The Soapboxx
Monday, December 11, 2006
It Must Be A Right Pain To Be An Agony Aunt, But What About The Readers?
In the past few months, without reason, meaning or justification, I've found myself drawn towards the Agony Aunt columns in pretty much every tabloid newspaper or trashy magazine I've been reading.
And I have no idea why.
I do know, however, that it's got me thinking. About a couple of things actually. First of all, how desperate do you have to be to write a letter to a publication for help when you must know that the answer you receive will be very generic, tailored to a greater point and basically useless? And secondly, do Agony Aunts have any kind of government body (the 'AAA' perhaps), that judges these judges, because even that general advice can and probably does cause all kinds of misery and destruction? Or is the entire business absolutely and totally fake and has itself kind of become a weak parody of those letters in Viz that spoofed the entire thing in the first place?
Think about it. Somebody - let's call him Jim, from Somerset - is feeling a bit uncomfortable that his wife is suddenly working late at the office each and every day, going away for 'training' most weekends, wearing a lot of push-up bras and expensive perfume and staying up late at night watching Bravo. So what does he do? Speak to his or her friends, follow her to work, hire a private investigator or, heaven forbid, confront her directly? No. He puts pen to paper and sends a letter off to bloody Claire Rayner. And what's she going to do exactly? State the bleeding obvious, of course, and tell him all the things he really must have known anyway. And if he didn't, then he deserves to be cheated on, let's face it.
But let's say she tells him to do what I suggested (in your face, Rayner) and he confronts his wife about her behaviour. What if the wife isn't cheating, and has made all of this effort for Jim, because she feels bad that she's working all hours and doesn't want him to feel left out? What if they have a massive row about it and end up splitting up anyway? What then, Rayner? What then? Another visit to the cake shop, I'd wager.
Nobody follows these stories up. Even assuming that they're true to start with, we're all none the wiser. We weren't aware of the problems before we read the letter, and we aren't aware of the end result.
But, believe it or not, another failed marriage isn't the end of the world. Neither is erectile dysfunction, a failure to achieve orgasm, an inability to prevent orgasm, bleeding nipples, incontinence, bestiality or most of the other typical letters the Agony Aunt receives (believe me, I know, because the bastards have ignored all of mine).
What concerns me is how many of these letters they must not print, either because they're simply not suitable for mass consumption, because they're too weird or, and this must happen, they're just plain wrong.
If I was a serial killer and fancied a bit of help, I know that I'd want to write to Miriam Stoppard and the Daily Mirror. "Dear Miriam," I'd say, "I'm on to my sixth victim and I can't see this coming to an end. Any tips or pointers? Yours, Disturbed from Hastings." And let's take a flight of fancy and imagine that she actually (a) read, and (b) published it, what could she possibly say?
It probably helps to consider how she approaches these things in the first place. "I'm not sure I give advice," she once said, "What I hope to do is to give the reader, for a moment, a new pair of spectacles which might put a different slant of light on their problem."
Well, OK. So going with past performance I'd expect a certain vagueness in the reply, and would envisage something like, "Dear Disturbed," she'd write, "Oh my! You have got yourself in a pickle. I suggest that, next time you leave the house, instead of packing a variety of knives, duct tape and chloroform, bring a good book instead. And a stress ball. Good luck!"
And it's not as if they ever ask anyone to write back again and let them know how they got on, because that would start adding a cheques and balances system to the Agony Aunt column, and suddenly make it all very serious indeed. But it is serious, surely, because if you're the kind of person who writes into these things in the first place, it has to be serious to you, doesn't it? I'm pretty sure you must have ran out of options. It's safe to say you're looking for decent advice.
And you'll be comforted to know that both Miriam Stoppard and Claire Rayner have had the best of training. Oh, wait, sorry - they haven't. Stoppard was a physician for about two weeks before she became a 'TV doctor' (translation: walking pamphlet) and Rayner was a nurse. Now, while these lovely ladies might be able to come up with a basic quick-fix answer to a reader concerned about Bird Flu or whether that bleeding mole on his left testicle needs to be checked out by a (real) doctor, they're not going to be an awful lot of use when it comes to anything that's even remotely psychologically pressing, are they?
And that kind of defeats the point, to me, because for the most part, the letters that are sent into these publications are problems of the mind. That's the agony part. Nobody writes in to the Daily Mirror and says, "My leg hurts." It's not that kind of agony. It's matters of the heart, and I fancy that 99.99% of the experience of both Rayner and Stoppard comes from their column in the first place. Chicken and the egg? Well, that's a bit rude, as I'm sure they both have lovely personalities.
I tell you what: I bet if somebody did a big exposé on what appears to be the safe and harmless Agony Aunt industry they'd uncover a web of sin. And more, too: intrigue, carnal lust and crime. And that's just in their own offices. Even if everything that is ultimately printed is not genuine, they must still receive tonnes of letters that they could never possibly publish, that are handed over to the police only after they've been photocopied and passed around Fleet Street. Letters that contain all manner of foulness and depravity. Tales of mass-fornication, Devil-worship and sheep worrying. Outside of Wales. And worse.
Because, believe me, it does get a lot worse. Robert Ressler, ex-FBI agent and the grandfather of the modern serial killer profiler, once observed that "Whoever fights monsters, must become one themselves." If that's even halfway true, just imagine how messed up Marje Proops was.
And I have no idea why.
I do know, however, that it's got me thinking. About a couple of things actually. First of all, how desperate do you have to be to write a letter to a publication for help when you must know that the answer you receive will be very generic, tailored to a greater point and basically useless? And secondly, do Agony Aunts have any kind of government body (the 'AAA' perhaps), that judges these judges, because even that general advice can and probably does cause all kinds of misery and destruction? Or is the entire business absolutely and totally fake and has itself kind of become a weak parody of those letters in Viz that spoofed the entire thing in the first place?
Think about it. Somebody - let's call him Jim, from Somerset - is feeling a bit uncomfortable that his wife is suddenly working late at the office each and every day, going away for 'training' most weekends, wearing a lot of push-up bras and expensive perfume and staying up late at night watching Bravo. So what does he do? Speak to his or her friends, follow her to work, hire a private investigator or, heaven forbid, confront her directly? No. He puts pen to paper and sends a letter off to bloody Claire Rayner. And what's she going to do exactly? State the bleeding obvious, of course, and tell him all the things he really must have known anyway. And if he didn't, then he deserves to be cheated on, let's face it.
But let's say she tells him to do what I suggested (in your face, Rayner) and he confronts his wife about her behaviour. What if the wife isn't cheating, and has made all of this effort for Jim, because she feels bad that she's working all hours and doesn't want him to feel left out? What if they have a massive row about it and end up splitting up anyway? What then, Rayner? What then? Another visit to the cake shop, I'd wager.
Nobody follows these stories up. Even assuming that they're true to start with, we're all none the wiser. We weren't aware of the problems before we read the letter, and we aren't aware of the end result.
But, believe it or not, another failed marriage isn't the end of the world. Neither is erectile dysfunction, a failure to achieve orgasm, an inability to prevent orgasm, bleeding nipples, incontinence, bestiality or most of the other typical letters the Agony Aunt receives (believe me, I know, because the bastards have ignored all of mine).
What concerns me is how many of these letters they must not print, either because they're simply not suitable for mass consumption, because they're too weird or, and this must happen, they're just plain wrong.
If I was a serial killer and fancied a bit of help, I know that I'd want to write to Miriam Stoppard and the Daily Mirror. "Dear Miriam," I'd say, "I'm on to my sixth victim and I can't see this coming to an end. Any tips or pointers? Yours, Disturbed from Hastings." And let's take a flight of fancy and imagine that she actually (a) read, and (b) published it, what could she possibly say?
It probably helps to consider how she approaches these things in the first place. "I'm not sure I give advice," she once said, "What I hope to do is to give the reader, for a moment, a new pair of spectacles which might put a different slant of light on their problem."
Well, OK. So going with past performance I'd expect a certain vagueness in the reply, and would envisage something like, "Dear Disturbed," she'd write, "Oh my! You have got yourself in a pickle. I suggest that, next time you leave the house, instead of packing a variety of knives, duct tape and chloroform, bring a good book instead. And a stress ball. Good luck!"
And it's not as if they ever ask anyone to write back again and let them know how they got on, because that would start adding a cheques and balances system to the Agony Aunt column, and suddenly make it all very serious indeed. But it is serious, surely, because if you're the kind of person who writes into these things in the first place, it has to be serious to you, doesn't it? I'm pretty sure you must have ran out of options. It's safe to say you're looking for decent advice.
And you'll be comforted to know that both Miriam Stoppard and Claire Rayner have had the best of training. Oh, wait, sorry - they haven't. Stoppard was a physician for about two weeks before she became a 'TV doctor' (translation: walking pamphlet) and Rayner was a nurse. Now, while these lovely ladies might be able to come up with a basic quick-fix answer to a reader concerned about Bird Flu or whether that bleeding mole on his left testicle needs to be checked out by a (real) doctor, they're not going to be an awful lot of use when it comes to anything that's even remotely psychologically pressing, are they?
And that kind of defeats the point, to me, because for the most part, the letters that are sent into these publications are problems of the mind. That's the agony part. Nobody writes in to the Daily Mirror and says, "My leg hurts." It's not that kind of agony. It's matters of the heart, and I fancy that 99.99% of the experience of both Rayner and Stoppard comes from their column in the first place. Chicken and the egg? Well, that's a bit rude, as I'm sure they both have lovely personalities.
I tell you what: I bet if somebody did a big exposé on what appears to be the safe and harmless Agony Aunt industry they'd uncover a web of sin. And more, too: intrigue, carnal lust and crime. And that's just in their own offices. Even if everything that is ultimately printed is not genuine, they must still receive tonnes of letters that they could never possibly publish, that are handed over to the police only after they've been photocopied and passed around Fleet Street. Letters that contain all manner of foulness and depravity. Tales of mass-fornication, Devil-worship and sheep worrying. Outside of Wales. And worse.
Because, believe me, it does get a lot worse. Robert Ressler, ex-FBI agent and the grandfather of the modern serial killer profiler, once observed that "Whoever fights monsters, must become one themselves." If that's even halfway true, just imagine how messed up Marje Proops was.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Being A Great Dad Is Easy - Just Ignore Every Piece Of Advice You've Ever Been Given
One day last week, making my way back home on the 1740 from Cannon Street, I found myself in the position of being thoroughly bored.
I'd read the Evening Standard, skimmed through the London Lite and the London Paper, and even had a quick look at somebody's discarded Metro before realising I'm not one of those idiots who reads that morning's free paper later that evening. Which, incidentally, is the very definition of cheap. And daft. Not only are you too mean to hand over fifty pence for a Standard, you're too moronic to realise that a dozen other free papers, magazines and supplements are available for your commuting pleasure each and every weekday evening. Clearly, you're happy with old news, as long as it's free. What a result for humanity.
My iPod, curse it to Hades and back, was once again complaining of a flat battery, even though I'd charged it to the hilt for seventy-two hours and it was proclaiming itself satisifed for a good forty-eight of them. No, clearly forty seconds of Won't Get Fooled Again was too much for it, and it died a miserable and undignified death.
So, with a heavy sigh and a quick glance into the window of the train to ensure that I looked really miserable, I let my eyes wander around the carriage in search of amusement. I didn't have to look far, because there, just in front of me, was a discarded magazine, still shrinkwrapped.
And it had Alex Curran on the cover.
Alex Curran is, probably, the only woman I would ever leave my wife and family for at 4am on a Tuesday morning. Every other day of the week she wouldn't stand a chance, but by God, she's a cracking lass. I'm not sure my wife even knows who she is, which of course works in my favour, but if she saw her, she'd definitely agree. How could she not? We're only human, after all.
I tore off the wrapping with something approaching bloodlust, and while doing so, glanced at the rest of the cover. Stephen Gerrard was on there, too, of course, which put me off slightly as he's (a) a prat, and (b) about as deserving of Curran as Hitler was of Eva Braun. Which however you break it down, is not very much at all. He's also, alas, (c) a multi-millionaire, which I, again alas, am not, and probably says as much about Curran as anything on her magnificent frame, because she quite simply must realise that Gerrard isn't fit to lick the chewing gum off of her stilettos. I wouldn't go as far as proclaiming her a gold-digger, but let's face it: if Gerrard worked in Tesco, he'd be doing well to get a kiss on the cheek from Ann Widdecombe.
I scanned the articles listed on the cover: '17 Deadly Dad Sins, And How To Avoid Them', 'Are You A Pushy Parent?', 'Santa's Sorted: Twenty Best Kid's Presents' and, and I kid you not, 'Staying Alive: John Travolta's Guide To Parenting'. I suppose we should be grateful they didn't ask Chris Langham.
And then I noticed the title of the publication: FQ. And finally it hit me.
Father's Quarterly.
Really, who thinks this stuff up? Somewhere, at some point, some team of somebodies brain-stormed this and concluded that the most appealing title a magazine written by and about fathers could have was Father's Quarterly. And, better, they could make it a heck of a lot cooler by shortening it to FQ. Christ, even 'Dad's Mag' would have been better, and they must have known this because underneath the title in small print it excitedly states that it's 'The Essential Dad's Mag'.
But all this, of course, is absolutely moot, as I was soon to realise, because in no way, shape or form is this magazine worth even one second of your time, and it's about as far away from 'essential' as a human being is from the moon. And as nobody has been there since 1972, that's bloody miles.
Eager as I was to unveil more pictures of the delicious Curran, I plouged on. It opened to a two-page Mamas & Papas pushchair advert, which was good, because as a father I only took care of that months before any of my children were born and don't really feel it all that likely that I'll be looking to trade it in for a newer model. And of course the parent in the advertisement was a woman, so well researched there.
The index had a feature on some of the contributors, and one of them - and I swear this is true - had the surname of Cholmondeley. If anybody needs to not be having children, it's him.
A few adverts for 4x4s later we come to the first main feature, 'The Top Ten Songs About Fathers', and one of them was only Madonna's frickin' Papa Don't Preach.
Then the aforementioned John Travolta piece was upon me. 'If you let a kid decide on their own, they'll fall asleep within 30 minutes. If you're strict, they'll be up to midnight,' says the near-billionaire, Jumbo Jet-owning and Scientology-preaching master to forty or fifty servants. How many nappies do you think he's really changed, realistically? A couple for each kid, maybe?
After a piece where the token female contributor whined that all of her single mates were out having a blast while she was at home looking after her child - yes, that does come with the job, dear - there was another advert for a pushchair, again featuring a woman.
By now I was losing patience, so I rapidly flicked through the pages trying to find the feature on Curran, which I'd assumed would come with some kind of reward, like maybe a tastefully-done breastfeeding sequence. But no. Because this was Father's Quarterly, it only had eyes for Gerrard, and in several pages of him waffling on about how he hates it when the baby wakes his fleet of nannies in their £2m mansion, there was only one tiny picture of Curran, and she wasn't even naked.
The '17 Deadly Dad Sins' suggested that, post-natal, you should record your waist-size twice a week in case you turn into Kerry Katona, be mindful not to be too jealous of the baby while being careful not to neglect the missus, control your rage during the sleepless nights and avoid being a 'baby bore' with friends.
All sound advice. All blatantly obvious to everybody except for the sort of people who are never in a million years going to come anywhere near a magazine like FQ, because it just won't fall into their social circle. You know, inbreds and people who live on council estates.
Then we had several thrilling pages on father fashion, several pages on family cars, another pram advert and an odd section called 'Dad Reviews', where the male parent cast his learned eye over the latest music, books and films. Quite why anyone thought that simply because one is a father one is suddenly a member of some kind of club where because of this we all have similar tastes and expectations in our entertainment basically beggars belief.
The magazine closed with a predictably trite quotes page (which they at least had the good sense to title 'Blah Blah'), and even included one from Tom Cruise. As Cruise quite clearly isn't anybody's natural father, one wonders if this really was intelligent copy. Surely his contribution would have been better served in AQ? And if they haven't got around to publishing that yet, well, somebody really needs to pull their finger out.
In short - and I realise I've rambled on a bit here but these things need to be done - the whole thing is rubbish, and offers about as much enlightment to a new parent as a packet of value nappies. Which doesn't go any further than, "Crap. I won't be buying that again."
The thing is, being a great dad is basically pretty simple. All you have to do to be a winner in your children's eyes is to make things fun. A lot of fun. If your baby daughter can't find her dummy, make a huge game out of tracking it down. And when you do, pick her up by her legs, spin her upside down, start doing the theme from Mission Impossible and relish in her laughter as she flaps around trying to pick the thing up.
If your 6-year old wants to play ninjas with the baby's doll, a giant Spider-Man figure and a few random bits of Lego, by God, let him. Better yet, join in. Give the doll a deep, cockney voice and make Spider-Man a bit of a whoopsie and you're pretty much guaranteeing you'll never be dumped at a rest home.
And if your 10-year old comes home from school in a really foul mood, once you've established that nothing serious has happened and he's just being his usual I'm-really-17-year old self, take the piss something chronic. Then, when he gets really wound up and says or does something awful, ban him from the Playstation for the rest of the week. It's the only way they learn. Heck, it worked for me.
Basically, use your common sense. Homework, putting together elaborate art projects, decisions to do with clothes, or anything else that comes with an unhealthy dollop of dull: pass that over to mum. Women live for that stuff. It's a bit of a cliche that the man is the 'fun parent' and the woman is the comforter, but like so many other stereotypes it's an absolute fact and we all secretly know it.
When my wife and I were expecting our first child, some friends of ours relished in enriching us with their own experiences of what, quite clearly, were nightmare children. It put the fear in me, for sure, and took me a good few months before I realised that it was actually all a bit of a doddle. Yes, they fall down, and yes, sometimes they creep away and hide at Tesco and absolutely terrify you for about nine minutes, and yes, a bin full of nappies really does make you question whether you could get by without nostrils, or perhaps just one, but overall, when you really look at it, they're a snip.
Which, coincidentally, is something I must be getting myself, and soon. I've had three of the little buggers now, and a forth one really does sound like a bloody nightmare. I wonder if WH Smith has the new edition of VQ?
I'd read the Evening Standard, skimmed through the London Lite and the London Paper, and even had a quick look at somebody's discarded Metro before realising I'm not one of those idiots who reads that morning's free paper later that evening. Which, incidentally, is the very definition of cheap. And daft. Not only are you too mean to hand over fifty pence for a Standard, you're too moronic to realise that a dozen other free papers, magazines and supplements are available for your commuting pleasure each and every weekday evening. Clearly, you're happy with old news, as long as it's free. What a result for humanity.
My iPod, curse it to Hades and back, was once again complaining of a flat battery, even though I'd charged it to the hilt for seventy-two hours and it was proclaiming itself satisifed for a good forty-eight of them. No, clearly forty seconds of Won't Get Fooled Again was too much for it, and it died a miserable and undignified death.
So, with a heavy sigh and a quick glance into the window of the train to ensure that I looked really miserable, I let my eyes wander around the carriage in search of amusement. I didn't have to look far, because there, just in front of me, was a discarded magazine, still shrinkwrapped.
And it had Alex Curran on the cover.
Alex Curran is, probably, the only woman I would ever leave my wife and family for at 4am on a Tuesday morning. Every other day of the week she wouldn't stand a chance, but by God, she's a cracking lass. I'm not sure my wife even knows who she is, which of course works in my favour, but if she saw her, she'd definitely agree. How could she not? We're only human, after all.
I tore off the wrapping with something approaching bloodlust, and while doing so, glanced at the rest of the cover. Stephen Gerrard was on there, too, of course, which put me off slightly as he's (a) a prat, and (b) about as deserving of Curran as Hitler was of Eva Braun. Which however you break it down, is not very much at all. He's also, alas, (c) a multi-millionaire, which I, again alas, am not, and probably says as much about Curran as anything on her magnificent frame, because she quite simply must realise that Gerrard isn't fit to lick the chewing gum off of her stilettos. I wouldn't go as far as proclaiming her a gold-digger, but let's face it: if Gerrard worked in Tesco, he'd be doing well to get a kiss on the cheek from Ann Widdecombe.
I scanned the articles listed on the cover: '17 Deadly Dad Sins, And How To Avoid Them', 'Are You A Pushy Parent?', 'Santa's Sorted: Twenty Best Kid's Presents' and, and I kid you not, 'Staying Alive: John Travolta's Guide To Parenting'. I suppose we should be grateful they didn't ask Chris Langham.
And then I noticed the title of the publication: FQ. And finally it hit me.
Father's Quarterly.
Really, who thinks this stuff up? Somewhere, at some point, some team of somebodies brain-stormed this and concluded that the most appealing title a magazine written by and about fathers could have was Father's Quarterly. And, better, they could make it a heck of a lot cooler by shortening it to FQ. Christ, even 'Dad's Mag' would have been better, and they must have known this because underneath the title in small print it excitedly states that it's 'The Essential Dad's Mag'.
But all this, of course, is absolutely moot, as I was soon to realise, because in no way, shape or form is this magazine worth even one second of your time, and it's about as far away from 'essential' as a human being is from the moon. And as nobody has been there since 1972, that's bloody miles.
Eager as I was to unveil more pictures of the delicious Curran, I plouged on. It opened to a two-page Mamas & Papas pushchair advert, which was good, because as a father I only took care of that months before any of my children were born and don't really feel it all that likely that I'll be looking to trade it in for a newer model. And of course the parent in the advertisement was a woman, so well researched there.
The index had a feature on some of the contributors, and one of them - and I swear this is true - had the surname of Cholmondeley. If anybody needs to not be having children, it's him.
A few adverts for 4x4s later we come to the first main feature, 'The Top Ten Songs About Fathers', and one of them was only Madonna's frickin' Papa Don't Preach.
Then the aforementioned John Travolta piece was upon me. 'If you let a kid decide on their own, they'll fall asleep within 30 minutes. If you're strict, they'll be up to midnight,' says the near-billionaire, Jumbo Jet-owning and Scientology-preaching master to forty or fifty servants. How many nappies do you think he's really changed, realistically? A couple for each kid, maybe?
After a piece where the token female contributor whined that all of her single mates were out having a blast while she was at home looking after her child - yes, that does come with the job, dear - there was another advert for a pushchair, again featuring a woman.
By now I was losing patience, so I rapidly flicked through the pages trying to find the feature on Curran, which I'd assumed would come with some kind of reward, like maybe a tastefully-done breastfeeding sequence. But no. Because this was Father's Quarterly, it only had eyes for Gerrard, and in several pages of him waffling on about how he hates it when the baby wakes his fleet of nannies in their £2m mansion, there was only one tiny picture of Curran, and she wasn't even naked.
The '17 Deadly Dad Sins' suggested that, post-natal, you should record your waist-size twice a week in case you turn into Kerry Katona, be mindful not to be too jealous of the baby while being careful not to neglect the missus, control your rage during the sleepless nights and avoid being a 'baby bore' with friends.
All sound advice. All blatantly obvious to everybody except for the sort of people who are never in a million years going to come anywhere near a magazine like FQ, because it just won't fall into their social circle. You know, inbreds and people who live on council estates.
Then we had several thrilling pages on father fashion, several pages on family cars, another pram advert and an odd section called 'Dad Reviews', where the male parent cast his learned eye over the latest music, books and films. Quite why anyone thought that simply because one is a father one is suddenly a member of some kind of club where because of this we all have similar tastes and expectations in our entertainment basically beggars belief.
The magazine closed with a predictably trite quotes page (which they at least had the good sense to title 'Blah Blah'), and even included one from Tom Cruise. As Cruise quite clearly isn't anybody's natural father, one wonders if this really was intelligent copy. Surely his contribution would have been better served in AQ? And if they haven't got around to publishing that yet, well, somebody really needs to pull their finger out.
In short - and I realise I've rambled on a bit here but these things need to be done - the whole thing is rubbish, and offers about as much enlightment to a new parent as a packet of value nappies. Which doesn't go any further than, "Crap. I won't be buying that again."
The thing is, being a great dad is basically pretty simple. All you have to do to be a winner in your children's eyes is to make things fun. A lot of fun. If your baby daughter can't find her dummy, make a huge game out of tracking it down. And when you do, pick her up by her legs, spin her upside down, start doing the theme from Mission Impossible and relish in her laughter as she flaps around trying to pick the thing up.
If your 6-year old wants to play ninjas with the baby's doll, a giant Spider-Man figure and a few random bits of Lego, by God, let him. Better yet, join in. Give the doll a deep, cockney voice and make Spider-Man a bit of a whoopsie and you're pretty much guaranteeing you'll never be dumped at a rest home.
And if your 10-year old comes home from school in a really foul mood, once you've established that nothing serious has happened and he's just being his usual I'm-really-17-year old self, take the piss something chronic. Then, when he gets really wound up and says or does something awful, ban him from the Playstation for the rest of the week. It's the only way they learn. Heck, it worked for me.
Basically, use your common sense. Homework, putting together elaborate art projects, decisions to do with clothes, or anything else that comes with an unhealthy dollop of dull: pass that over to mum. Women live for that stuff. It's a bit of a cliche that the man is the 'fun parent' and the woman is the comforter, but like so many other stereotypes it's an absolute fact and we all secretly know it.
When my wife and I were expecting our first child, some friends of ours relished in enriching us with their own experiences of what, quite clearly, were nightmare children. It put the fear in me, for sure, and took me a good few months before I realised that it was actually all a bit of a doddle. Yes, they fall down, and yes, sometimes they creep away and hide at Tesco and absolutely terrify you for about nine minutes, and yes, a bin full of nappies really does make you question whether you could get by without nostrils, or perhaps just one, but overall, when you really look at it, they're a snip.
Which, coincidentally, is something I must be getting myself, and soon. I've had three of the little buggers now, and a forth one really does sound like a bloody nightmare. I wonder if WH Smith has the new edition of VQ?
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