Some things never change.

There are two conductors on the tram.  Saturday in Sheffield is busier than I expect until I remember it is the run up to Christmas.  I disembark by the Occupy camp that used to be the cathedral and pause to get my bearings; I don't come into town often and the crowds are both exciting and offputting.  I meet Ben on Fargate, noting that we have both opted to wear the accepted father-of-two uniform of blue jeans and a brown jacket, although thankfully not to the extent that Dan and I once managed.  Laughter still echoes in the Welsh Valleys.
We walk.  Ben comments on how lucky I am to live in Sheffield.  I have to agree, but all I can think is "this didn't use to be here".  My Sheffield is the pre-university Sheffield of the early nineties:Rock Night at the Roxy, The Drop at the city hall ballroom, various pubs now gone or changed in all but location.  And there are now flats everywhere.  People have always lived in the city centre, but now they do so visibly. In times past you could believe that after closing time the city was empty.
Coffee and a sarnie- sorry: Latte and a Panini in the winter gardens.  A chat.  I can't remember the last time Ben and I just sat and chatted.  Properly putting the world to rights.
A stroll around the bookshops (neither of us buy as many as we would like to) is followed by a longer-than-intended stop at that rare creature: a proper pub.  The Red Deer deserves a mention here as it was just as I remembered from years ago, and there aren't too many things in Sheffield I can say that about any more. The beer and the words flow easily, and we agree that no, this doesn't happen often enough.  We know we get on well but it is nice to get the chance to prove it.
Hours later than planned (we really did just meet up for a coffee), and a good deal merrier, we emerge into the darkness and head back to the cathedral, making plans to do this again as soon as possible. 
I leave Ben to chat to the Occupy campers and jump on a homeward-bound tram, a happier man than the one that left the house in the morning.
Good friendships need days like this.

Cardigan

It was Peter O'Toole that did it.  He was in a film called High Spirits.  I only remember two important things about the film.  Firstly that it was crap, and secondly that Peter O'Toole wore a great cardigan.  I wanted a cardigan like that.  For years.  Eventually I got one.  Not the same, but close enough: long-ish, woolly, and with pockets big enough for the pipe I don't smoke.  I got it for my birthday some years ago, and there was a horrified look on the face of my sister's boyfriend when I unwrapped it. He assumed this was a classic piece of unsolicited knitwear from an aunt, and the look of horror intensified when I assured him I'd specifically requested it. 
I still have it, but either it's stretched a bit or I've shrunk.  Before this calamity I experimented with wearing it in the office, but they weren't ready for it and asked me to stop.
Now I just wear it at home, which it might be argued is just as it should be.  But it is still increasing in size and I think it might be time to go and get a new one before I trip over and fall into one of the pockets.  So this time I will find the closest match I can to the one in the film, or rather the one in the film in my head, because I can't ever watch it again for fear of spoiling the cardigan.

The Smell Of Fear

Ofsted looms.
The imminent inspection hangs over the school like a raincloud, and explains why the staffroom has the air of a police station waiting room I once visited.  It's odd.  In one sense I am set apart from this: no one will be scrutinising me (I'm a volunteer) so I am relatively relaxed.  But the results of the inspection could affect my future perhaps more fundamentally than anyone else in here.  If my recent application for teacher training is accepted then it will be due in no small part to the opportunities that the school has given me, and the faith they have shown in me by endorsing the application to the extent that I can train there.  But I'm all too aware that this promise of a placement depends on the result of the inspection and I have to hope it comes out the other side unscathed.  I suppose there's no point worrying until/unless my application is accepted.  I shall just have to get on with worrying about the house move instead.  Although in reality I shall return home to the girls and cuddles and smiles, and worry about nothing for a while.

A Bloody Silly Question

"Are you busy in June?" asked Ben, over tea and buns.
"What do you have in mind?" I said, assuming it was fishing.  It generally is.
"Do you fancy canoeing down the Chesterfield canal?"
Halfway through "down" I was planning which stove to take and whether it would be a two day trip or three.
He knew I'd say yes, of course.  In 2009 me and Dan, a mutual college friend, had rocketed 80 miles down the dangerously swollen Wye in a 16ft Canadian canoe, and a year later we did it again far more sedately and had just as much fun.
Dan and I have a history of such adventures and they never disappoint, and the idea of doing something similar with Ben is just plain splendid and very much overdue.  Despite the generous 8 months notice I am already wondering about the logistics.  Neither of us has a canoe, but that just seems to me to be an opportunity to start looking for one.  Maybe Richard will want to come along too.  Actually I'd put money on it.  And with the three of us going we'll need the fishing gear too, as well as a large enough tent and food for three.  And booze.

Ok.

We're going to need a bigger boat.

Is there anything else on?

Since becoming a father many things have changed for me.  That's no surprise, of course.  I'd expected, and even hoped, that would be the case when we embarked upon the adventure.  I feel more observant, defensive and responsible, not to mention older and a great deal more tired.  But what I hadn't counted on was the sudden inability to watch any films or television programs with even vaguely emotional themes without having a good old cry.  How often I find myself in the middle of a moving documentary having to intensely study a corner of the bookshelf, or Getting Something In My Eye during the news.
But if there's something on TV which involves children under duress, then either pass me the remote or leave me alone, because I'll be in pieces.
I didn't ask for this flood of emotion and I don't recall anyone warning me about it.
So I'm warning you, dear reader.  Being a parent is as rich and rewarding as you'd hope and expect, but you'll never laugh along to Crimewatch again.

I have a dream...

Money.  What I couldn't do with more of it.  I don't mean the usual guff- mansion, speedboat and the like- just being able to finish things in a reasonable timeframe.  I'm involved in something of a long term project at the moment which, given somewhat larger reserves of cash, would fall neatly into the short term category.
I speak of Domotics. A word which even my spellchecker finds ridiculous (Dimitris, Comoros, synoptics), so let's call it Home Automation.
Nothing fancy, mind you.  I just rather like the idea of the hall light coming on to welcome us home on dark winter evenings, or popping the coffee machine on in the kitchen while I contemplate a looming day in the office from between the sheets.
And I'm getting there, too.  On these dark winter evenings the back door light really does welcome us home and my early morning coffee is stymied not by technology but by the coffee machine being in storage ahead of the house-move.
But aside from a few other lights I'm currently in hiatus.  It's unreasonable to spend too much money on the equipment necessary ahead of the move, and anyway, the idea was just to get a feel for the technology in this house before going full scale in the new one.  So now instead of spending I'm learning and planning, the learning being forced upon me by the planning.  There's a great deal I can do, I discovered, if I use a computer to program and control the lights and whatever else I decide to plug in. So I'll be needing some sort of low power, quiet PC to do that. But some time ago I promised myself (and moreover told other people I'd promised myself), that I wasn't going to buy another PC because I hate having to mess about with Windows when I get home after messing about with it all bloody day at work as well.  So I've neatly side-stepped this issue by acquiring a small laptop (slightly too old to be considered a NetBook) which is no use to anyone wishing to use Windows, but which runs Ubuntu Linux quite wonderfully.  There is a slight downside to this:  I'm meant to be getting out of IT, not falling in even deeper.  But this is the first time I've enjoyed learning how to get blood out of a stone for years, and it isn't costing me a penny.  And when we finally move into our next house we will have an extensive system of computerised lighting that will make our 1929 semi look like a 1986 episode of Tomorrow's World.
I shall of course let you know how it goes, but if all goes to plan I'll be taking a massive pay cut next year, so don't hold your breath.