Oh Mummy, Daddy...

Down to Essex to see my ma and pa.

We've been holding off on seeing them for a few weeks, waiting for the all clear from the scans. It was all a bit up in the air until virtually the last minute. There was a possibility they would be in Suffolk, in Nana's holiday cottage, but this was all down to Nana herself. Nana is slowly fading away now, and she's become increasingly difficult for my mother to cope with. When K___ was pregnant with Olivia, back in May 2006, I wrote about how Nana was "quite dependant on daily visits from my mother and she's no longer the extremely bright, irreverent and creative woman I grew up with". Back then I was quite resigned to thinking she might not make it through to seeing Olivia born. At risk of demonstrating quite how poor my powers of perception are, I am very resigned to thinking she won't make it through to see the next one born, and to be honest, it will be a blessing.

... I'm getting ahead of myself.

The drive down was pretty easy - 2.5 hours on the nose, arriving just before lunch. Olivia slept for about two hours of it, which was great. We pulled up outside my parent's house and got her from her seat and K___ stood her in the street (it's a cul de sac), with the car shielding her from my parent's house, in case they were looking and put bunches in Olivia's hair. She looked very cute indeed!

Olivia seemed a bit wary of my folks at first. I suppose that at her age, she doesn't really have very strong bonds to my folks yet, though I'm sure they will come. After a few minutes, she was fine, pointing at the cat and pronouncing, 'Gat!' The dog seemed to phase her a little, but when you're that size, I guess a whippet is quite imposing, even if he's the soppiest thing on the planet. Poor Rex - he only wants to be friendly, and can't understand why we're not keen on him getting too near. It's particularly galling to him because he and the gat - sorry; cat - are best mates and he can't figure why she's allowed to go near Olivia and he isn't.

My mother served us lunch, then nipped over to Nana's to sort her lunch out. Nana's now completely dependant on my mother. When she got back, the conversation naturally (because everything is about her, maaaan) turned to Olivia. K___ had slipped me the scan pictures and when an appropriate comment - I'm afraid I can't recall what it was - I was able to say, 'Well, there's something we wanted to tell you...' and whip out the scan pictures. In an almost exact analogue of the last time, my mother said, 'You're not, are you..?' to K___, and we told them all about the scans and how we hadn't been up because we wanted to break the news officially etc.

My next job was to get hold of my brothers. Last time, I told E___ first, so this time I would tell C__. Except his phone was going to answering machine. So I told E___. E___ was in the middle of moving into a new property with his girlfriend, so I got straight to the point and kept it brief. He was delighted for us, naturally.

My mother was due to collect Nana at about four-ish, and K___ had arranged to meet some of her old pals from NCT (I'm sure she'll fill you in on this). My dad and I took the dog out for a wander, but it was clear his heart wasn't in it. Whippets get cold easily because they're such skinny buggers, and it was drizzling and windy and consequently, we didn't go far. However, it was while we were out that C__ called me back and I gave him the good news. I also had to apologise because we'd had a chat just a couple of days before, and the subject of babies had come up and I kind of hemmed and hawed about it and gave the impression it would be nice if it happened, but we weren't trying right now. He was delighted for us. His wife called out, 'Oh, leave your poor wife alone!' and then he tried to get me to say if we knew the sex.

We're not telling, and anyway, it's too soon to tell.

Not long after we arrived back home, so too did K___, and then my mother turned up with Nana. At first she seemed pretty good. She was engaging with Olivia, drumming on the table with her and laughing and smiling. She seemed pleased when we told her about the new baby and asked when it was going to be born and those kinds of questions. I asked her whether she'd ever imagined seeing great grandchildren when she was young and she laughed.

My mother was in kitchen preparing some tea and called out that it was nearly ready. I had turned from Nana for just a second or two but I quickly realised she wasn't quite right. All of a sudden the animation had gone from her. Where she'd been laughing and joking, she was just sitting stock still, staring in to space with a vacant expression on her face. I asked her whether she was feeling okay and she said, 'no,' in a very timid voice. That was it for the rest of the afternoon. The spark had died. We knew she got like this and that we normally only got to see her at her best, but this was the first time we'd seen it and it was pretty horrible.

I'm glad we got to see her, and I'm glad we got to tell her about the new baby, but I do have to be honest and say that if she doesn't live to see it born, it won't be a bad thing. I just wish she could slip away quietly one night.

In some ways, it seems wrong to be writing about death when this blog is about life, but we all know that death is what gives life its value, that our short lifespan makes it all the more important to enjoy our time.

Oh fuck it; I've gone all Disney, and Elton John's playing bloody Circle of Life in the background.

I really didn't mean for that to happen. I just mean that it's okay, it's natural, and I don't want Nana to think she has to hang on, for me, for my mother, or for the new baby. Not that she needs it, but she has our permission to go if she wants.

And you know, being a firm believer in evolution, there really is a part of her in her descendants. It's not a matter of belief - you could go and get tested for it. 'Mitochondrial Nana'. Even if she never sees the new baby, she's still around. I find that an incredibly, genuinely, happy thought.

My Eyes Remain, Hovering. Witnessing.

So, it's Wednesday, 16th April, 2008. Olivia is fifteen months old to the day. I have a dentist's appointment at midday, which I'm really not looking forward to. Nothing special going on otherwise.

Oh - unless you count the 12 week scan at the local hospital. Yeah, I should probably write about that.

We turned up in good time. I haven't been nervous. I've been very calm about the whole thing, but on the short drive down, the butterflies kicked in. Not big ones, but they were there.

The parking meter at the hospital is stupid. Or I am. It's completely counter-intuitive. I know how to get a parking ticket from the machine. You read the rates, insert the groats, hit the tit and wait for the ticket, right? You certainly do not read the instructions, but after a couple of goes, this is what I am forced to do. I know; my 'bloke rating' has plummeted.

You have to 'enter your car registration'. There is a numeric keypad. My registration contains alpha characters. The keypad does not, like a telephone keypad, also have numbers on it. I decide to try entering just the numerals. It seems to like them. I get a ticket. Normally, I would walk away moaning about the stupidity of the machine. Today, I throw my hands up as I walk back to K___, and mention it's stupid, but keep it to just that.

The maternity unit is the brick version of a Borg cube. Minus the scary hive-mind androids and super-advanced tech everywhere. Actually, it's just a rather featureless cuboid, but that doesn't sound as poetic. Inside, it's a pretty run-of-the-mill NHS hospital unit. Bland paint on the walls, lots of faintly terrifying health-related notifications and posters on the walls.

While signing in, a wonderfully quick process, it was pointed out to us that we would need to purchase a card from a machine on the wall to exchange for copies of the scans. Only problem? It takes five pounds in coins. I'm not having a good time with machines. We didn't have five pounds in coins, so I borrow a tenner from K___ and leg it to the other side of the building and up a fight of stairs, buy a packet of crisps purely for the change and run back.

Unlike the first time we did this, nearly two years ago now, luck decides to play nicely, and I'm back in time to buy the card and sit down for a couple of minutes getting my breath back before we get called into the scan room. K___ lies down on the couch and pulls her skirt below the bottom of the baby bump. Having done this before, she knows that an elasticated waistband is an essential. She's also had enough to drink to ensure the best picture - a three quarter's full bladder greatly increases the clarity. The scan operator, a surly human/potato hybrid with terrible highlights, squirts gel onto K___'s stomach and places the ultrasound on her belly.

Here we go...

Of course, there's a momentary pang of terror. What if the baby has no head or three legs or something? These things do happen, after all. The fear's stupid and statistically irrational and it's gone before you quite know what it is you're scared about, but it is there until the moment the scan goes sufficiently deeply inside K___'s belly for a baby to appear. It's lying louchly on it's back, facing left, arms waving theatrically. All of a sudden, I'm an expert. Everything is in it's right place. It's fine. I don't know this, but from the perspective of someone with fuck all training in reading an ultrasound scan, it is immediately apparent that everything is fine. Eventually, Mrs Potato-head will get around to confirming my obviously-correctly medical opinion by doing some measurements. She will sound entirely bored when she does indeed confirm my diagnosis. Everything is fine. We have a healthy baby, and an active one too, by the looks of things.

My eyes prick with tears.

After this, we have to sit for forty minutes waiting for a nurse to take a urine sample and some blood (not at the same time, don't be ridiculous!) from K___. We gaze at the grainy snaps before us and smile.

We Get What We Deserve..?

Discovering you're about to be a father causes a certain amount of blokeishness.

However much of a beta-male you may be normally (and I certainly am), discovering you've successfully made a life causes a definite, if passing, amount of 'Yeeeessss!' with attendant punching of the air and the feeling that you're a 'real man' and gently patting the ol' heat-seeking moisture missile for a job well done.

Fortunately, this doesn't last long, and Mr Winky is soon put back in his rightful place as a disgusting flap of flesh to be ashamed of, full of Satan's badness, like the Preacher told me*. Another thing that takes the shine off feeling too pleased with yourself (and I do mean it takes the shine of feeling unduly pleased with yourself, not that it takes the shine of feeling pleased about the fact that you're going to be a father again) is knowing certain things about someone else.

There's someone I know at work - a thoroughly splendid chap. We have a good working relationship and see eye-to-eye on a lot of things both inside and outside the office environment. I also know his wife a little, and she's lovely too. If having children were a matter of 'deserve', they would completely deserve to, so knowing that they can't shows precisely how little 'deserve' has to do with it.

We all know that too many babies are born to parents who don't give a shit or who can't afford to feed their babies or are abusive arseholes or drug addicts etc etc. We all know they exist, and of course we all know they're proof that having babies is a result of fucking and lucky biology, not worthiness. The fact is that for most of us those people are pretty abstract. We can close our eyes and pretend that these fuckers don't exist and that babies don't die or get abused in a thousand and one innovative and not-so-innovative but equally disgusting ways every single day. The truth is it took my colleague telling me that he had fertility problems to really bring home the fact that my being able to father another baby is essentially dumb luck; fucking and biology.

This is nothing to do with how I feel about being a father again, how much I love Olivia or my wife. I wouldn't denigrate any of those things for a second. This is just the facts.

My colleague would never wish to make me feel embarrassed to tell him we're having another baby, but I'm certainly not looking forward to it. He doesn't go into details, and I don't ask, but he's said certain things. I know how pleased he is when one of his friends has a kid - he talks about going to see them - and I know how pleased he was for me when Olivia was born. It may well be a reflection of my less-than-noble character, but I'm dreading telling him. It must surely be a bit of a slap in the face. However magnanimous, however logical, however nice and decent a person you are, it must surely make you more aware of your own 'failings'/problems.

Do I just come out with it? What do I say? When do I say it? How? I think it's going to require some thinking about.

Welcome Back to the Circus

It's very weird. Weird and slightly unfair.

Sorry? What is? Well, this whole having a baby thing. We're so relaxed about it this time round. Last time, we were filling our brains with every book and website we could read. This time, we're chilled out. We know the score. K_ has booked a Nuchal scan. It wasn't a worry, because we knew what needed doing, and what it was about and where to go. If K_'s right to say that it's harder because we already have Olivia to cope with, well that's true, but it's equally true to say it's so much easier this time. Every sensation K_ has, she knows what it is.

Last time, a few people interpreted our lust for information as fear about what was happening. It wasn't, it was a genuine hunger to understand. But you can only understand it once. Once you know, you know, and that's what's slightly unfair.

We did a daily blog for Olivia, full of our observations and what we'd learned etc. M2 won't get that. Not because M2 is less interesting or less wanted or less deserving, but because Olivia has already demolished those barriers. I suppose this happens throughout life; certainly throughout childhood. Eldest child has to fight for every inch of ground, later children never have to fight as hard if at all. It's not fair, but it's inevitable, I suppose.

So Here I Am Once More....

I was slightly late home from work this evening, but it didn't really matter.

It was an ordinary Monday with nothing planned. I would have liked to have been back in time to put baby Olivia to bed, but I'm often not home in time for that, and I accept it, even if I don't like it. No, it was a pretty normal Monday evening and I wasn't expecting any surprises.

'I've got you a present,' said K_. She handed me a small item wrapped in tissue paper. It was about the size of a toothbrush.
'A present? Why have you got me a present?'
'I just have,' she said, mysteriously. It wasn't my birthday. Valentines was just a few days ago... I had no idea why I might be getting a present. I think I cocked an eyebrow, but regardless, I unwrapped the paper to reveal a white plastic pen-shaped item with a blue pastic cap and some words at one end, and a little window at the other.
'Oh,' I said, not sure why I was supposed to be particularly happy about this item.
'Oh,' said my wife, somewhat flattly. I looked again, saw the words 'ClearBlue', and then looked at the little window.

You, of course, are ahead of me on this one, right?
This is not only because you're reading a blog that clearly says what it's about at the top but also because it would be quite difficult to be as slow as I was being at that moment. There was a little word in the window. I looked at it properly for the first time.
'Oh,' I said, then, 'OH!' as it finally sunk in that the word in the window was 'pregnant'. 'Oh my god!'
We hugged and both said we couldn't believe it.

I have to tell the truth, I really can't say what I thought I was looking at when I first unwrapped the predictor. I think I thought it was an ovulation test, because K_ has had irregular periods of late. I absolutely didn't think that it was a pregnancy test because my mindset wasn't in baby mode.

We were both agreed that we wanted to try for a second baby, but we weren't putting in any particular effort about it. My memories of last time were of ovulation charts and sex-to-order, something that is a lot less enjoyable than one might imagine, and the stress of each month as we waited to find out whether anything had happened this time... This time round, we'd not really got round to working out K-s menstrual cycle, things had just happened of their own accord. Obviously, contraception had gone out of the window, but we hadn't been paying attention to whether the time was right, just whether the moment was right, if you know what I mean, eh, eh, eh, nudge nudge, wink wink...

I'm not a particularly laddish person. It's just not me. I'd say something that someone else would say and have accepted as a cheeky, good-natured and slightly risque laugh and it would sound salacious and slightly creepy, so I don't tend to do it, but I have to say that after I got over the initial shock, I did feel obliged to pat my bollocks and congratulate them on a job well done. It is stupid, but I suppose understandable, how much machismo one feels upon learning that one's pork sword is fully functioning and firing on all cylinders.

Still, that's it now. They can probably retire now, job done. Haven't they done well?

I'm going to be a daddy again. It's brilliant news. It really hasn't sunk in yet. So, here we are again.

Bring it on.

You Made A Big Mistake Alright...

There's nothing like being a new parent.

You tend to become a little obsessed with the small person that has recently arrived in your life, and understandably so, given how they dominate your every action, even when you're asleep. Some sad gits even write blogs about it, apparently.

Equally unsurprisingly, a lot of the conversations you have with people start with a few words about this little person. 'How's your baby doing?' 'Are you getting any sleep yet?' 'Euuwww! How do you cope with the nappies?' etc. It gets to be so that you become conditioned to expect these initial conversations.

Take just now, for example; I popped down in the lift to grab five minutes of the glorious sunlight - it's a balmy March out there, for sure. One of my colleagues from the section I used to work in grabbed the doors as they closed and got in.

'How are you doing?' he said, 'Are you enjoying it?'

'Oh yes, it's really good!' I replied, 'especially now she's become a little more interactive.'

'Great stuff! Listen, I'm going to the shop. I'll see you later.'

And off he went.

Later on, I was having my lunch in one of the 'break out' areas when the same chap wandered in with a couple of his team mates, clutching his sandwiches in his paw. I nodded at him, but wasn't expecting him to come over; clearly he was going to eat with his colleagues. Yet he did come over.

'I've just realised,' he said. 'What you said before about 'her becoming a bit more interactive'? You were talking about your baby, weren't you? I thought you were talking about your boss...'

Daddy, Will You Sit Awhile With Me

The Equal Opportunities Commission has just published a report entitled the 'State of the Modern Family'. This is a wide-ranging report into various subjects based on 19,000 children born in the UK between 2000-2001.

The biggest conclusion of the study is about as startling a revelation as H from Steps revealing he was in the gays; namely that less-well off families spend less time with their children. If you ask me, that pretty much stands to reason. Without meaning to be harsh, it is also something that is going to be difficult for many of those families to address - after all, if they were able and willing to get better paying jobs, one assumes they probably would.

Perhaps more interesting from the perspective of this Blog, is the fact that paternal absenteeism during birth and the first three years of a child's life can have significant implications for the child's emotional and behavioural health. Previous research has - 'no shit Sherlock' moment - revealed that a mother's presence is very important to a child's health, but no previous study has shown the effects of paternal absenteeism.

Changes in the amount of flexible-working arrangements available to fathers over the past decade have increased the amount of time new fathers can spend with their children, but despite this and the fact that 63% of new fathers say they don't get to spend enough time with their babies, fathers are less likely to take advantage of the opportunities open to them to rectify the situation.

For those of us who are able to earn a decent salary and are lucky enough to work reasonable hours to do so, stories such as these should make us feel fortunate indeed.

In the past few days, Olivia has become significantly more alert and, frankly, nosey. When she's not held rapt by a bottle, booby or father showing that he can't sing nursery rhymes, her eyes are flicking around the room to latch on to whatever is interesting to a baby. She's starting to smile and even laugh now, and she's has periods where she hangs on my every word.

Who wouldn't want to go home from work for that? Not exactly a hardship, is it?

With thanks to our most splendid friend S_ for pointing this one out to us.

Marillion Weekend - Sunday and Monday

We spent the early hours of Sunday morning in the market place. There was a big thing going on in the pub with a (by all accounts) excellent Beatles tribute band playing. However, we were old men and women and our feet ached from standing all day and we elected to go somewhere quieter for a few drinks. In the end, I think I only had two and then went to bed.

I awoke to find a text message from K thanking me for the book. It was her birthday and I had found an enormously heavy collected novels of Jane Austen, (complete with illustrations that I hope were from the original prints of the books, but which frustratingly gave no clues as to their provenance). Her main present was a charm bracelet, but since I wouldn't trust me (and K___ most certainly wouldn't trust me) to choose jewellery, she was very much aware of the fact she was getting that!

Sunday lined up much as Saturday had, but with two key differences; the quiz was on the main stage with the winners of the pub quiz vs the band, and then the final merch shift involved counting up and packing the remaining merch and getting it back onto the 18 wheeler.

As I walked down to the 'Market Dome' where merch was based, I called K___ to wish her a happy birthday, and she filled me in on what her sisters had bought her and how Olivia was doing. She was fine, although K___ was finding it hard to cope once her mother retired for the evening. Again, I felt bad for not being around, even if it was with full approval. I made a promise to make up for it next year and now I've put it up here, I can be held to it too!

En route to merch, and with time to spare, I was fortunate enough to run into an American couple who had got engaged on the main stage the previous night and was able to interview them about the charity they run to support victims of Cambodian land mines through their college education. It was an inspiring story, and their words certainly made me think about how lucky Olivia was to grow up in a country where she doesn't have to contend with those sorts of challenges, to a family who loves her. Mind you, that won't stop her claiming that she wishes we weren't her parents when she gets to her teenage years, I don't expect!

The first merch stint was quite smooth and it didn't seem long before we were heading off for a quick briefing session before the quiz. I had to run back to my chalet to get my iPod on which were the messed-about-with sound clips that would be one of the rounds. Once back, we ran over the questions with the two chaps presenting the quiz, A___ and J__, and J____ who would do the scoring. I'd done it last time, in 2005 and hadn't really enjoyed the experience, so I was glad that although I would still be on stage, it would be hidden at the back, and just to operate the iPod when required.

A___ and J__ were great; they were funny and engaging and despite a rather embarrassing incorrect answer that hadn't been picked up by any of us, it went well. Everyone cheered when the band won a convention quiz, I think I'm right in saying, for the first time. Afterwards, there was a brief Q&A session and then the whole thing was over and rather sooner than we had anticipated. This was a bit of a result as it gave those of us on merch time to grab a meal before the 'load out'. As we left the main stage, we were astonished to see some people filing out of the exits only to start queuing for the evening show, some four hours hence. Personally, I can't understand that attitude. I'm a freely-admitted geek when it comes to this band, but there are limits, for God's sake!

Once we got to merch, we set about counting up the remaining stocks of each t-shirt design. Fortunately, we didn't have to count the CDs and DVDs otherwise it would have taken three times longer. Once the doors finally closed, we reported the numbers to the Merch Queen (G____) and sealed 'em up to be chucked into cages. Then there was a bit of an arse-up. The rep from Center Parc's came up and told us that the kitchens were overwhelmed and the cooks had refused to let the merch team drag heavy cages of merch through their kitchens. This was a rather major problem, since this was the only route by which we could get the merch down from the first floor in the service lifts. To wait meant that we might miss the show and none of us wanted that. G_____ negotiated that one person would be allowed into the kitchens and we managed to get the stuff out albeit a little more slowly than we had planned. Once downstairs, we made our way to the back of main stage and hefted it all up into the back of the 18 wheeler that was ready to receive the backline and lighting rig as soon as the show ended.

There was enough time to see the support band, but tired again (my feet have never ached so much!), we opted for a sit down and a beer in the pub instead. After that, I texted K___ to say that I hoped Olivia had been good and that I was looking forward to being home the next day.

The show was amazing. In some respects, it wasn't the most imaginative of setlists, but only because the band knows all too well what its 'big guns' are. Playing two slabs of Fish-era material only made the crowd even happier and we all sang along lustily for two hours until the final encore, and off the cuff reprise of Hocus Pocus that sent the crowd wild.

Afterwards, it was another night in the slightly more chilled out bars of the Market Zone, rather than the pub and an earlyish one at that. Our bus back to Amsterdam wasn't due to leave until 11, but even so, I packed up a lot of my things before I retired.

The next day, I awoke at about seven thirty and grabbed a shower before cooking myself some breakfast and collecting my things. An employee walked past as I was dumping our rubbish in the recycling bins and told me that we had to be out of the chalets by 10:30. Well, I was okay, but I knocked on next door but one's door to let the others know the score.

The coach trip in was fine. A chap sitting opposite me entertained us all with a tale of how he'd gone for his flight in shoes that had fallen apart and his doomed attempts to fix them with Sellotape. Once at Schipol, we had a good meal with a couple of mates and then it was a big 'ol wait. Fortunately, we bumped into fans everywhere we turned and had some good chats before eventually heading to the departure lounge and the flight home. One result was that I had expected to have to give S____ and V___ a lift home, but as luck would have it, another fan was going past their door, so I was free to head for Grantham.

Now, I am a rationalist, and I don't believe in fate, but if I did, I would have kicked her in the teeth for the evil stunt she pulled on the way home. I was making good time along nice clear roads when I came near to the junction with the M1, at Kegworth. Where I stopped. And waited. A long time. Roadworks on the junction had reduced it to one lane and rather than employ some sort of traffic filtration system (there is a magic system with the wacky name of 'traffic lights' that would have worked a treat) but apparently that was too obvious. Or something. It took an hour and ten minutes to drive fifty yards to the roundabout and get to the exit straight across. Very poor form.

I pulled up in Grantham at about half past eleven at night, worn out. K___ and I had a giant hug and I think she may have told me that I'm never doing that again. I won't lie about the Weekend and say it was crap to spare K___'s feeling. It wasn't crap and she knew it wouldn't be. It was amazing. However, it was also really hard, and so I'm pretty certain I agreed. We sat in the lounge and K___ filled me in on what I'd missed, but eventually, I had to go and see Olivia. 'She hasn't changed,' said K___.

I walked upstairs and opened the bedroom door as quietly as I could. The light from the landing was enough to see by and I could tell that K___ wasn't telling the truth. I know it wasn't deliberate, but simply because she'd seen Olivia every day, but she was different. Rather unexpectedly, she looked much more like me than she had before I left! I was amazed that she could remind me of the photos of me as a child. It must have been the light or something though, because I haven't noticed it in the same way since. She seemed so much more substantial. She couldn't be that much larger than the last time I'd seen her, but she certainly seemed to be!

I didn't wake her up. I knew it wouldn't be long, and I was right. Three o'clock. 'Welcome home, Daddy; I've got a dirty nappy.'

It was good to be back.

Marillion Weekend - Saturday

Just before nine the next morning, I headed off for a short stint on the merch stand with the rest of the Web UK. The rush must have come the previous evening as it never got to an unmanageable level. At one point, we were all able to stand back and eavesdrop on one of 'Team A' as he flourished a messenger bag at a potential punter with the words, 'Now, I don't really need to sell this bag to you, as it sells itself...' He got a round of applause from the entire room for his skillz!

As we headed off to the large venue where we were to hold the now traditional pub quiz, I received the following:

Floodgates open.
Rivers of poo.
Five so far today.
Bet you wish you
were here!

Nice! But a part of me did want to be there. Text messaging is very useful and a boon for sure, but it's nothing like being there. I had half a worry that, with Olivia being not even three weeks old, during my five days away, she'd forget about me.

The quiz was incredible, and I don't say that simply because a few of the people who assisted in doing the marking read this blog, but because it's never gone so smoothly before. The venue was better, the PA was clear, we had the marking down to a fine art and we even slipped in a few funnies that actually got laughs! The team that won are our mates, and won the previous convention's quiz too, but it wasn't a fix; they're just really anoraky. We've come up with a way to ensure they don't win the next one by getting them to set the questions. They've already said they want to do a round called 'Whose Fart Is It Anyway' in which they play Marillion songs on a keyboard loaded with a sample of someone breaking wind... It'll be a scream.

After another shift on the merch, there was time to get a quick change of clothes and head off for the evening show . First though, there was just time for a medicinal pint with G_____ and A___ who co-ordinated the merch organisation and some chat about Olivia. I don't think it was even me that brought her up either, but I was glad to speak about her. It's lovely how of our friends have embraced Olivia. I don't just mean cooing and saying she's beautiful (though she certainly is) but taking to G_____, it was very touching to hear how even our friends who don't want kids for themselves have felt an attachment to her and how they are looking forward to meeting her.

The theme for Saturday's show (we missed the support band again) was 'covers and rarities'. I wasn't struck with all of the covers, to be honest, but it was only a couple of tracks in a setlist full of never & rarely played numbers and some choices that were absolute genius. Keane's Bedshaped was one - it was the standout track on their first album anyway and the addition of guitar made a great song even better.

Their own The Bell in the Sea was a track that many fans had been requesting for a long time and it was wonderful to hear it, and ditto two tracks from the era of their first singer, Fish; Blind Curve and the Warm Wet Circles trilogy (even if there was no singing on the first part, Hotel Hobbies, for some reason).

It was none of these tracks that made the biggest impression on me. It was a track by a band that I am to a large degree indifferent; REM. I sometimes feel that I should like REM, but most of the time, I feel about them much as I do about the UK's similarly lauded The Smiths; great band, but the singer's voice makes me want to punch myself in the face until unconsciousness ensues...

Possibly, then, it was just the change of singer that did it, because the Marillos did a pretty faithful cover version of Everybody Hurts (which I freely admit is a great song anyway, with no caveats attached) but all I know is that I started thinking about K___ and Olivia and how I was missing them. In my mind's... I was going to say 'eye', but I suppose 'my mind's finger' is probably more accurate, however stupid it may sound... so, in my mind's finger, I could feel Olivia's tiny cheek under my touch, specifically when she is crying and I'm attempting to soothe her. I suppose I lost track of the song to a large extent, but by the time it reached the final chords, there were silent tears running down my cheeks and try as I might, I couldn't stop for much longer than I would have preferred. Hugs from various friends, L___, V____ and S________ were much appreciated.

My friend M___ later said he'd been crying too as had quite a few others. It's difficult to reveal that a song has made you weep, not least because of 'real men don't cry' fucktitude, and also because saying, 'Marillion played a song and it made me cry' rather invites 'I would probably feel the same way if I had to listen to one of their songs'* but I'm not ashamed.

The rest of the set was in a slightly more up-tempo vein and lead singer Steve Hogarth coming out for a cover of Abba's Money Money Money in drag had the crowd in tears of laughter. A cover of the greatest and most daft prog song ever, the wonk-eyed monster that is Hocus Pocus by Focus was the set ender we could never have hoped for, but it was slightly marred as K___ (and other missing girlfriends from our group) really should have been there for it. The crowd went mad, especially the Cloggies, as Focus were/ are Dutch.

Again, a completely wonderful day, but there was that big hole in it again.

* Incidentally, if anyone is intrigued to actually hear this band that I keep banging on about, you might want to check out their Crash Course cds. As long as you're not already on their mailing list, they'll send you a free eight track CD full of gems. I won't promise it's for everyone, because it isn't, but if you appreciate well-crafted, excellently played and emotive rock music, then please check 'em out - and let me know what you think!

Marillion Weekend - Thursday & Friday

As inferred in the previous post, I am back from the Marillion Weekend in Ouddorp in the Netherlands.

I left Grantham for Birmingham International Airport early on Thursday. It was hard. In fact, it was harder than I thought it would be - and I thought it would be fucking hard. As I said before, K___ and I haven't been apart for five days since... Christ knows when. Not even in the early days of our relationship can there have been many days when we didn't see each other at least twice a week.

I felt guilty for going, despite having permission. This came not least from knowing that I would have a great time with few responsibilities whilst K____ was having to cope with Olivia without me. I know her family were on hand, but it wasn't about whether they could cope with changing a nappy or feeding her a bottle. It would have been much easier if the weekend had been something that K___ wouldn't have enjoyed so much herself.

Before I left, I told K___ that if she needed me back all she had to do was ask and I would find a way to get back, no questions asked, but she was adamant that she wouldn't need to do it.

It wasn't a bad journey to Birmingham, and I soon hooked up with the rest of the Web UK, the Marillion fan club, for a lot of hanging about in the airport - never great fun. After a slightly delayed flight, there was further frustration due to fog in the Netherlands when we had to do a lot of stacking over Amsterdam's Schipol airport. Once we finally got down onto the tarmac, I sent K___ a text to let her know we had got to the Netherlands unscathed. After a quick booze stop in a supermarket in the airport, we bundled onto a minibus. Our driver seemed nice enough but he was tailgating the car in front which, given the speed we were travelling at and the foggy conditions, makes me suspect he must have a strong belief in the afterlife.

After a miraculous failure to die on a Dutch motorway, we got into the venue at about 10.00-ish. We dropped our bags into our remarkably well-appointed chalets (including saunas, no less (not that we ever had time to use them!)) and headed back to the reception to assist with the preparations for the arrival of the punters the next morning. After a couple of beers in the early morning, it was time for bed, and I certainly slept well.

The next morning, after a quick shower, I checked my phone to discover the following text:

She was up at two and
four. Thought she might
have poo nappy so changed
her and she did a wee on
everything. No poo at all
yesterday.

I texted back to say not to worry, and I was sure everything would (literally) work itself out.

Friday was quite an easy day, all things considered. The Web UK formed 'Team B' on the merchandise stall. Initially, I manned a table stacked high with end-of-line t-shirts in various designs and sizes, three for £20. As the venue, a Centre Parcs, is in the arse-end of fuck all, an awful lot of the punters were coming in by coaches from Schipol or Rotterdam. This was quite good as it broke up the people coming into the merch hall into easily dealt-with numbers. I've seen Marillion fans trying to get at the new merch before, and they can be like Great White Sharks at a synchronised swimming competition*, so having them separated into smaller groups was good for us!

Although no one was formally counting, we decided to draw gates on a cardboard box to track our sales, and it wasn't long before we cleared a couple of grand. Given we weren't even manning the tables selling new stuff, it was a good sign. Mind you, we stopped keeping a tally after that.

After our shift was up, we got a sneak peak at the stage, located in a "semi-permanent erection" (aka a large tent). It certainly looked good; nice and high with lots of lighting up in the gantries, and Porcupine Tree's Arriving Somewhere but Not Here coming out of the PA suggested the front of house sound was going to be pretty good. After that, I ended up helping move a flight case from the backstage area to a nearby chalet. It contained the artifacts for the Marillion Museum. I never got to see what was put out this year in the end, but reports are that it was well received.

I'd stuffed a load of blank A4 into my pocket as G_____, the Merch Queen, had mentioned during our morning shift that she could really use some. As I headed over to merch, I got a call on my mobile saying merch was swamped and could we help. The steady trickle of punters was replaced by a mob they were having trouble subduing. We decided that with most of the three-for-£20 quid t-shirts gone, we could turn our side of the room into a cash-only point of sale and were soon adding fistfuls of 'Toytown Dollars' into the cash box.

As we waited for a meal in 'Sharkey's Restaurant' that evening, I got my second text message of the day:

Hello Daddy,
I did a poo.
Love Olivia X

It made me laugh so much, that I forced everyone else to read it too! I texted Olivia back - she was using K___'s phone - to ask if it was a runny one, and to enquire whether she had wiped it everywhere for Mummy, but I was informed it was nice and neat and anyway Grandma had dealt with it.

er... Moving on. We don't need anymore poo-related incidents on this blog.

The first show was a preview of five of the tracks from the new album Somewhere Else (released 9th April) followed by a run through their 1997 album This Strange Engine. The title track is, rather appropriately for this blog, a song about fatherhood. Specifically, it reads as an autobiography of lead singer Steve Hogarth's life and his realisation in light of the births of his own children of his father's sacrifices on his son's behalf. It's long been one of my favourites in a catalogue of gems and the performance that evening was sublime. Guitarist Steve Rothery performed the second, achingly poignant guitar solo so perfectly that the band was forced to vamp over a couple of chords as the crowd gave a five minute ovation in mid song. It was 'a moment'; and you could see people looking at each other and giving slight nods of the head to acknowledge this was something that didn't happen often.

My words cannot hope to capture how special it felt to be a tiny part of this act of communion between band and audience. Perhaps the DVD - the shows were filmed - will do the job, but I suspect that it won't be the same. I remember feeling the lack of K___ particularly keenly at that point.

She would have loved it and I missed her.


* whatever that's like...

I Can't Take My Eyes Off You

I am still not quite used to writing the word 'daughter' yet.

It has concepts of... I was going to write 'possession', but that's not quite the right word, and no, I didn't mean in the demonic sense (mind you, she had a few moments last night)... perhaps jurisdiction is a better word, and responsibility that are so far above anything that I have ever had to deal with before.

I have a responsibility for things at work that can potentially affect several thousand people directly in the employ of the local authority for which I work. By the nature of my work in information governance, it could be said that people like me have a responsibility for the protection of tens of thousands of people. Indeed, the courts haven't been slow to point the finger at those tasked with the responsible sharing of information when failures have occurred in the past, and rightfully so.

However, this is not like the responsibility I feel for my own child. Not even my obligations and responsibilities towards my wife feel like those I have for my own child. This is not to denigrate my wonderful, amazing wife in any way. To a large degree, it's simply the recognition that K____ doesn't need me. She chooses me because she wants me, because in ways that I cannot necessarily always fathom but am nevertheless unbelievably grateful for, I enhance her quality of life.

My daughter needs us for pretty much everything. She can poke herself in the eye. She can cry by herself. She can do the autonomic stuff - breathing, heart beat, digestion etc., but beyond that, Mummy and Daddy have to do the feeding (sourcing, preparing and presentation for the purposes of eating), burping, nappy changing, ablutions, moving around, clothes washing and drying... Obviously I am aware of the fact that not one person on the planet doesn't understand this, but it doesn't lessen how great a responsibility it is to get used to.

I'm still getting used to having to organise everything around this tiny person in the corner of the room who holds all the power in this relationship. I'm still getting used to the fact that my time may (and probably will) be interrupted by the requirements of this small person (it's somewhat amazing that I've managed to write this entire entry in one go!). I'm still getting used to the fact that I cannot go to sleep unless the little person decrees it is acceptable, and that I must wake up on her demand (and I acknowledge that however much my life is disrupted, it is at least twice that amount for K___, who is constantly brilliant in her new role).

But here's the thing that amazes me about all this new hassle and being at Olivia's beck and call. It amazes me even though people with children told me time and time again that it would happen, because understanding the concept is not even close to being in the reality and that is this; I love it.

I am still not quite used to writing the word 'daughter' yet, but I'm getting there.