ought to phone Sarah, for politeness-sake at the very least. So I grabbed the phone and punched in her number, forcing a burp out that was hiding in my stomach, just in case.

The first voice I heard was female, although obviously not an adult. It said hello - and I was a bit taken aback as of course I was all prepared to be talking to someone significantly older. I quickly pondered the protocol in such circumstances - should I just ask for mummy, as I was assuming I was speaking to Ruth, Sarah's daughter, or should I make at least an initial indication of who I was, and exchange three-second's worth of pleasantries? In the end I plumped for a friendly Is that Ruth? Followed by a request to talk to her mother, once the high-pitched voice on the older end had confirmed that she was indeed, Ruth.

I heard the phone being clunked down and the sound of footsteps fading. And then muffled voices. And then nothing...

After about forty seconds of nothingness I attemped a loud "hello?" down the phone but to no avail, and I could imagine the phone on the other end of the line sitting forlorn and forgotten, wherever that was - if it was our phone it would be on top of the fridge.

I wondered if I should replace the receiver and try again, or just wait. In the end I waited. And then I waited a bit more. Then I hung up, redialed the number, and got the engaged tone.

Damn. This was not the success I was hoping it was going to be. I waited a few minutes before trying again, and this time I got four ring-tones before it was answered and to my relief, I finally found myself speaking to Sarah. For want of anything better I could think of to say, I said Hi, It's Bryn.

Oh, hi Bryn, Sarah replied with reassuring brightness. Did you just ring a few minutes ago and speak to Ruth? I told her I did, but then that the line when dead. Sarah apologised and said I was in the bath, didn't Ruth get back to you? I said no, but not to worry.

Then a unexpected silence began. Which then unexpectedly stretched. Until finally I said you rang me, a couple of days ago?

Sarah replied in a thoughtful voice: I did. I did indeed.

When this prompted nothing further, I apologised for not getting back to her sooner, explaining that I'd had a busy couple of days (which was of course, not exactly truthful). Sarah said there for no need for me to apologise. And again, followed this up with a silence I had no idea how to fill. So for a second time I thought things were not going a quarter as well as I had hoped.

But finally Sarah spoke. She said, I'm sorry I haven't rung to speak to you earlier, but ... I've been thinking quite a bit about things, and I'm not the bravest person in the world, as you've probably noticed.

I said I hadn't; whilst wondering where all this was going.

Sarah half-laughed and said: You see, I'm a terrible coward. Which is why I was so awful to you after our meal together.

Again, I felt a need to interject and deny any wrong-doing on her part, so I did so. But Sarah dismissed this, saying that it was clear I didn't want the evening to end, and she'd been wrong to leave me standing outside the Travelodge all alone and abandoned.

This seemed to be getting a little awkward; I had visions of Sarah imagining me to be some one-dimensional sex-addict, but I didn't really know how I was going to disillusion her of this.

But she pressed on: The thing is, Bryn, since I've been back in Southampton my mind has surprised me. It's surprised me how much I've been thinking of you.

[oh be still my beating heart]

Then Sarah said: And the weirdest thing is, I don't know how to stop thinking about you, or even if I want to stop thinking about you.

My breathing quickened, and I couldn't think of a single thing to say.

But before I could say the things I didn't have to say, Sarah said: I'm sorry Bryn, I shouldn't have called you. Plus this is a bad time as I have to go out as I have to take Ruth to Daniel's (whom I assumed to be her ex) as it's his turn to have her and I can't really talk any further.

She asked me to ring her again tomorrow, early afternoon, when she had more time. Then we exchanged goodbyes and the call ended.

So more opportunity for my mind to continue to turn somersaults. But by golly, I will be ringing Sarah a little later on today.