Mark Richards's Blog

Confident Dad, hopelessly confused son. Or the other way round…

They say that writing a book is the closest a man ever gets to giving birth. Well, after far too long in the delivery room, I’ve finally delivered the baby. Father, Son and the Pennine Way has now been published, and the e-book is available on the Kindle. Here’s the link to Amazon UK. For those of you that prefer something you can touch, hold and spill coffee on, the paperback will be along shortly.

The book is the story of the walk I did with Alex, my youngest son (and ‘Ben’ in the regular ‘Best Dad’ posts) in the summer of 2016. 5 days and 90 miles on the Pennine Way, the UK’s ‘toughest national trail.’

It’s the experiences we shared, what we learned about ourselves and each other – and the sorry tale of how I became perhaps the only person in the world to walk a mile of the Pennine Way in my underpants…

So far so good – the reviews are excellent with one person describing the book as “brilliantly written, insightful, brutally honest and laugh-out-loud funny.” (If you’d like to read of the post I wrote at the time – many of which are in the book – use the ‘Pennine Way’ category in the right hand column.)

Now there’s the unremitting slog of promoting the book. It’s not a part of the job I enjoy – like a lot of writers I’m not a natural salesman – but it has to be done. It’s as least as important as writing the book. I’ll post more updates on the progress of the book over the coming weeks: For now it’s time to drop a note to BBC local radio: yes, I am available for interviews…

 

And 20 years later she’s starting her own business…

A letter – well, an e-mail obviously – arrives from the Beloved Daughter. She’s resigned from the corporate world before she’s even joined it. Fed up with the job search, with losing out to interns who’ll work for nothing, she’s starting her own business. Social media management for small companies. And she wants some advice.

“Er…” I said when she rang.

“Come on, Dad, you’re always on about those business blogs you write.”

“Let me think about it,” I said, playing for time.

Two days later I sent her a letter…

Congratulations. I always knew you’d do this one day. I just didn’t expect it to be so soon. But you want advice, so here goes…

There’ll be highs and there’ll be lows. There’ll be days when you think you’ve made a dreadful mistake and there’ll be others when you think you can walk on water. The second days are the most dangerous. Hubris leads to nemesis as the Greeks used to say. And in the hope that it helps you avoid nemesis, here’s some advice. Seven of the most important lessons I’ve learned along the way. I hope they help.

You’re going to be lonely

I’m sorry to say this, but the life of an entrepreneur can be lonely. Not many people will understand the drive to build your own business. They won’t understand the difficulties either. Or the frustrations. Or the worries about the people you’ll employ one day. Or the fact that you’re part of a team but apart from that team – because sooner or later you’ll need to take Maddie to one side and say, “Thanks. You’ve been with me a long time. But I’m going to have to let you go.”

Your partner – when you find one – won’t understand and neither will your friends. The only person who’ll understand is another entrepreneur – or someone who works with entrepreneurs. I’ve worked with Trevor McClintock: talk to him if you need to.

Watch the numbers

Every business has Key Performance Indicators – KPIs – and they’re as crucial now as they’ve ever been. In the old days it might be how many calls your salesmen made: today it’s more likely to be the conversion rate on your website. It doesn’t matter what your KPIs are – they’ll be different for every business – but you need to know them and you need to measure them at least once a month. What you can measure, you can control – and if the numbers start to slip, you need to take action straightaway. Knowing your KPIs is the single most important step you can take to making your business a success.

Oh – and you need to do some of the basics: Her Majesty’s Government will talk you through it.

Keep the main thing the main thing

That’s a quote from Stephen Covey 7 Habits book. There’s a lot of valuable insight in that book, but none of it is more important than those seven words. An entrepreneur is always having ideas – that’s what you do. Sometimes, you’ll have so many ideas that you can’t seem to focus on any of them. So ask yourself a simple question: ‘What is my goal for this year? Is this helping me achieve that goal? If not, why am I doing it?’

And when you’ve achieved a few goals and you’ve had some success, you’ll find something else. Everyone wants a part of you. Would you like to be involved with our charity? Do you want to sit on this board? Be a non-exec director? There’ll hopefully come a time when you can give back to society: but it won’t be for a while. Keep focused on your goal – and learn to say ‘no’ gracefully. ‘I’d love to. I really appreciate the offer. But right now I just don’t have the time to do it justice.’

It’s consistency of effort, not consistency of results

There’ll be days – especially early on – when you just can’t do anything right. When potential clients are too busy or too cash-strapped; when, for whatever reason, the time just isn’t right for them. There’ll be other days when everyone says ‘yes:’ when everything falls your way. Trust me: don’t lose heart on the bad days. Keep doing what you know is right, keep putting the effort in and the good days will come.

Your job is to lead: it is not to be the most talented person

Too many entrepreneurs try to do everything. They try to know everything. Your job is simple: as and when you have a team, it is to lead that team. You don’t need to be the best programmer, you don’t need to deal with every customer. You do need to say, ‘That’s where we’re going. That’s the direction the company is taking. Follow me.’

Realise that the world is changing

You don’t need me to tell you that: you’re a millennial, you’ve grown up with change. The pace of change is faster than it’s ever been. We’re in a global market now – and we’ve all got global competitors. That’s a fantastic opportunity – you can work with the best people wherever they, whatever time zone they’re in. But your competitors are everywhere – and they all want your business. So whatever you do, stay on top of technological changes.

Go to the gym  

Being an entrepreneur is tough, mentally and physically. You’re going to be stressed, you’re going to be working long hours, the business is going to place more demands on you than you thought possible. So you need to be fit. You can’t make good business decisions if you’re falling apart physically. So stay healthy. Run, go the gym, get on your bike. Whatever works for you. But like the old Nike ad said, “Just do it.”

That’s it. I hope those points are helpful. I wish you nothing but success, sweetheart – and remember, I’m always here for you.

Dad xx

Ben’s plan for next year…

Flashback six months. Ben and I are walking past Malham Tarn. We’re a couple of miles into our 5 days/90 miles Pennine Way epic. And I’m feeling good.

“We should do this every year,” I say.

As I say, feeling good. At the time I hadn’t walked for eight hours soaked to the skin. I hadn’t been so exhausted that I couldn’t speak. I hadn’t slipped on the rocks and broken two fingers. I hadn’t fallen in a bog and had to walk a mile in my underpants to dry out.

“As long as you’re up to it, Dad.” Back in August I thought he was being considerate. Now I realise he had the gift of foresight.

“Where shall we go next year? Southern Ireland? Bologna to Florence?”

“Why don’t we walk across Japan?”

What? Where did that come from? But before I could investigate further it started to rain – and I received the first intimation that my waterproof jacket wasn’t…

Six months on this year’s expedition hasn’t been planned. Ben’s got his first serious girlfriend. His Dad and his walking boots have slipped down his priority list…

I mentally resigned myself to a lonely summer on the Cleveland Way. But then I stumbled across a competition: ‘Your Impossible Expedition.’  And I started daydreaming again.

“So go on,” my wife said. “In a perfect world, what would you do?”

Well in a perfect world the snow would come down and I’d be trapped in a mountainside bothy with Nicole Kidman, but that probably wasn’t the answer she was looking for.

“Live off the land,” I said. “Be self-sufficient.”

Jane and Ben snorted in unison. My ‘self-sufficiency’ has long been a source of derision in our family. The children have always known that if civilisation ceased and they had to rely on Dad’s hunter-gatherer skills then hunger would inevitably – and rapidly – follow. Not to mention dying of exposure when the family shelter fell down at the first hint of a breeze.

But I’ve watched Ray Mears dig a pit and cook a rabbit in it. And what about my old mate Bear Grylls? ‘Fried scorpion? Lovely jubbly. Bags of protein.’

Once the bug’s bitten you, there’s no antidote.

“Three days,” I said. “Two nights. Trekking across the wilderness. Finding food, building a fish trap, sleeping in a snow hole.”

There’s amazed, there’s incredulous and there’s whatever comes next. Otherwise known as my wife’s expression when I said ‘snow hole.’ “What? A snow hole? You turn your electric blanket on if the weatherman mentions scattered showers.”

“Yeah, Dad. And you’ve never caught a fish in your life.”

Sadly that’s true. As long time readers know, Ben’s childhood was marked by a succession of failed fishing trips. The open sea, the early morning sun reflecting off the waves, the gently rocking boat. And not a damn fish in sight. Bucket list? Yes, catch a bloody fish.

“And you broke your finger on the Pennine Way.” Yep, the ring finger on my left hand is now permanently bent, permanently painful. And the NHS has admitted defeat. My best hope is to change my name to Rover and refer myself to the Supervet.

My wife gave up on my re-enactment of Revenant and turned her attention to Ben. “What’s your Impossible Expedition, sweetheart?”

“Like I said to Dad. We should walk across Japan.”

I’ve checked over the past six months. It’s 140 miles. That’s do-able. Or maybe not…

“With your Dad? I can just see him as the Last Samurai.”

“Don’t be stupid, Mum. He couldn’t read a map in the Yorkshire Dales. How’s he going to read signs in Japanese? You mean the Lost Samurai…”

I’d like to thank Into the Blue for giving me the idea for this post: make sure you have a go at the competition. I’d been thinking about doing the Bear Grylls extreme survival but, between you and me, I’m worried it won’t be challenging enough…

Just the four plates this year…

“Is it alright if I work on Christmas Day?”

I’d been half-expecting the question. The hotel had decided they couldn’t be without their star waiter on Christmas Day. And it looked like the star waiter wanted to work…

“Well… In a perfect world we’d have you all at home.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ben said. “But I sort of feel I owe them one for last year. And it would be interesting to work just once on Christmas Day.”

And who can’t see that? Work means commitments. And in a busy hotel, one of those commitments can easily be Christmas Day.

Ah, well. We’ve known the day was coming…

As soon as Tom and Jessica went to university I expected one of them to disappear to a girlfriend or boyfriend for Christmas. It never happened. But we’re finally here: after 18 years of setting the table for five, there’ll only be four of us this year.

So I’m feeling a little sad.

But no matter. I’ll have plenty to keep me busy. Dad’s Taxi has already been booked. “I’ll need to be there for 11:00 if that’s OK. And then can you pick me up when I’m finished?”

When will that be? Is the hotel doing one sitting or two? Ben doesn’t seem entirely sure. But of course I can. I didn’t want any dessert wine anyway.

And let’s look on the bright side. The natural order will restored a day later. There’ll be five for Boxing Day. And clearly Ben can’t miss out. “So we’re cooking two Christmas dinners this year?” I said to my beloved.

She looked at somewhat sceptically. “What do you mean ‘we?’”

She has a point. Christmas dinner has always been her domain. My role has been simple: kitchen porter and potboy. Peel the veg, take the rubbish out, open the wine, carve the turkey, do as I’m told.

And it’s worked perfectly. Sprouts, carrots, parsnips: they’ve all bowed down before my 99p peeler. Cut those woody bits out of the parsnips? I’m like a well-oiled machine.

But this year may be different. There’s been a disturbance in the force. I may have to serve two masters. Sorry, mistresses.

Jessica is home. And demanding a more significant role than ‘just make your Mum a gin and tonic while she cooks the dinner.’

Two women, one kitchen.

I’m not sure it’s going to work.

Jessica cites the Christmas dinner she’s just served at uni. “Well what did you cook?” we demand.

Her list starts with turkey and ends half an hour later. Along the way several Masterchef contestants wave the white flag.

But Ben raises his eyes suspiciously. Isn’t this the same sister who cooked chicken fajitas? And didn’t quite cook the chicken…

Then again, she has just made a magnificent job of icing the Christmas cake.

I take my youngest son on one side and explain tact, diplomacy and peaceful co-existence to him. “Take a leaf out of my book, son. Peel what you’re told to peel, beat a regular path to the dustbin and keep a low profile.”

“I’ll be at work, Dad.”

Oh yes, so he will. And the kitchen is a foreign country to Tom.

So Jane will be cooking and Jessica will be ‘helping.’ Let’s hope she copes with the pressure rather more calmly than I would.

And I’ll be tiptoeing gently between my wife and my daughter. Just as well I’m going to be sober…

I’m now working on a 35-40,000 word e-book about the 5 day, father/son walk Ben and I did on the Pennine Way: if you’d like to read a few sample chapters before publication, just use the contact form to let me know. In the meantime if you’d like a copy of the ‘laugh out loud’ Best Dad featuring 27 of my favourite columns from all the years I’ve been writing, it’s available here for 99p on your Kindle. 

Come on, Tom. Help us out…

In the olden days it was simple. And I must be getting old because I find that particular phrase tripping off my lips all too frequently these days.

But it was, damn it.

“What do you want for Christmas, Tom?” we’d ask as November waved goodbye.

“I’ll send you a list,” he’d say. And a few days later, said list would drop into our inboxes.

“Can you understand it?” my wife traditionally asked.

“Well, I can understand one of the games. And I can understand it costs a lot. But basically, no.”

We didn’t have a hope. It was full of F1 technical details, go faster stripes for computers and various devices that would consolidate his hold over our home internet. It was also full of links.

So it wasn’t our role to understand Tom’s list. Our role was simple: click the link, pay, bring the delivery home from the office.

It didn’t quite capture the romance of Christmas, but by gum it was effective. And quick.

But all that has changed. Tom’s a proper person now: he’s working, only home for a few days at Christmas. And my beloved has been having increasingly exasperated conversations…

“Christmas is coming, Tom. We need your list.”

“Yeah, I’ll think about it. I don’t really want to send a list this year.”

“But how will we know what to buy you?”

“But if I send a list you’re basically just giving me money.”

Technically he’s right. We may as well say, ‘Here’s a hundred quid, Tom, buy them yourself.’ But it’s not quite magic and sparkle is it?

No, it isn’t. So I decided to take control.

“Look, Tom,” I said, slipping it subtly into the conversation, “What do you want for Christmas.”

“Well, nothing really. Why don’t you surprise me?”

“I know you haven’t done a list. But a clue would be nice…”

“I’ll think about it.”

“What did he say?” Jane asked.

“He’ll think about it. Which obviously means we have to think about it. Clothes?”

“I bought him clothes last year. He took them all back.”

So it could be a bleak year for our eldest son. I’ve even resorted to Google. Gift ideas for twenty-something men. But as he doesn’t have a beard to groom that’s 50% of the internet written off straightaway.

We’ve had one solitary flash of inspiration: so at the current rate we’ll have Tom’s Christmas shopping finished by July.

Fortunately, there are no such problems with our other two children. I can’t stop having ideas for Ben. The only one left at home, endless conversations, off to university next year. How can you not have ten ideas an hour?

And of course the Beloved Daughter is far too organised to leave anything as important as her Christmas presents to the vagaries of her parents’ declining intellects. “What about Jessica?” I carelessly asked.

“She’s sent a list. She sent it in November, actually.”

“That’s late.”

“Yes. She’s says she got a lot of coursework.”

But by the time you read this my Beloved Daughter will be home – and she hasn’t stopped at Christmas presents. Here’s a girl who knows what she wants.

To mis-quote the Christmas Story a decree has already gone out from Caesar Augustus that lamb shall be served upon her return. Lamb shanks, Dad, she texted, slow cooked in red wine.

‘Red wine.’ Now there are two words that ring a distant bell. But I’m still teetotal thanks to the lingering effects of my gastric flu.

You wouldn’t prefer chicken soup instead? I texted back.

Then I went off to look for an air raid shelter…

I’m delighted to say that with a designer friend of mine I now have an app on the iPhone App Store. Children fighting, cat puking and your OH prostrate with man flu? Yep, the Stressed Out Mums Sticker Pack is now available for 79p. Need chocolate? Need cake? Ready for wine o’clock? Every sticker you’ll ever need is right there…

The wife when I was hallucinating…

That’s how it starts. The sudden need for your wife to soothe your brow and call you her ‘poor, brave soldier.’

Technically, it starts with the ominous shivering. “I just can’t get warm today,” I said last Saturday lunchtime. And three hours later I wrapped myself in my dressing gown, crawled into bed and pulled an extra blanket over me. Then I asked – very weakly – for another blanket.

But when the shivers and shakes start, nothing keeps you warm.

“Maybe I’ve eaten something,” I whispered. “I’ll be OK tomorrow.”

“Good,” my wife said, “Because Ben says he’s bringing Chloe round.”

What? He was finally bringing her round? No way could I meet her in this state. I had to get better…

“When’s he going for her?” I asked Jane on Sunday afternoon.

“Half an hour.”

Right. Time for action. I walked unsteadily to the bathroom. Foolishly, I looked in the mirror. My eyes were sunken, I had three days of grey stubble and running sweaty fingers through my hair had turned it into a Mohican. I’ve looked more attractive…

‘I’ll just wait for the bathroom to stop spinning,’ I thought. ‘Then I’ll go in the shower.’

And then, mercifully, I found my sensible head. And went back to bed.

Eventually Jane came to check on me. “When’s she coming?”

“She’s been. They’ve gone to the pictures.” Had I been out for the whole afternoon? Quite clearly.

“What’s she like?”

But suddenly even Ben’s first girlfriend couldn’t hold my attention. Armageddon had arrived.

I made it to the bathroom. Just. And life settled down into a nice, regular rhythm…

Collapse on the toilet. Empty bowels. Stagger back to feet. Feel dizzy. Lean over the bath. Vomit. Collapse back on the toilet. Thank God that’s over. What? There’s still something left inside me? I haven’t got rid of my spleen yet? Well, let’s heave it into the bath. Collapse back on the toilet…

What was this? A bug? Gastric flu? Food poisoning?

I’ve only had food poisoning once in my life – when my first wife made ‘Crab Surprise.’ Crab Assassin would have been a better name. And like all good assassins, it was swift and lethal. The toxins came, eviscerated me and were gone within 24 hours.

But this was different. By Tuesday I was still staggering to the toilet. For the first time in my life I’d had hallucinations, thanks to epic dehydration. And yes, my wife leant over the bed, dabbed my forehead with a damp flannel and called me her ‘poor, brave soldier.’ That can’t possibly have been a hallucination…

I finally staggered back into the world on Wednesday. The only solid food I’d kept inside me since Saturday was a banana. I stepped onto the scales. Yep, I’d turned into Flat Stanley. If anyone reading this is struggling to ‘drop a dress size for Christmas’ I may have a solution…

When I emerged back into the world I was washed out. Body completely empty. I’d drunk nothing but water for five days. I crawled down to the kitchen, passing two boxes of wine on the way. Disgusting stuff. Who’d ordered that? Well I wouldn’t be having any over Christmas…

Nope, nature had totally de-toxified me. I could have swanned off to Switzerland and paid thousands. I could have called in at that place I pass on my way to work: it offers colonic irrigation at 8:30 in the morning – an idea I’ve always found quite easy to resist…

But nature had done it for free. Cleaned out, detoxed, a new me. But I decided not to send the wine back. After all, Tom and Jessica were coming home…

My apologies for the late publication of the columns over the past few weeks: as you’ll see from the above, keeping the blog updated has been a long way down the list of priorities…

No caption required…

As my Granny would have said, he’s ‘walking out.’

A delightful phrase – which doesn’t mean that our youngest son is leaving home. It does mean that he has a girlfriend.

And ‘walking out’ is exactly what he’s doing.

“I’m just going for a walk.”

“I’m just popping out for an hour.”

“Just going into town. Can you give me a lift?”

We smile and say “that’s fine” and maybe we reach for the car keys. And then we have a talk with him…

No, no, not that talk. What do think the internet is for?

“Look, this is madness. You don’t have to go out and freeze in the cold. Bring her home, just introduce us, go up to your bedroom. We don’t bite. We’re perfectly normal.”

Ben smiles enigmatically. He’s heard this twenty times before. But we’re parents: hard-wired to repeat ourselves. He smiles again – they’re elderly, they can’t remember being young – and disappears into the cold.

“Madness,” I say again, as I artfully multi-task by turning the TV on and filling my wine glass at the same time.

“He’ll bring her home when he’s ready,” Jane says.

He will. The question is, will we be ready?

The nightmare scenario unfolds in front of me…

The front door opens. It’s Ben. And he’s not alone. He’s taken us at our word: finally admitted it’s too cold for love’s young dream. But why didn’t he warn us?

“Dad, this is Chloe. Chloe, this is my Dad. The one on the sofa watching football. Who hasn’t shaved for three days and who’s hurling abuse at the TV because his team is losing. Who’s just finished the red wine and – judging by the fact he’s wearing tracksuit bottoms – had a large plate of cheese to go with it…

…And this is my Mum. Who’s wearing her dressing gown and drinking gin because she was absolutely convinced I’d stay out in the cold.”

At which point Chloe tells Ben she’ll be ‘washing her hair’ for the foreseeable future. And we rehearse the ‘plenty more fish’ speech.

Nope, if your son or daughter is bringing someone home for the first time you need some warning. And you need to do your research…

“What does she like to eat?”

“Will she be OK with the dog?”

And – most importantly, according to my wife – “Is there anything your Dad shouldn’t say?”

The last time we were in this position was five years ago. Jessica was about to arrive with her first serious boyfriend: well, the first serious boyfriend I’d been told about. And here – not for the first time in my life – I must confess to the words ‘hypocrite’ and ‘stereotype.’

Relaxed about my daughter’s first boyfriend? Yes, of course I was relaxed about it. As relaxed as the Spanish Inquisition.

“So what’s he do?” I demanded of my wife.

“Duh. He’s still at school.”

“What’s he want to do?”

“Be a musician.”

“What? What sort of career is that? Do we know his parents? Where’s he live? What exams results is he going to get? What do you mean you don’t know? She’s our daughter…”

My wife told me to relax. She told me to relax about 618 times.

Whereas with Ben, I am relaxed. I know Chloe’s name. Well, her first name. I have a vague idea of the A-levels she’s doing. And that’s it.

Clearly I’m older and wiser. Or maybe Ben just won’t tell me anything…

“What’s she like?”

“Nice.”

“Yes, yes. But what do you like about her?”

“I like spending time with her.”

“Well what – ”

But it was no use. My son smiled, and went walking out. Again…

My apologies for the late publication of this post: as you’ll see when ‘Poor, Brave Soldier’ is published, keeping the blog updated has been the last thing on my mind…

It was all his fault…

Here’s a simple question: one that goes right to the heart of the human condition. And married life as well…

Does a man’s will power only exist while his wife is in the same room?

In my case, the answer is simple. And obvious.

Thursday night. I’ve spent the day at work locked in a sweaty embrace with 2,500 words on Philip Hammond’s Autumn Statement. But that’s what I do for a living: all stress levels are normal.

But my beloved is away. And 90 minutes later I’ve destroyed the kitchen and drunk far too much red wine.

Whose fault was it? Another obvious answer…

It was Nietzsche’s fault.

Let me plead my case…

Jane’s away so it’s just Ben and me for dinner. Fair enough, I’ll zip round to M&S. See if they’re doing ‘dine in for two for ten quid.’ That’ll take care of the inevitable “what’s for pudding?” question – and we can have a nice father/son chat over a glass of wine. I might even prise a bit of info about the new girlfriend out of him…

But here’s another immutable law of human life. Babies fill their nappies the moment you’re finally ready to set off. If there’s one piece of Lego left out you’ll stand on it in the middle of the night. And if you’ve bought ‘dine in for two’ you always drink the free bottle of wine the same night.

Even if you’re on your own.

Which I wasn’t – so no problem there.

“Glass of wine with your dinner, Ben?”

“No thanks, Dad. I’ve got a Philosophy essay to do.”

Ah! Philosophy: my specialist subject. “Anything I can help with?”

“Nietzsche, Dad.”

Nietzsche? What’s that? Ubermensch isn’t it? Man and Superman? I can bluff my way through this one. “Fire away, son. I did old Friedrich at university.”

“So you’ll know that he says you should be teetotal.”

“Yes, yes, of course I knew that. Just remind me why. I must have missed that lecture…”

“Because if you drink alcohol you’re not responsible for your own life.”

Well that’s an interesting philosophical point I can discuss with my son. “But surely one glass of wine – like I’m having with dinner – doesn’t mean I lose control of my own life?”

“But you won’t stop at one will you, Dad? Then you’ll start on the cheese…”

I reassure my son that I most certainly will be stopping at one glass. Work to do, chance to catch up on some background reading while the wife is away…

The discussion ranges from Nietzsche to the rise of Hitler to free will. Ben seems to be outwitting me. And my wine glass seems to have mysteriously filled itself.

“I’m going for some bread to mop this sauce up,” he says.

“Bring the cheese back will you?” a pathetic voice replies.

He comes back, has some sport with my feeble grasp of the Weimar Republic and departs to write his essay.

I wander into the kitchen. It’s chaos. How the hell has this happened?

Damn it, I watch Masterchef. “Work tidy,” Monica says.

“Don’t worry, Monica,” I say. “I always do.”

Then there’s the bottle of Shiraz. Clearly it wasn’t ‘dine in for two,’ it was ‘drink in for one.’ It’s been reduced to not-worth-saving-that-little-bit.

At that moment my phone rings. Jane: phoning from her desolate and lonely hotel. Exhausted by another day of NHS budgets. Or lack thereof…

“Everything alright at home?”

“Absolutely fine. We’ve had dinner together, I’ve helped him with his essay and I’ve just finished tidying the kitchen.”

But we’ve been married 20 years. As Mrs Thatcher would have said, the lady’s not for fooling…

I’m delighted to say that with a designer friend of mine I now have an app on the iPhone App Store. Children fighting, cat puking and your OH prostrate with man flu? Yep, the Stressed Out Mums Sticker Pack is now available for 79p. Need chocolate? Need cake? Ready for wine o’clock? Every sticker you’ll ever need is right there…

The view I won’t be seeing. Not yet anyway…

Hygge. Pronounced ‘hue-gah.’ Unless you’re in our house, in which case it’s ‘hug.’ Or ‘higgy.’

It’s the Danish concept of living well, living simply and being good to yourself – and no ‘wellness’ guide can exist without it.

As far as I can tell I’ve been good to myself for several years. Too many, according to the waistband on my grey trousers…

But I’ve always been good at home. I’ve never set foot in Denmark. It’s on my bucket list: one of the countries I really want to visit. Copenhagen, and then a jaunt up the road to Aarhus (see above: pronounced ‘our house,’ obviously…)

And last week, for thirty glorious seconds, I was on the plane.

Packed, virtual boarding pass in my hand. A few hours and I’d be sitting in the Sky Bar, gazing out over the city, Sweden on the horizon. And a plate of just-caught seafood heading my way…

“We’re going to Copenhagen,” my wife had said, beaming from ear-to-ear.

“Brilliant,” I said. “Fantastic! I’ve always wanted to go to Denmark. When did you book?”

This was why I loved her. These sudden, out of-the-blue romantic moments. A weekend in Copenhagen: just the two of us. “Tell me the dates,” I said, “I’ll put them in my diary.”

“Er…” she said.

“What?” I asked, feeling the boarding pass slipping through my fingers: watching the waiter walk past my table…

“When I said ‘we’ I meant Jessica and me. She’s booked the flights for my Christmas present.”

It didn’t take me long to sober up. I hadn’t really wanted caramelised salmon with green tomato sauce anyway. Home-made schnapps? Nej tak, a beer from the corner shop will be fine.

Besides, there’s a giant tick in the ‘Good Parents’ column as compensation. When your daughter does that for your wife’s Christmas present, you have to think you got one or two decisions right along the way.

“Has she booked the tickets?”

“Yep. She says we’re flying from Luton on the 19th.”

“January?”

“Yes. She’s got some time off from uni because she’s not doing exams.”

“It’ll be cold,” I said.

But not quite as cold as stirring a lonely pan of baked beans…

So there’ll be no Hygge for Dad. At least not in Copenhagen.

Never mind, there’s always the lounge…

“What are you doing?”

“I’m watching football, drinking wine and eating cheese.”

“I can see that. And in your tracksuit bottoms. And you haven’t shaved for about four days. It’s a bit of a slob-fest, darling.”

I sighed. That’s the problem with wives. They don’t understand how quickly a husband can embrace the latest world-wide phenomenon. Catch the zeitgeist. “It’s not a slob-fest,” I patiently explained. “It’s hygge. I’m not going to Denmark so I’m having hygge at home.”

My wife didn’t look convinced. Possibly because her version of hygge conjured up a chisel jawed Scandinavian: not Kurt Wallender after a night’s drinking…

“Look,” I said. “Living well – I’m drinking red wine which is good for my heart. Living simply – I only have two types of cheese. And I’m being good to myself – ”

“With an elasticated waist.”

“Which I don’t need any more thanks to all the walking I do.”

A light bulb went on. That was the answer.

“Ben and I are doing another walk next summer,” I said. “Denmark will be ideal. A little jaunt. Copenhagen to Aarhus.”

My wife sighed. “It’s 200 miles, darling. Across the sea. Other than that you’ll be fine.”

That’s the trouble with marrying someone who’s got Geography A-level. You can’t outwit her. Especially as she’ll shortly be on intimate terms with my plate of caramelised salmon…

I’m delighted to say that with a designer friend of mine I now have an app on the iPhone App Store. Children fighting, cat puking and your OH prostrate with man flu? Yep, the Stressed Out Mums Sticker Pack is now available for 79p. Need chocolate? Need cake? Ready for wine o’clock? Every sticker you’ll ever need is right there…

My thanks to Visit Copenhagen (click the link above) for permission to use the picture. 

Another appalling first world problem: the eggs should have been on the toast…

It can only be a matter of time. I’ll hear the sirens any minute. Social services must be on their way by now. Ben will be taken into care.

We’ll be filed under ‘failed parents.’ And quite right too.

What have we done? Two things. Sit down, because the scale of our neglect will horrify you.

Number one, the internet has been off for three days. Our early-Victorian router has been diagnosed as the problem. A new one is in the post. Until then we’re back in the Dark Ages (or, in my case, sneaking off to the office at six in the morning.)

That alone would be bad enough. The shame our son will have suffered at college…

But we’ve compounded the felony. We’ve run out of coffee pods.

Since Tom went to work in Brackley and left his Krups Nespresso XN2140 Essenza[image error]

behind, Ben’s become clinically addicted. He’s already worked his way from ‘medium roast’ (wimps’ strength 7) to ‘intense espresso’ (real man strength 11).

Goodness knows where it’ll end, but he can’t face 9am History without at least two shots inside him. At 25p a pod it would be cheaper to install a Costa machine in Jessica’s bedroom.

Regrettably, I haven’t been treating this latest hardship with the gravity it clearly warrants.

“Dad we’ve run out of coffee pods.”

“Well why don’t you have instant?”

“Because I like a pod in the morning. Two pods actually.”

“Yes, you’re right. I expect it’s just the same in Aleppo. Barrel bombs falling out of the sky, Russian troops ringing your front door bell. But by God, Ben, at least they haven’t run out of coffee pods.”

My son looks at me bleakly. “Don’t try and be sarcastic, Dad. It doesn’t suit old people.”

As I say, the coffee pods are the latest privation. And over the years we’ve visited any number of First World Problems on our children. It’s a miracle they’ve survived so long without counselling.

It started with toothpaste. We’d bought the wrong flavour. “It’s too minty, Daddy.” That was the first time I realised my children might not have a very firm grip on life’s realities. But there was far worse to come…

“What’s for dinner?”

“I’ve bought you a treat. Your favourite. Mussels in garlic sauce.”

“Where from?”

“Morrisons.”

“What? I only like M&S mussels.”

At which I waste five minutes of my life explaining that when I was his age mussels were hideous rubbery things pickled in grit and salt water and sold from Curly Fletcher’s stall on Scarborough sea front. It’s a mildly therapeutic and pleasantly nostalgic rant but it cuts no ice with my son.

Neither does Caramel Chew Chew. It might well be on special offer but it’s not Phish Food and it’s not good enough.

What other sins have we committed? Maybe social services will go easy on me if I make a full and frank disclosure.

Egg next to the gammon instead of on top of it
Toast too brown – or not brown enough
Had the audacity to serve sparkling water when my child (nameless on this occasion, I think) had told me “three times” that the bubbles got up his/her nose
And – I hope you’re still sitting down – I’ve had the brass neck to buy Tropicana with bits in it. Oh how Jessica railed against that injustice…

Look, if you’re going to have a teenager in the near future why don’t you print this list and pin it on your fridge door? After all, we don’t want to overload the CPS.

And cut out the sarcasm as well. How many times do you need telling? Only teenagers are allowed to be sarcastic…

This post was inspired by ‘Water is Life’ and their hugely moving video on Youtube. 

I’m delighted to say that with a designer friend of mine I now have an app on the iPhone App Store. Children fighting, cat puking and your OH prostrate with man flu? Yep, the Stressed Out Mums Sticker Pack is now available for 79p. Need chocolate? Need cake? Ready for wine o’clock? Every sticker you’ll ever need is right there…