The Life Of Riley

Prepare yourselves...

That's right. It's me. Holding a baby.

Last time I tried this, I'm told by the parents of the little girl baby I had a hold of that she'd never cried quite as much before. Absolutely bawled her eyes out. Gained me the nickname Wicked Witch Of The North (could have been the pin I stuck in her from under my velvet cloak *laughs in manner of evil pantomime villain*).

When my dear pal Smiff told me she'd managed to get herself up the duff, I was utterly thrilled. My little mate had a wonderful man, a sweet little house, wanted for nothing. Except the patter of those tiny plates of meat. Then, along came Riley to make their life complete.

I warned my old pal well in advance. Honesty being far too important to me, I'd have a job on pretending if the cruel hand of Fate dealt her an ugly mite. What a bloody relief. He appeared and he wasn't a gargoyle in the slightest, but rather cute, right from the off, not remotely Winston Churchill at all. I didn't even have to lie.

Daft amount of cute in one human.

He's going to have a lovely life, wee Riley. The lucky little blighter, he's been born into a happy house, with two of the kindest, most warm-hearted people I know for parents. He'll be talked to properly, know his place, not get ideas above his station, and certainly not think the world revolves round him (ok, well maybe a bit). What's even better is, that although they're a right pair of softies, they won't put up with any nonsense and he'll have a strict upbringing (when discussing what Riley will be calling grandparents "nana", "granny" etc, Marc said he expected to be called "Sir" by his son - he was only half-joking).

"Don't bloody drop me, Sir."

And my life advice for the wee fella? I'd probably tell him "well, mate, some shit stuff will happen, but loads of good stuff too. Don't act like a knob, or you'll have me to answer to. Be nice to your Mum and Dad - you only get one actual set, and yours are a pair of gems", and many other excellent pearls of wisdom. But I might save my words for a few years yet. He's too busy thinking about breasts at the moment (one thing unlikely to change with the coming years).

A Bunny's For Life, Not Just For Easter

During my recent couchsurfing stint, I had a couple of weeks in E17 with Smiff and Marc. Very kind they were too, putting me up in their lovely spare room, letting me cook big pans of brown in their kitchen, warm my cold tootsies in front of their new fire, and generally make myself at home.

Smiff has a good sense of humour. Good = sense of the silly and ridiculous to match my own. Daft. On one of her foraging-for-Ebay-fodder missions, she discovered Bunny. Bunny is a small knitted rabbit, very sweet, pink and blue with button eyes. Smiff thought it would be a laugh to leave Bunny hanging out of a shopping bag for Marc to find. He never did, but I saw her handywork and we both laughed our little Northern heads off. Next day, when I got in from work, Bunny had a starring role amongst the tins in my food cupboard, which made me laugh even more:

The following morning, Smiff found Bunny having a little rest with her eggy mates:

And following a short trip up North, Smiff discovered Bunny getting a bit more adventurous tripping the chandelier-light fantastic:

Today was Easter Sunday. Perfect day for bunnies to be out and about. And I wasn't disappointed. Whilst sitting in the Ace Café having my veggie fry-up...:

...I got a message from Bunny, with a little help from Smiff. The perfect Easter picture...Bunny straddling a vase of golden daffodils.

A Marathon Weekend

A while back, the Brummie suggested (over a skinful of booze) that we should run the London Marathon. "Yeah, let's get places and do that, we can easy do it", I vaguely remember replying, before probably passing out over my pint. She applied for a place the next day. I didn't. But I forgot to mention this fact to her. So when she had the call from Clic Sargent (charity helping kids who suffer with cancer and leukaemia) to say she'd got a place, she rang me really excitedly to ask if my place had come through. Oh dear...

Marathon day dawned. I'd been to Marc's 40th surprise party the evening before (all lovely - Smiff needn't have bricked it...he loved every minute) but ducked out early for a hot bath/early night combo. Good job I did. When my alarm woke me at 6.50am, I felt like I'd been asleep about 10 minutes. Bloody exhausted. But it's a bit pathetic to think like that when one of your best mates is about to run 26 miles...met up with the Lucas/Driver clan at the bus stop:

As we got to Greenwich, Brummie was desperate for the lav (I'd already warned her that relieving yourself in the gutter à la Paula Radcliffe might result in her arse being splashed all over the Daily Star in a "Marathon Brummie Buttock Shocker" headline). She left us for the start, accompanied by me on kazoo playing the Rocky theme (tune of the day). We moved on to our first vantage point, a pub on the corner of the Tower Bridge road used as a base by Clic Sargent. The atmosphere was electric. We knew roughly what time she'd show up, so we started watching out. 

A woman standing behind was looking for her husband. He was called Simon, and he'd be wearing the CS pink vest. Suddenly, she spotted him and we were all calling out to him. He ran over and gave her and her friend a kiss. When he'd gone, she burst into tears. And then so did I. She told me he was running for her little boy. I didn't need to know any more. It brought it home to me why so many of these people were running. It isn't about fast times, glory, being on tv...it's about a sense of personal achievement, having a go, doing something for a good cause close to your heart.

And then I spotted her. And we were all screaming. She looked amazing, hardly breaking a sweat! She ran over and we were all kissing and hugging (and blubbing, of course), and then she's off again. So we move on to our second and last vantage point of the day, another pub, this time on the Embankment. And this time it's loads busier, and I'm worried that her family and Screwy might not see her in the crowds. But I needn't have worried. Her mum spotted her first, and then she saw me and Screwy further up. More kissing, hugging, blubbing. We went off to sit in the gardens nearby until she got back from the finish. Max, Smiff and Marc turned up too, so we were quite a gang. Screwy did some filming, to add to a video diary he's been making for her. And then we all hooked up in the CS designated pub. Brummie looked great, really glowing and happy, but she said her feet were mashed and her knees were agony. What a woman and what an achievement.

Bravo, Brummie x

It's been a marathon weekend in more ways than one. My old friend Wardy had been over from Australia during my trip to NY and was due to fly back out of Heathrow following his stay back in his home town of Manchester. We go back a long way...countless gigs, nights on the piss and various other states of mind-mess. Catching up is great - I collect him from the station (handsome as ever) and we end up meeting up with the Old Punk, Blondie, Ali and Simon. Beer, chat, laughs, nachos later (sounds like a Big Red night to me) and it's 1am. How??? Time really does fly when you're having fun. Wardy and I carried on the catching up back at mine, over about a million cups of tea, until we noticed the birds singing and dawn breaking...perfect. When we finally surfaced, big fry-up was essential, followed by lazing in the park:

Yorkshire Terrier, Lancashire Hotpot

until time came for the lift to the train station for the journey to Heathrow. I know less can often be more, as the saying goes, but 24 hours just wasn't enough.