The Riverdance show

Last night I went to see Riverdance at the Bristol Hippodrome.

This famous show has been touring the world since 1995 and this year it is presenting its farewell tour.  I thought that I had better see it while I could.  I went with daughters Colleen and Collette and much to my surprise Joseph wanted to see the show too (I had showed him clips on You Tube).

But the person I most wanted to take to the show was unable to go.  That person wasn't, on this occasion, my dear wife Marie (although I would have liked to have taken her too, but her agoraphobia won't let her venture into any theatre just now).  No, on this occasion I wished that my dad could have gone with me.  My father was an amazing person and parent, and I'll It was a show that he had always planned on seeing, but unfortunately he died without realising that ambition.  Because of this, my enjoyment of the show was tinged with sadness.  My daughters felt a little like this too, because they were both very fond of their grandfather.

It was a great show, and like the rest of us, Joseph really enjoyed it.  Being only 8 years old, I was quite impressed by the interest that he showed in the show.

Here's a recent clip of the show in passable quality.  It lasts nearly 9 minutes and starts off with a little flamenco style dancing, followed by the two principle dancers.  The whole troupe assembles for the last 3 or so minutes.

Enjoy.

All for nothing

When Sue met Sam, he was working in the building trade.  She was a civil servant, working in the financial department.  Their romance was opposed by both of their families.  Sue's family felt that Sam, as a building worker, was beneath her socially: Sam's family thought that Sue was too "stuck up" for him - this opinion based on the fact that she was well educated.  Nevertheless, the relationship bloomed and they married within a year.

Their first home was a dilapidated, tiny house, but Sue had ambition and Sam was happy to follow her lead.  They renovated the house and saved hard for several years.  Sam became a supervisor in the building firm for which he worked.

A small, local kitchen installation company became available for purchase, and Sue saw it as an opportunity for the couple to improve their standing.  Sam knew little about kitchen fitting, but he was prepared to learn, and happy to put in long hours.  His supervisory experience was very useful and his cheerful, affable disposition made him a natural salesman without the need to use guile.  Sue continued to work in the civil service and looked after the company's books in the evenings.  The business grew steadily.

Sam and Sue decided to postpone starting a family until they became financially secure.  Twenty years later, Sue had given up her civil service career to work full-time in their business and it was going well.  They had moved into a modest detached home (close to my home) and it was time to start their family.  A baby boy duly appeared.

The little boy didn't interfere very much with their business.  Sam and Sue lived quite frugally and invested their excess cash in property.  Local property wasn't terribly lucrative,  so they moved their money to property in the rapidly growing USA market.

Sam worked around 10 hours a day, 6 days a week.  His only recreation was his weekly snooker night.  Sue only worked about 40 hours, but she also looked after the family home and most of their son's needs.  There wasn't much of a social life - they were focussed on saving for their retirement and for their son's future.

The last few years haven't been so good.  The USA property market more or less collapsed and their son rejected their lifestyle and moved to a squat in London.  They rarely see him.  Sue and Sam, approaching their chosen retirement date, seemed to have lost some of their ambition.

A few months ago, Sam had a heart attack.  He seemed to recover, but another heart attack, last week, proved fatal.  Sue claims that her life is over too.  All those years of struggle and self denial - it was for nothing, Sue told me.  Just a waste of 40 years.

I feel really sorry for Sue, but I hope that she will find it possible to create a new and different life for herself.  After all, she might have another 30 years or so to live.

Sam and Sue's story has made me even more determined to take as much pleasure as possible from every day.  Plan a little for the future, but not too much.  Try to avoid regrets in later years.   

And teach my children and grandchildren to do the same.

Agoraphobia and snow

It's really, really pretty around these parts.  And quiet.  Very quiet.  No buses, few lorries and fewer tourists.  We have been fortunate.  It snows during the nights and there's wall-to-wall sunshine during the days.  It was a little breezy, but that's gone away.

Marie's anxiety level is lower than usual in snowy surroundings.  I expected her to be asking her usual What If (...ambuances can't get into the area?  ...the shops run out of food?  ...our cars get blocked in?   etc.) questions, but they have been thin on the ground.  She's remarkably settled and only checks the online BBC weather forecast a few times per day (lol).

The children are off school.  First of all there was too much snow and the teachers couldn't get into the school.  Now the playground is too icy.  I expect they'll be off again tomorrow - probably because they'll think that it's not worth opening for only one day...  The children are loving it.  They toboggan on the hills, slide on the ice and have snowball fights.

Some of my staff haven't been able to make it to work, so I have to do a lot more work at the "customer interface" (business jargon).  Which I'm able to do, since there are no school runs at the moment.

Everyone in our area is in good spirits.  Yes, the weather is causing some inconveniences, but everything looks so beautiful that it compensates for this.  The local police have only one 4x4 vehicle, so they are pottering around their offices, spring cleaning .  The few naughty people who live around here prefer to break the law in better weather.  This is a laid-back sort of area.  No high-powered, time-regulated, stressed-out, big business tycoons live here!

One of my branches is 25 miles from here, but the main road is closed for road works.  The alternative is a route through scenic Exmoor, adding about 10 miles to the journey.  However, the roads in Exmoor are mostly blocked with snow and/or ice, so I have to take an alternative route using only main roads.  Now the journey is 80 miles!

Apart from having to do that long alternative hourney a couple of times, life is good around here!

The pictures were taken about a mile from my home.  In the one below, South Wales is visible on the horizon across the sea.  Click on the pictures if you want to see them somewhat larger.

The Belfast trip

Matthew has improved, doesn't need to be hospitalised any more and will, from now, be an outpatient at the cardiac unit.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Saturday 17th October.

After arriving at Belfast International Airport, I go to the Royal Belfast Hospital for Sick Children. The same hospital where my son Colm fought for his life 28 years ago.

The taxi leaves me off at the entrance to the hospital. It is at the opposite side of the building to the old entrance I had used so often while Colm was resident there. The doorway leads into a recently constructed extension to the hospital. There is long, wide lobby decorated with pictures and sculptures presumably aimed at a juvenile public. Perhaps they are meant to give the impression that this is a fun place to visit? In the centre of the floor is a large display of toy animals under thick glass, with long, curved fluorescent tubes to to make an impressive visual impression. Unfortunately the fluorescent tubes don't work...

The lobby leads into a narrower, brighter corridor with glass walls. Outside the walls I get an unobstructed view of untended patio areas and the brightness highlights the fact that the corridor needs cleaning. A wall sign at the end of the corridor indicates that the intensive care unit is up a gloomy flight of stairs. Then another dusty corridor and a couple of sets of self-opening doors lead into the much cleaner lobby of the intensive care unit and operating theatres. A relatives' room is off the lobby, and Jenna and husband Colin are waiting for me here. Matthew is in the operating theatre.

The hospital is on an elevated site and the waiting room has good views of the wide valley which encompasses Belfast. I get a good view of the twin spires of St Peter's cathedral overshadowed by the ugly, dominant tower of Belfast City Hospital and lots of grey buildings framed by a grey sky. In the foreground is one of Belfast's many gable wall tribal murals. (Click on the images if you want to see them enlarged.)
It's depressing.

Let's have a cup of tea, suggests Jenna.

We go into the old Children's Hospital building and proceed through a dirty corridor with a cracked floor and turn into a dimly-lit, filthy corridor lined with black refuse sacks. Soon the smell of burned fat offends my nostrils. Here is the café.

The café is bright and cheerful and clean, but the smell of burned fat pervades. The cooked food on offer consists of refried, pre-fried, fat-laden potato bread, sausages and some dried-up, brittle bacon. It occurs to me that there should be health warning here. The chatty staff operate at a snail's pace. Fortunately the tea is palatable.

There is no craic. Conversation is forced, leaden; everyone is worried about baby Matthew, now being carved up on the operating table.

We go back to the relatives' room. I realise that I need to go to the toilet. It turns out that the public toilets are far away, in the entrance lobby. Luckily my need is not urgent. When I get to the toilets - there are only two to service the entire children's hospital! - I discover that one of these has no light. Someone has, I'm guessing, tried to use it anyway and the nice urine puddle on the floor is testament to the fact that they had aimed badly. The other toilet is smelly, but serviceable.

On my return to the relatives' room, we receive the welcome news that Matthew is back in the intensive care unit. The operation has gone well. We can see him. Jenna and Colin are elated.

Matthew is motionless, his tiny, yellow, jaundiced body attached to several banks of electronic equipment. He cannot breathe unaided and his heart cannot function unassisted. It is simultaneously incredibly sad and happy - sad that he should should be here like this, and happy that he survived the operation.

The staff in the intensive care unit are extremely friendly, tactful, helpful and informative. The ward is spotlessly clean. It's a shame that the rest of the hospital isn't like that.

Over the next few days, travelling to and fro the hospital, I get a chance to see how Belfast has changed since I left, 15 years ago. As in many other cities, modern development has robbed entire areas of their identity. The security situation has improved, but Belfast is still a very troubled and divided city and tribal symbols (flags, graffiti and murals) are still strategically placed to indicate which tribe rules which area. Police are still equipped with flak jackets and guns. This isn't exactly conducive to anxiety free ambling in the quieter areas. The economic recession seems to be biting hard here and about 25% of the city's shops appear to be vacant or up for sale. There are a surprising number of boarded-up derelict buildings.

The hospital is situated on the west side of Belfast in what was always a “dodgy” area. It's still a dodgy area. It is Sunday morning, and the main road to the hospital is closed due to suspected terrorist activity. We have to get there by a different route.There are lots of bomb scares, the taxi driver tells me. On the way back, there is a police road block. It is still there on Monday.

The heavily fortified building is a police station.
A police road block is in progress.

Here is the road block from the opposite direction.

In case anyone is in any doubt, I really did not enjoy my time in Belfast. This gives me conflicting emotions since it is my home town and I feel that I'm being disloyal to it. The situation has improved since I left Ireland's shores 15 years ago, but I'm sad that things haven't improved more.

I'm going back to Belfast tomorrow morning. Joseph, Orla and my granddaughter Shannon are accompanying me this time. Since Matthew isn't so ill now, my visit will be much less stressful. Perhaps I'll like the city this time. Or even dislike it less. We'll see...

Father's Day 2009

I had a really good Father's Day, sharing it with most of my family. Of my 7 children, only Jenna (living in Ireland) and Colm (happier at home) were absent, but both had sent Father's Day cards and phoned me. And of my grandchildren, only Elisha (living in Ireland) was missing.

Carla and her husband Jason hosted dinner for the 12 of us. Jason did the roast. Excellent job, Jason! Carla did the side dishes.

Jason surprised me by presenting me with 3 perfectly chilled bottles of my favourite beer - Newcastle Brown Ale - while saying, "My father hasn't been much good to me and you've been like a proper father to me." Jason's father deserted him when he was just a few years old and although they were reunited a few years ago, he doesn't bother with him much. I was both pleased and humbled by this gesture.

Here I am with 5 out of my 7 children.

I had a very enjoyable afternoon and evening.

Father's Day caused me to remember how fortunate I had been with my father, sadly no longer with me. I was also able to reflect on the passing of time and, of course, the unceasing countdown to my own demise. My oldest grandchild, Shannon - at the back of the group in the picture - is 14 now and dating. A great-grandchild within the next 10 years seems a real possibility. Am I that old? Then, having little children and grown-up children simultaneously suddenly seemed somewhat bizarre - unnatural perhaps? In any case, I can't change that - nor would I wish to!

Here the group includes Marie and 3 of my 4 grandchildren. This time next year, all being well, I'll have 2 more grandchildren!


My day actually started in Weymouth, at my Father-in-law's house, so Marie was able to share a little of Father's Day with him. He pretends to prefer his children to ignore Father's Day...but I saw him take his Father's Day cards to his desk for safekeeping!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Joseph's school, Orla's nursery and the local parish church all ignore Father's Day. They observe Mother's Day, of course. This is the secular version of the Christian festival of Mothering Sunday and has been observed for centuries, while Father's Day only started to be observed about 100 years ago. Nevertheless, one would think that some formal acknowledgement of the role that fathers have in the lives of their children would be on the calendar of all religions and educational establishments. I wonder if many others agree with me...

Animal Cruelty

I'm not much of a campaigner on animal rights issues.

I've always felt that caring about humans is much more important.

But when I came across this video footage, I couldn't ignore it.
It shows the horrors of fur farming in China.

And I mean horrors.

It contains scenes of animals being brutally beaten and skinned alive and then being tossed onto a heap of similarly unfortunate animals, some still alive.
This video is gross and I suggest that you don't watch it unless you have a very strong stomach.
I was unable to watch all of it - and I'm not easily sickened!

You don't have to watch it.
You can help to stop these barbaric practices by-

• not buying any fur products. Some fur is farmed in a much more acceptable way (although no fur farming is acceptable to some people) but there is no way of knowing how your fur made its way to your shop.
• passing on this information to others
• checking out this site where there are other suggestions on how you can help animals such as these.

You don't have to watch this video clip,
but if you want to...just click below.

Got a few spare minutes?

Advanced Global Personality Test Results Extraversion 46% Stability 74% Orderliness 54% Accommodation 86% Interdependence 90% Intellectual 54% Mystical 10% Artistic 50% Religious 10% Hedonism 30% Materialism 50% Narcissism 83% Adventurousness 56% Work ethic 63% Humanitarian 63% Conflict seeking 10% Need to dominate 83% Romantic 63% Avoidant 16% Anti-authority 70% Wealth 43% Dependency 30% Change averse 30% Cautiousness 56% Individuality 36% Sexuality 83% Peter pan complex 10% Family drive 83% Physical Fitness 55% Histrionic 23% Paranoia 10% Vanity 16% Honor 70% Thriftiness 76%

Take Free Advanced Global Personality Test
personality test by similarminds.com

If you've got a few spare minutes, you maight like to try a global personality test - see the link above.
You might find it informative or entertaining.
In my case, the results seemed flattering, so I did it 3 times, with more or less the same results.
Apparently, this is me (based on the above results)...

Stability results were high which suggests you are very relaxed, calm, secure, and optimistic..

Orderliness results were medium which suggests you are moderately organized, hard working, and reliable while still remaining flexible, efficient, and fun.

Extraversion results were medium which suggests you are moderately talkative, outgoing, sociable and interacting.

Or is that really me?
Sounds too good to be true...
On the same website you will find a Personality Disorder test.
Marie did this and the results were exactly what I would have predicted.
If you would like to give this test a try, click here.

My thanks to Jennifer at BPD in OKC for pointing me to this site.

Cerebral palsy, death and fostering

Ivan, the son of David Cameron - possibly the UK's next Prime Minister - died this morning.

This sad story reminds me of Ashley.

When a 15 year old Northern Ireland girl finds out that she is pregnant, it is rarely a cause for celebration. When that girl is the oldest of 4 children living with their parents in a small, publicly-owned, terraced house in a run-down housing estate in an area of low incomes and high unemployment, it is even less a joyful occasion. Abortion was not a feasible option for her because, at that time, abortion for any reason, except for the risk that the mother might die if the pregnancy continued, was illegal. Those who could afford to, travelled to England and paid at least £450 (a lot of money then) to an abortion clinic. Although the baby was not wanted, neither this girl nor her family could afford an abortion.

Ashley was born into this family in 1990. He wasn't well, so adoption was out of the question until a full diagnosis of his problems was made, and it was unlikely even after that. In due course Ashley's mother learned that he had cerebral palsy of the spastic quadriplegia type. He was severely disabled.

Ashley's teenage mother was still at school, so could not be a full-time parent. The baby's teenage father was totally uninterested and refused to have anything to do with him. Ashley's grandparents tried to cope, but with 4 other children of their own, found it very difficult. In addition, the already overcrowded house was clearly unsuitable for this unwelcome addition, and there was no suitable alternative public housing available. The local Social Services department, with the unmitigated approval of his mother and her family, sought foster care for Ashley.

My wife (not Marie - I hadn't met her yet) and I were approved foster parents at that time and had had many successful placements. We also had a “handicapped” son (the official term for Colm, then 10 years old), which made us experienced, in the eyes of the Social Services department, in caring for “handicapped” children and babies. Ashley fell into this all-encompassing umbrella term - “handicapped” - and when he was just over 9 months old, he came to stay with us.

When Ashley arrived, he couldn't sit, feed himself – even hold a feeding bottle - or do anything more than a new born baby. He obviously had severe learning difficulties (which Social Services had neglected to mention prior to placing him with us) as well as his physical problems. He was, however, alert and paying attention to what was going on around him. He could eat mashed up ordinary food. He mostly slept through the night, so he only needed 16 hours-a-day care!

Ashley's family had unlimited access to him, but after a couple of visits settled for occasional phone calls to see how he was doing.

As time went on, Ashley could be seen to be progressing. Although he required full-time care, his infrequent smiles and occasional happy vocalisations made everything worthwhile. I don't know if I was fooling myself at that time or not, but it seemed to me that Ashley was forming an attachment to me. I was most certainly becoming attached to him. I would nurse him in my arms almost every evening until my bedtime, which fortunately coincided with Ashley's bedtime. In the mornings, while my wife was getting our 3 children fed and ready for school etc., I was feeding, changing, bathing, nursing Ashley.

He celebrated his 1^st birthday with us. He seemed as happy that day as we had ever seen him. At 11 pm, just before going to bed, he sat on our fireside rug, totally unaided, for a few minutes. I cannot express how happy that made us! Real progress!

-Robert! ROBERT!

My wife rushed into our bedroom, screaming in a panic.

-I can't wake Ashley up!”

I rushed into the next room to his cot. He was lying on his back, relaxed. He looked asleep and had good colouring. Nothing much wrong here...

RELAXED?? Ashley was never relaxed. Alarm bells began to ring. I lifted him. He was floppy. He was warm. He wasn't breathing. He was dead. No! He wasn't dead! Not yet! He was too warm to be dead. I placed him on the nearby bed. Ring for an ambulance! I barked to my wife, and I started to give Ashley artificial resuscitation.

I continued with artificial resuscitation for...oh, I don't know how long...it seemed like a very long time, but it was probably only 10-15 minutes. As I forced air into Ashley's tiny lungs, I heard the fluid collecting there gurgle. It was not a pleasant sound. He was getting cooler, paler, more like a tiny cadaver. There was no breathing, no heartbeat. He was, finally, dead.

This scene still brings tears to my eyes. It's doing that now...

The paramedics arrived about 15 minutes afterwards. They confirmed what I already knew. They had to take him to the hospital to have a doctor check him – would I like to accompany them? In my dream-like trance I nodded affirmatively.

In the ambulance, during the 25 minute journey to the hospital, I was interrogated by an unfriendly paramedic. This was not what I was expecting.

-Who found him?

-My wife.

-Did you give him artificial resuscitation?

-Yes.

-Didn't your wife do that when she found him?

-No, she shouted for me.

-Why didn't she do it?

-I don't think she knows what to do.

-Who taught you to do that?

-The Scouts, when I was a boy scout.

-You weren't doing it when we arrived!

-No, Ashley was definitely dead by then.

-How do you know that – you a fuckin' doctor or somethin'? He was still fuckin' warm! You should've waited for us to tell you he was dead. We might have saved him. You should've kept up artificial respiration until we arrived. You might've fuckin' killed him!

There wasn't much scope for pleasant conversation after that...

At the hospital, the doctor was very sympathetic. He gave me all the time I needed and answered all my questions patiently. It was a typical cot death, he told me. No, there wasn't anything more I could have done. He had almost certainly been dead a couple of hours before my wife had found him. It was possible that Ashley had overheated in his cot and due to his physical problems he couldn't move to get cooler. That's why his body would have been warm, even quite a while after he had died.

The police visited next day – a man and a woman. They were apologetic. They had to do this. It was protocol. There was no accusation of anything being made. They just needed details for their records. They were very considerate in their questioning.

Ashley's funeral was arranged by his family and they generously invited my wife and me to attend the church service and interment of his remains. I attended the short, sad service. My wife, who had not become attached to Ashley, didn't want to go. Not many family members attended. The tiny coffin, covered in a cream fabric with silver decoration, was lowered into the ground at the edge of the small church cemetery. At the graveside, Ashley's grandfather spoke to me. I was somewhat apprehensive about this, but prepared for it. Would his family think that my wife and I had been negligent somehow?

“It was for the best, you know,” he confided to me. “What quality of life would the poor mite have had? His mum is relieved, now that it's all over. Not that she wasn't sad, too. But she had never bonded properly with him...”

I visited the cemetery on Ashley's 2^nd birthday. There was no marking on the grave, no stone, no flowers, nothing. The grave was totally covered in weeds and indistinguishable from the surroundings. A visitor to the cemetery would not have known that there was a grave there.

It was as if Ashley had never lived.

Naked bodies - a rant

A couple of months ago, a new sign appeared on the wall of the communal changing room at our swimming pool .

"BATHERS MUST NOT SHOWER NAKED"

The showers are not in cubicles - they are all in a row. Naked bathers cannot hide.

At our pool, there has always been a universally known but unwritten rule that bathers who changed their clothes without protecting their modesty and showered naked would be prepubescent. At the first sighting of a pubic hair a towel would be employed to hide one's genitals and naked showering would cease.

The last time I took Joseph (7) and Orla (3) to the pool, a mother was helping her 2 or 3 year old son to change out of his swimsuit while simultaneously holding a bath towel around him and preventing him from looking at some 3 or 4 year old boys and girls scampering around naked and without inhibitions.

“Why that boy got towel round him?” asked Orla embarrassingly loudly, removing her pants in full view of everyone.

“To stop anyone seeing his willy,” giggled Joseph, also stripping with abandon.

The mother gave me a really dirty look. I was obviously, in her eyes, unfit to be a parent.

Later, swimming pool session over, Orla and Joseph wanted to know why they had to shower still wearing their swimwear. For the life of me, I couldn't think of any reasonable answer. I still can't. Except that there was a directive fixed to the wall, but that's not a real answer.

As a young boy in the late 1950's and early 1960's, I used to share a bath with my sister. At my grandparents' house, the only house in their area to have a bath, my sister and I some of our cousins of both sexes bathed together and consecutively. My grandparents lived in a poor farming community where there was little disposable income and prepubescent children did not wear any underwear. It was considered an unnecessary expense. We didn't find it at all unusual. At the nearby beach we all ran around naked and carefree until our ages reached double figures. We watched various varieties of mammals copulate, give birth and die and knew instinctively that we humans were part of that cycle of life.

In the evening we used to watch one of only two TV channels available – BBC or ITV. For a while there was a programme where FULL FRONTAL NUDITY was shown. And around 6 pm! The programme was about primitive communities and aboriginal tribes. I recall clearly that several episodes featured Amazon tribes where the men and boys tramped through the jungle with their penises either tied to their body or flapping around while the women and girls were as naked as the day that they were born. (They still exist today - you can see them here.) To the best of my knowledge, not one complaint was made about this prime-time nudity. I wonder if totally naked white folk frolicking in their gardens would have been similarly received?

I asked my parents why only black people could be naked on the telly (I was an annoyingly precocious boy). They couldn't answer. The same thing happened when I asked why men could show their breasts in public, but ladies couldn't.

Society in the Republic of Ireland was even more sexually repressed at that time than in Northern Ireland, where I lived. However, one well-respected Dublin newspaper showed a shapely pair of breasts and informed its readers that they belonged to a celebrity. The readers were invited to guess to whom the breasts belonged. There was a public outcry and incredulity that such a respected paper would indulge in “pornography.” Prominent politicians and religious leaders were much less vocal when the owner of the breasts was revealed to be an Irish politician – a man!

I worry about the messages that our society is giving its youth. For example - are parts of our bodies too shameful to show? is nakedness only sexual? in the media, why is it that only young women can disrobe? why do film and TV censors not become corrupted, if they believe the material they ban can corrupt? why do some women expose their genitals to a male gynaecologist, but not to their husbands? why is it acceptable to show naked “primitive” (always black) people in the popular media, but not “civilised” (white) people?

I have to admit to believing that my outlook on sexual behaviour and nakedness is unusual for a male in western society. I find pornography boring in the extreme. I avoid strip-clubs and find pole-dancing distasteful. I believe in the total equality of the sexes. I think that breast-feeding in public is acceptable. All peoples of all races, cultures, ages and degrees of “civilisation” are equal in my eyes. And all bodies of all people are beautiful in their own way.

Perhaps these subversive views make me a danger to society.

The oldest man in the Nightclub

My 2^nd oldest daughter, Colleen is to be married in 9 days to Jim. This is my 4^th daughter to be married, and the 3^rd wedding in 3 years. To say that this is not good for the finances would be a gross understatement!

Last night was the Stag Night. The British quintessential precursor to the nuptial ceremony.

The evening started traditionally with the younger males drinking as much as possible in as short a time as possible. The older males, my future son-in-law's father and I, exercised more moderation. Then, when all (except we two oldies) were drunk enough – but not too obviously drunk to gain admittance - we went to Taunton's biggest night club, Shout.

Shout has a “proper dress” policy. Males have to wear clean clothes and ladies have to wear as little as possible!

The club was full, with a long queue of hopefuls waiting outside to be allowed in. It was a cold evening and the girls outside were getting goosebumps on their goosebumps! Luckily someone had arranged the VIP treatment for our party, so we were admitted without delay.

It is possible that the club is called Shout because communicating at any level below a shout is impossible. I expected that; but as a musician and a former sound technician, I was very disappointed with the quality of the sound. There was an abundance or deafening decibels of distortion. The light show was equally disappointing.

Attention was brought to bear on boobs and buttocks as the ladies highlighted their best assets. Hem lines were high and trousers appeared to have been painted on to bottoms. Copious amounts of cleavage were available for consideration. The young men, at whom the display was directed, moved around like farmers at a livestock auction. Eyeing up the stock. Ladies were categorised as unappealing, unaffordable, aspirational or attainable and the last category was pursued.

I realised that I was witnessing the mating rituals of Homo sapiens, British subspecies.

Jason, my oldest son-in-law, leaned over to me, positioning his mouth close to my ear. “I'm getting to old for this,” he bellowed. He is 37. “As I was saying to Neil, I haven't been clubbing for a few years now. I'd rather have a some friends around for a few drinks at home. I could hear what's being said.”

Neil - another son-in-law and also 37 - nodded, being too far away from my ear to attempt conversation. He apparently knew what was being said. Perhaps he was lip-reading?

Two things occurred to me at that moment. Firstly, Jim would be my first son-in-law to be younger than my wife. Isn't that weird? Secondly, how much I agreed with Jason and Neil. And the fact that I was the oldest man in the nightclub (although there were a couple of others who looked a similar age to me) had nothing to do with it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * *

Meanwhile Marie, who due to her agoraphobia can't get into any nightclub (too crowded, to difficult to get to the exits, toilets would be too busy etc.) was spending the evening with two of my daughters, Carla and Collette. They watched The Accidental Husband. They had nibbles and related amusing anecdotes about their husbands. They lounged about and relaxed.

You know, I'm pretty certain that Marie had more fun than me.

UFO's?

This has nothing to do with anything I normally write about. It was inspired by a comment left on Steph's blog by Sarah. The subject of UFO's was raised. So here goes...

On Xmas eve I went to my daughter Colleen's house in Taunton, where she , Carla & Collette were hosting a birthday party for me (yes, my birthday is on Christmas Eve). It had been a beautiful day, and the evening was bright and clear with lots of stars and no moon.

At about 8 o'clock, my son-in-law, smoking a cigarette outside in the garden, called everyone outside to see the strange lights in the sky. We all piled out to see six (I think), fairly large, bright lights in the sky, all the same size, travelling in formation. Like a diamond with a tail. One by one they peeled off the formation, dimmed and slowly disappeared. My kids were outside, too, and we told them that it was Santa and his sleigh. When the lights had nearly all disappeared, we went inside again to continue our revelries.

It's only NOW that I am wondering what those lights were.

Ufo's? Surely not...