Inbox

I received this email from my daughter today. (Carolyn and the wife are in South Africa at the moment visiting with "The Hun." It's a playful term of endearment for the mother-in-law)



dear dad

today i woke up and bella ran up to me and keept on jumping on me. after a few minutes i heard mona say "whadda doing ". and mona laughs sometimes. iam really enjoying it here. nothing much is going on right now so ill stop there. anyway i miss you alot. xxxx ps iam watching out for you that means iam awalys praying for you so dont wrorry. accutaly i should tell myself to stop wrorrying . love you so much love carolyn
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


Thanks for the message monkey-nut. Please keep 'em coming.

Lots of love

Dad


Ed's note: Bella is the name of the dog. No, not the mother-in-law. That's just nasty. Bella really is Attila's pet pooch. Mona is the African Grey parrot.

Post-it note to self

The plants. Don't forget to water the plants. Damn.

I don't have the cojones for chemical castration

Highway robbery is alive and well in good old Blighty I'm sorry to say.
Twenty five pounds for a cab to Heathrow?!? Extortionate is not the word. Or is it? Now I'm really confused.
I wanted to take the bus to the airport but Tara was having none of it.
So once again poor old Daddy Warbucks had to haul out the wallet. I decided not to kick up a fuss as I wouldn't see my wife and daughter for the next three weeks. They flew to South Africa for their holiday yesterday.
I know what you want to know. Did I cry? Should I be chemically castrated?
Yes. Sort of.
My eyes grew misty and I could feel that damn lump in my throat as I waved them goodbye.
To stem the onslaught of possible further waterworks I bit my lip so hard it actually spurted blood. All that did was aggravate the situation. Tears were shed alright. But they were painful, self-induced tears.
I don't think I shamed myself at all. As a man I can still keep my head up high.

On the way back I made use of public transportation. And not just because I'm a tightarse. I don't think you've truly experienced London until you've taken in the sights and sounds of Feltham from the 285.
The bus trip took forever. I could also sense that some of the passengers were staring at me. Maybe it was because my lips had now swollen to four times their normal size.
By the time I finally got home I was bursting for a pee. I rushed upstairs and was about halfway through my, um, "piddle," when from the corner of my eye I noticed a post-it note stuck to the bathroom mirror.
After reading the gentle reminder from the wife urging me not to forget my "chores," I wiped the seat. I'm renowned for my toilet etiquette.

I found the little post-it note rather amusing. Endearing even. That is until I sauntered into the kitchen to check on the beer situation.
Yellow post-it notes plastered EVERYWHERE.
On the oven, the toaster, the overpriced stainless-steel thingamajig Tara uses when peeling and dicing potatoes. The microwave, the fridge-freezer, the washing machine, the George Foreman grill.
Do I need to go on? The kettle, the peppercorn grinder, the antibacterial dishwashing liquid. Even the ugly out-of-date clock on the wall.
@#%$! post-it notes everywhere.
Strewth.

I don't think I come across as such a simpleton. It hurts to think my wife might.
Tara, if you're reading this let me try and ease your mind.
Take care of our budgies. Check. Spend quality time with the cat. Check.
I don't have the attention span of a five-year-old.
The most difficult thing about it all is trying to figure out what I'm going to feed Tinkerbelle.
Do I throw caution to the wind and try the rabbit and lamb in jelly? Or should I stick with the tried and tested smoked turkey and salmon for her tea?
It's not rocket-science.
I can do this.

Home Alone

Some work colleagues think I am the luckiest man alive.
"Three weeks without the missus? No more nagging. Just rest and relaxation," is how they view the situation.
I don't quite see it that way. I will miss my wife and daughter. And not because I'm probably going to starve or end up ravaged by scurvy.
Tara and Carolyn are flying to South Africa today to visit "Attila", my pet name for the mother-in-law.
All the bags have been packed and now we're waiting for the taxi to take us to the airport.
My nine-year-old is very excited. She's also slightly apprehensive.
"The plane's not going to crash?" she asked just a few moments ago.
"No honey. Everything will be fine. Now stop worrying. Why don't you play your Wii?"
There's nothing quite like "an adventure of galactic proportions" to cure your child's aviophobia. Thanks Super Mario Galaxy.
Unfortunately it lasted all of only two seconds.
"But what if we do crash?"
"Carolyn. Stop thinking like that. Nothing is going to happen."
"If the plane crashes into the sea mom and I will be okay. We know how to swim."
Sigh!

Apart from one or two hiccups this morning, it's been a pretty stress-free day.
I was barely out of bed when Tara sprung a surprise on me. I was going to have to undertake additional work due to her leaving for the rainbow nation. She had a list and all. And she absolutely insisted on giving me a hands-on demonstration with all three tasks.
Who knew there was an exact science to feeding the cat? Or watering the plants?
And then there's our, er, I mean, her budgies, Blue II and Chimes.
My wife's sermon on budgerigar care was so epic in scope that I couldn't possibly commit all the many minutiae to memory.
"Clean out their cage at least once a week and remember to do it outside," my wife waffled on.
Then she repeated herself. Again.
"Don't clean the cage indoors. You DON'T want to make a mess in the house," she said.
I dunno, but I DO think that was a veiled threat of some sort.

We have about ten minutes before the cab is due to arrive. Carolyn's given up on the Nintendo and Tara's pacing up and down nervously. I'm frantically trying to finish this entry.
"I'm going to miss you daddy," my little cherub says before giving me a big hug.
"Awwww, I'm going to miss you too monkey-nut."
"Are you going to cry when you say goodbye to us at the airport?" she asks.
At last! A question even I can answer.
There are times when a dad, even one who has read all the Ian Fleming novels, just doesn't have all the answers.
Shrove Tuesday? I have no idea. I also can't explain to Carolyn why bananas are yellow or why her mother gets at angry at me. Kids ask the darndest things.

I do have an opinion about blokes who like to blubber though. That's easy.
Under no circumstances should a grown-man cry. Ever. Maybe it's my Neanderthal gene talking here, but crying is a sign of weakness.
My brother John disagrees. He wept after seeing James Cameron's Titanic. And he's not even ashamed to admit it. I think it's a ploy to earn brownie points with girls. Trying to convince them that he has a sensitive or even human side.
No, a man who openly flaunts his emotions should be chemically castrated and put on the sex-offenders register.
Of course I didn't tell Carolyn this.
"No honey. Daddy doesn't cry..."
I don't think I came across all that convincing. Even to myself. Self- doubt started creeping in.
Was I going to degrade my gender by breaking down like a little girl at the boarding gate?
I don't really have time to reflect on this as I've just heard the car pull up into our driveway.
Maybe I should stuff a couple of Kleenex facial tissues in my jacket pocket.
Just in case.

Finger lickin' good and gout-free!

EDITOR'S NOTE: This happened on Friday. Kicking and Screaming is too lazy to update their blog every day

Something about her brother and tonight.
I was so engrossed in watching WWE Afterburn on Sky Sports 3 that I wasn't really paying attention to what the little woman was saying.
Tripe H - "The Game," "The King of Kings," "The Cerebral Assassin" - was going toe-to-toe with John Cena, "The Doctor of Thuganomics."
Gripping stuff.
During the commercial break I got the lowdown on the what's what.
My brother-in-law wanted us to all go out in a couple of hours to celebrate my wife's upcoming birthday.
Now let me just say that I love Tara very much. She's a wonderful woman and I often wonder how she's put up with me for nine long years. She deserves an OBE.
How could I begrudge her a fancy meal at some poncy restaurant?

"Tara, I'd love to go but you know that I'm working tomorrow," I said.
If you're a Philistine and haven't bothered to read any of my previous blog posts let me put you in the picture. I am a postman. I have to get up before the crack of dawn to get to work on time.
I'm normally in bed by 7pm. Sometimes even as late as 8pm. But then I really am pushing the envelope.
"Surely you can make an exception for one night," Tara said rather irritably. "We NEVER go out."
I wouldn't dare call my wife a bare-faced liar. I think she just forgot about October last year when we watched Quantum of Solace at our local Odeon.
Now, however, was not the time to argue the point. I have been married long enough to know that I have to pick my battles more carefully.
"You're right," I managed to force a smile. "A night out sounds like a lot of fun."

I quickly skulked back into the living room for a good sulk.
Even HHH executing his devastating finishing move, The Pedigree, on Cena couldn't lift my spirits.
My not wanting to go on this shindig had nothing to do with the fact that I needed to catch up on much-needed beauty sleep. It was more a matter of moolah.
My brother-in-law Chris is a very affable and down-to-earth person. I genuinely like him. His wife Lorraine is equally charming. They're good people.
They live in a lovely leafy suburb somewhere in Guildford and drive a BMW. I also know for a fact that Chris buys all his clothes from TK Maxx. They can afford to flash the cash. Well they would, wouldn't they? They're both accountants or something.
They earn a SALARY. I make a WAGE. Again, if you've just tuned in, I'm a postman.
Where was I going to come up with £20 or £25 to splurge on some extravagant meal?
I was still wrestling with my predicament when it hit me. Gout.

I know all about this disability.
Gout is my curse. It can also be a godsend.
I can't tell you the number of times I've used the disease as an excuse to get out of doing certain household chores. As white lies go my gout is pretty much right up there with "The dog ate my homework" or "Not tonight dear, I'm on my period." Classics that have stood the test of time.
There are days when I don't want to mow the lawn. Or take out the garbage. Or do the dishes. That's when gout comes into play.
A bit Machiavellian I know, but the end justifies the means.

Tara was in the kitchen doing the dishes when I sidled up next to her.
I could tell she was still slightly annoyed with me. It's like this sixth sense that I have.
"I'm sorry for my selfish attitude,” I said while gently kissing the nape of her neck. "Screw the job. I want to celebrate with you and your family."
After that kiss she was putty in my hands.
Tara turned to embrace until she saw my face, a face contorted with pain.
My wife's initial shock quickly turned to concern.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"It's the gout. It's come back".
"Are you alright?"
Time to crank it up a notch. Time for the oohing and ahhing to start.
"Ahhh, ohhh..." was all I could mutter through clenched teeth. It was a performance worthy of an Oscar.
"Mike, if you're in so much pain you should maybe stay home and nurse your foot," my wife said. She's an absolute angel.
Of course I solemnly nodded my wholehearted agreement.
I was about to navigate my way upstairs to "nurse my foot" - no easy feat when considering my "condition" when Tara called out.
"It's a pity you're not coming with us. Chris offered to pay for the entire evening."
Almost immediately there was a miraculous improvement in my foot. Divine Intervention? Hell yeah and Hallelujah!

Chris and Lorraine treated us to a banquet at the Spur Steak ranch in Wandsworth. Good food and good company. What more could I ask for?
I am also pleased to report that I was in time for work and that I suffered no ill effects from the Castle lager or steak and enchilada combo drenched in a rich and creamy cheese sauce.
For me the cherry on top was that my wallet didn't leave my pocket the entire evening. Excellent.
Thanks Chris and Lorraine for a memorable night out. We should do it again sometime soon.

You wouldn't want to walk a mile in my shoes

What do Isaac Newton, King Henry VIII, Charlemagne, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Nostradamus, Leonardo da Vinci and I have in common?
We have known pain and suffering.
I am talking about gout. Painful, inflamed, raw, tender, throbbing gout.
I don't know all that much about "the disease of kings". What I do know is that gout is only slightly more annoying and upsetting than watching Britney Spears lip sync her way through a live concert.
Gout is a form of arthritis, an inflammation that affects the joints and tendons as well as other tissues.
I was diagnosed with the disease shortly after joining Royal Mail. Before the gout kicked in I had the kind of feet hard-core foot fetishists fantasise about. My wife will vouch for that. And no, she's not into any deviant practices. She just knows a good foot a mile away.
Alas! My feet were beautiful once. And odour and fungal-free to boot.

A postman with gout is in for a bad day at the office. Trust me. Delivering mail with a gout afflicted foot is like trying to run The London Marathon in cheap high heels.
When my gout flares up these days I take Dicloflex tablets which relieves the inflammation. Another little capsule, Allopurinol, reduces the amounts of uric acid which can produce kidney stones and gout. Allopurinol helps to prevent the condition but will not ease an acute attack.
It beggars belief that the pharmaceutical giants have yet to find a permanent cure.
Everyday I am bombarded with emails from companies like GlaxoKlineSmith trying to sell me on some or other zinc-based ointment to treat genital warts or Pfizer offering me a substantial discount on Viagra.
They can somehow get to the root of erectile dysfunction but not make any significant breakthroughs in treating a disease which has also plagued the likes of Benjamin Franklin and Alexander the Great? Hmmmm...

Yes, the gout never really goes away. It just lies low for a while. By making certain lifestyle choices I can keep it at bay. If I have a pint too many or happen to gorge myself on Welsh rarebit, I know I'm going to pay for it in the morning.
Cheese and lager - my staple diet - are definite no-no's if I want to avoid those gout blues.
About two weeks ago, however, the life-altering malady returned with a vengeance. I was puzzled. I can't even remember the last time I enjoyed a cold one with my ploughman's lunch.
The Dicloflex and Allopurinol don't seem to be working this time. So I've had to resort to drastic measures.

I'm not one for taking pills. Let's face it. I have enough bad habits. I smoke. I drink. I feign interest when my wife tells me about her day.
The last thing I want is to harbour an addiction to prescription painkillers. But the last few days or so I've been popping Co-Codamol tablets like Smarties.
It has to stop.
I'm not ready to give up on the Carlsberg and Emmental just yet. I'm a glutton for punishment I know. I figure if Alexander the Great could get on with conquering the Persian Empire with a slight hobble, then surely I, Postman Plod, can perform a similar feat?
Come Monday, maybe Tuesday, I'm going to go cold turkey on those pills.

God help me.

FOOTNOTE: According to the About.com: Men's Health website, men account for over 90 percent of all cases of gout.

Best Foot Backwards

I didn’t think the dog bite was all that serious, but the anally retentive line-manager demanded that I go and get a tetanus jab or something. According to him, if I didn’t do this within the next 24 hours or so, my leg would turn gangrenous, my head would implode and Christmas would be cancelled.
There’s something about a Royal Mail uniform that drives a domesticated animal (dog, overly-amorous housewife) into such a frenzy. And not a good kind of frenzy either.
Despite these minor hiccups I can honestly say that living the life of a postman is probably the easiest thing I have ever done. A semi-literate baboon or even a Big Brother contestant could work for Royal Mail. In fact there are weeks where I actually earn more money delivering letters than I did while working as a member of the fourth estate. Go figure!Am I happy? Not really.
As a postie I often feel that I am now destined to walk Dumbing Down Street for the rest of my life. Almost as if any ambitions I may have fostered for the future died on the day I first put on the navy blue uniform. There are so many things I still want to achieve. Things I want to accomplish. Every year I make the same resolution – to finish 'White Trash', a novel that I have been working on since my school-going days. I also have a brilliant idea for a sitcom and to this end have invested in a mini library of books detailing the scriptwriting process.
So why have I failed so spectacularly then? Why I am playing at being Postman Pat rather than churning out Pulitzer-prize winning novels?


I started my “writing career” in 1995 when I said goodbye to the bright lights and big city life of Johannesburg. I was fresh out of Journalism School. For the third and final year of the course, students had to gain practical experience by finding employment with any media organisation for nine months.
Somehow I ended up at The Highveld Herald in Ermelo, a small rural town in Mpumalanga province, South Africa. I don’t know what possessed me. The Herald, a knock-and-drop, has a weekly print order of 17 500 and serves 14 towns and villages. My duties included writing stories on all aspects of community life, taking photos and doing page lay-outs. I was young and idealistic then. I was going to be the next Bob Woodward. Instead of exposing the next Watergate scandal, however, I became the resolute stalwart who religiously attended all of the Ermelo Chess Club’s meetings. Even though I did not enjoy my time in Ermelo (It’s a place where the khaki safari suit will never go out of fashion), I stayed for the next seven years and worked my way up through the ranks to Chief Reporter.


Everything changed about seven years ago when my family and I left Ermelo (finally!) and moved to the United Kingdom. When I arrived in England I surprised everyone – including myself - by landing a job at Surrey Life, one of Archant Life’s 17 titles that reflect the finer aspects of county life. At first the Managing Director of this concern was not convinced that I was the right person for the job. I could see his point. I had only been in the country for two months. During the three life-sapping interviews I had to attend, I somehow managed to allay any fears he may have had. (I basically got down on my hands and knees and begged and pleaded for an opportunity). As Assistant Editor of the magazine I was responsible for the entire running of the editorial department. The job had its perks - I had a company car, snazzy business cards and I got to explore Surrey and meet many interesting people. Horse-racing events, charity fund-raisers, fashion shows, gallery exhibitions...If it happened in the county I was there. Overnight I became a socialite albeit one with a slight guttural South African accent.


It's all very well and good to rub shoulders with the crème de la crème of Surrey society. Yes, I can squeeze into a tux. And yes, I might even be persuaded to comb my hair. The truth is that I felt slightly out of place at some of these functions. Maybe it is because I have the charisma of a wet tea towel. Or perhaps I had formed an emotional attachment to the khaki safari suit after all…


After three years, however, I had had enough. Money – or a lack thereof – did play a role in my decision to finally leave. (I wasn’t joking when I said I earned more working as an “unskilled” labourer). More important was the fact that writing was starting to feel like a chore. It just wasn’t fun anymore. So I left my post…


…and joined the Post Office. I enjoy the job as I get plenty of exercise and fresh air. My colleagues are also some of the most genuine and likeable people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. My delivery takes about three and a half hours to complete and during this time I fine-tune the characters and script for that brilliant BAFTA award-winning sitcom I'm still going to write. I just feel unfulfilled. I know that I am capable of doing more with my life. I don’t know exactly what yet, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t involve me delivering letters for the rest of my life.
That's why I have decided to start blogging. Forming a habit of writing something, ANYTHING, everyday. And no, that does not include my shopping list. For now, however, I must be content at waking at the crack of dawn so that I can pound the pavements of New Malden.