Dad 1929 - 2016

Thank you all for coming, my dad would have been really chuffed to know you were here.
Tom Beckton was born in Wakefield on the 16th of December 1929 and was brother to Jane, Betty and Jocelyn.  He was confirmed at Wakefield Cathedral, attended Queen Elizabeth Grammar School in Wakefield and was a member of the Boy’s Brigade.

Despite the proximity of his early life to Leeds, my dad was, man and boy, a Man U supporter through and through and also spent many a happy day watching rugby league side Wakefield Trinity.   Unusually for a sports-loving man, if you asked my dad if he preferred rugby or football he would say he liked them both equally.

In fact, sport played a huge role in his whole life both as a supporter and a sportsman himself and although he played many sports including rugby and football, cricket was his game, and his prowess as a slow spin bowler was much feared by his opponents at their home ground of Sandal and away.

He worked in the health department at County Hall in Wakefield, as a computer programmer, which was where he met my mum Roslyn.  They married in 1964 and had their first home built for them on Hollerton Lane in West Ardsley where they lived for nearly 20 years.  My brother David arrived the year after they married and I came along in 1971.  My mum and dad helped run a youth group at the Methodist Church we attended and were proud to be involved in MAYC events in London.

Ten years later, my dad suffered a massive stroke and despite his best intentions, and making a full physical recover, he was sadly never to return to work.   My Auntie Marian remembered that such was his intelligence and importance, he was replaced by three men in his role at County Hall.

He showed dignity, strength of character and determination to work hard to re-educate the part of his brain which forms words and sentences.  As a family we would fill in the gaps, and struggle to decode what he was trying to say.  His memory was hit and miss, with one breath he would tell you Rastrick is near Halifax, a memory from 30 years ago, but then couldn’t remember what he’d had for dinner ten minutes ago.

Nevertheless, my dad continued to enjoy our regular family holidays spent in Bridlington with a large group of friends, helping build my granddad’s amazing sandcastles, sheltering from the rain in the chalet, playing cricket on the beach with Eileen and Jeff, crabbing and fishing off the harbour.

We eventually moved to Bridlington in 1984 and after my parents parted, my dad made his home in Headlands Close and kept himself busy enjoying walking, especially taking my mum’s dogs Sheba and Cindy for walks, and holidays abroad where his favourite destination was Malta.

Like on the cricket pitch, he was something of a pool whizz (not to mention snooker and billiards and dominoes) and played for the Brunswick where he enjoyed a full social life and had many friends.  One of my proudest memories of my dad is walking through Brid with him and hearing, ‘hi Tom’, ‘you alright Tom’, ‘how do you do Tom’......

Gary enjoyed taking him on at pool and turned a blind eye (no pun intended dad!) to him potting random balls and claiming glory.  His other passions in life included singing and drawing, and he was naturally gifted and talented in both areas. My children are very proud of the cartoon drawings they have framed on their walls which he drew for them - as good as any professional cartoonist.  He loved classical music and especially Katherine Jenkins so on our way out we will hear her sing Home, which has beautiful lyrics, please take time to listen to them.

My dad is granddad to seven grandchildren, three step-grandchildren and a recent addition to the family, a great granddaughter.

His little pad on Headlands Close was his life and he was very proud of it.  It was a regular treasure trove of his fascination with picking things up and I’m sure Gary will never forget his coffee jar collection!  He loved nothing more than collecting conkers and giving them to local school children, despite our protests.  But that was the best thing about my dad - inhibitions, being politically correct and having to say and do what was ‘right’ were simply not part of his life!  What a nice way to live.

However, despite this carefree attitude, he was a stickler for smart appearance and would always comment if I had on a new dress or had my hair cut (I’ve got both for you today dad).  And his own appearance was of paramount importance; his shirt, tie and shoes always immaculate whatever the occasion, his flat cap in place and, of course, his comb and handkerchief always at the ready.

As his health deteriorated over the past ten years (though he would frequently bounce back, as my brother said, ‘shall we pump his bike tyres up again?’), there were two places which were a Godsend in keeping him safe, cared for and well, out of mischief!  He loved his days spent with friends at Applegarth Court, playing dominoes, listening to music and enjoying a good meal and we are grateful for the care and companionship given by the carers at Caremark.  And two years ago, he moved to his new sea-front home at the Regent where the care and friendship he received was second to none right up to and even beyond his passing.

My dad struck up new friendships at the Regent and one day I made a surprise visit to find he was down at the Marine Bar with a fellow lady resident.  The carers had previously mentioned that he had made friends with a lady called Dorothy so naturally I presumed he was out with her.  When they arrived back, I said ‘hi’ to my dad and introduced myself to his companion Dorothy, only to be quickly corrected by one of the carers: “Oh, that’s not Dorothy, that’s Margaret, Dorothy’s over there”, she said pointing at the lady who was sat glaring jealously at Margaret!
You never lost it, did you dad?!

His quirkiness made him who he was; both Teddy and Daniel accepted that to granddad they would both answer to the name ‘David’ and his obsession with his TV remote control caused many a stir at the Regent.  He was easy-going and when asked a question, as Gary likes to remember, he would most likely have replied ‘oh yes’.

I remember one funny story when my dad rang my mum.....to ask what her telephone number was!  For 15 minutes she tried to patiently explain that he already had her number as he had just called her on it but it was to no avail so she changed the subject and asked what the weather was like, even though she lived less than a mile away!

We all know that my dad was quite often stuck for words but I like to think that he’d want us to look back on his life and remember the one word that he would always use when all others failed him, ‘smashing’.

A life / blog as dull as dishwater

There's obviously been a dry spell in my life of constant hilarity, quirky occurrences, jovial banter and all round mayhem as I haven't felt the urge to put fingers to qwerty keyboard for some time.

That's the thing about being a blog writer, months fly by when my life is as dull as dishwater or alternatively, I'm just too busy doing that thing they call 'work' to enable me to pay for the dishwater, the dishes, the food that occupies the dishes before the need to wash them becomes pertinent, the clothing and roof over the heads of those who eat the food on the dishes, and the gas that cooks the food....I could go on.

Just how fellow bloggers fill weekly, or even daily, blogs with read-worthy material is beyond me, and often, I suspect, beyond the grasp of the reader too. I prefer to tip my dishwater down the drain rather than pour it on to the page.  Oh, don't you just love it when an analogy runs and runs....and runs....!?

The internet (oh no, here she goes again) has diluted the written word and personally,  I prefer my waffle from Wendy's Waffles on Brid harbour with jam and cream on top.  (Mind you, even those are now pre-packed and not like they used to be when I wer' a lass, not that I'm blaming the www for the decline of the freshly made waffle, for that I blame Lidl.)

I know, I know, I'm having a naughty nibble at the hand that feeds me (well, feeds my urge to share my ramblings, not my pocket) but really there is so much drivel on the internet it's mind-boggling and mind-numbing in equal measure.

Cats stuck up trees and petty crime used to suffice when there was a slow news week and column inches to fill in my former life as a reporter but now all journalists have to do is copy out someone's Twitter feed, cut and paste a Facebook selfie and they've got themselves a story.  The days of journalists needing to be able to drive, look up a number in the phone book, do shorthand and swig a wee dram at the same time are long gone.  (I just dated myself beyond my years for comedy effect, clearly having become a journalist in the early 90s, us journos weren't still joined to the hip flask....we were all too busy popping Es to bother with hard liquor)

And speaking of driving, I walked past a garage last week which displayed a long list of its services including the full integration of a plethora of internet-emitting technology into our vehicles, so not only can we read drivel all day long at home or work, we can read drivel as we drive (hey, they could use that on their banner).

Sod changing gear, steering, indicating, watching the speedometer, observing the road ahead / traffic signals / other road users / little old ladies, hedgehogs and small kiddies etc etc, we now need both hands and both eyes to scroll through Sky Sports News, find the number for the pizza place, phone a friend and text another.

So it's been Christmas, a season that regular withdewrespect readers will know passes me by without much to shout about, let alone write about.

A high point  this year was playing The Logo Board Game and asking my husband, "Which Biblical strongman lends his name to a brand of luggage?"
To which he immediately answered: "Popeye!" and swiftly moved his counter along a space, sure of his success.

And speaking of the Bible (or comedy cartoon fiction, (potato, potato)), I heard something rather bonkers the other day in relation to CV writing.

In the way that we now have the right to not disclose age for fear of discrimination, we could soon even delete our name to avoid prejudice as the employer could deduce from it our cultural or religious origins.
Dear God!!! (slash Allah / Jehovah / Top Cat (one for the hubby).

And there's not much point making any reference to how smart you are naturally or how hard you worked to pass your qualifications as employers won't have a bloody clue what  you mean anyway as the goal-posts once again shift from an alphabetised grading to a numerical system.  Even the kids don't know whether they should be aiming for a 1 or a 9 and it's unlikely the teachers do.

So I've future-proofed my CV.

A person

Some qualifications with various grades

Some previous experience

Contact details (by request)

Gis a job

Well, turns out I did have some dishwater to get out of my system, I feel much better now, thank you for reading.

Oh wait a minute, withdewrespect wouldn't be the same without a moment in the life of my eight-year-old son Daniel.  He was recently telling me a story about one of his friends and I didn't know which one he meant so I asked, "what colour hair does he have?"

"The same colour as yours mummy, without the grey bits."

And another peach of an observation about which path of life Daniel is strolling along.

Scene: Me, standing in front of an ipad-engrossed Daniel (he was not driving at the time, I hasten to add, or thankfully, crossing the road), wearing one silver shoe and orangey-coloured shoe.

"Daniel, which colour looks best with this outfit?"

Daniel glanced up from his screen for a mere millisecond: "Peach".

I'll leave being PC to CV writers and beating around the kitchen sink to proper bloggers.

Just where is Mount Everest?

One of my many current jobs, in a theatre box office, supplies me with a wealth of classic withdewrespect-esque moments.
Earlier today a lady booked her ticket to a show and asked: "Will we be seated in rows?"
As opposed to....? Sitting on top of each other, sitting in a line, sitting at jaunty angles....?
I'll be adding that to our 'daft' comments book which is aptly entitled "What part of sold out do you not understand?!


So back to my usual stream of withdewrespect nuggets from my children; always true, never unknowingly embellished.
Now remember, the seven-year-old is usually, how shall I put it, the less dingbat-ish of my two adorable children but last week he slipped.
Watching the men's 1,500m in some athletics championship or other, he piped up (expression: deadpan): "Mum, are they allowed to overtake each other?"


You are reading a blog called withdewrespect therefore I make no apology, nay want to hear any moaning and groaning, about my tongue-in-cheek un-pc, unsubstantiated, stereotyping, light-hearted banter which may or may not tweak the nose of any 'isms, 'ias that we are quick to quote these days.
I've already decided that my 7-year-old son is gay.
Why?


Picture me in the shower.  Well OK, picture that you're stood outside my bathroom door when you hear a hollering.
Me: "Daaaaaaaniel!"
Daniel: "Yes mum?"
"Can you please bring me the towel that's hung over the bannister?" (we're dead posh in our house)
"Which one?"
"The green one, please."  (posh, and polite)
Daniel: "Erm, do you mean this mint one?"


The world has gone mad.  I took my children to a new leisure centre the other day and at the top of a slide a lifeguard was sporting a full body harness which securely shackled them to a steel bar.
Clearly it didn't matter if any of the bustling queue of giddy, bare-footed small children slipped down the slide.  Oh, wait a cotton pickin' minute, that is what they were queueing up to do.
That night on TV, I watched Earth's Natural Wonders and saw children as young as seven going to extraordinary death-defying heights and lengths to hunt for food to keep them and their families alive. No ropes in sight.  And un-harnessed rescue doctors on Mount Everest used just a ladder to cross a 10m wide, 50m deep crevasse up a mountain as high as planes fly.


Interestingly, in recently recounting these comparative stories to a fellow Hons Degree graduate friend, we both admitted we didn't know where Mount Everest is.  In the Himalayas apparently but I don't know where they are either.


Is it any wonder I'm thick with the array of quite frankly, shit programmes on the television these days; Botched Bodies, Nightmare Neighbours, Benefits Street, How to get a Council House, Britain at the Bookies, need I go on?
And the wealth of food programmes never ceases to amaze with every single aspect of nutrition, cooking, baking and eating covered from every angle and every country.
However, I have found a gap in the market and am currently writing a pitch for the BBC, Breakfast Beauties (working title).  It features the art of opening a box of cornflakes and putting a slice of toast in the toaster, I've written the script for a six-week pilot run.


I was watching the programme about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and internally scoffing, how ridiculous to wipe the hob a specific number of times?! It was so daft I had to rewind and watch twice and to hear better put the volume up to number 20 (it has to be an even number or a number divisible by 10). (Pot, kettle, black)


Thankfully, my youngest son enjoys nature and history programmes.  The other day he watched something about the Stone Age and was inspired to make a dagger.  He went out into our cul-de-sac and found himself a branch and a flint (well that fancy stuff people have instead of soil these days) but struggled to find a strong root.  So I gave him some sellotape and told him they might have been developing early Sellotape prototypes in the Stone Age.


He also made a fighter jet made out of Karcher steam cleaner box (OK, I hold my hands up to the OCD), coffee shop stirrers as guns and was keen to factor in air bags made out of sponge.  Deadly, but also quite safe in the event of a small bump over Syria.

Keeping the children toasty

I puff and blow on a daily basis about traipsing the kids uphill and downdale to their various sporting commitments.

However, if I didn't have this special family time sat in the rush hour traffic, I wouldn't have the chance to chuckle at their banter and this blog probably wouldn't exist (so what, I hear you cry - good point, and please don't cry).

Many a time as I inch along gridlocked roads, travelling from swimming classes to athletics training, inconveniently place at opposite ends of West Yorkshire, I jot down a reminder of their conversations.
A note from last night reads, cat, cow, field (Daniel).

"Mum"
"Yes Daniel."
"I wish I was a cat so that I could go anywhere. I would jump over a fence into a field and have a game of cards with a cow.....(pause for thought)....and if I was really talented I could learn to ride a bike."

Then he swings from the ridiculous to the sublime as he tells me a tale about a boy he knows called Jack *. Being a mum who (as you may have noticed) calls a spade a spade and doesn't really do 'mummy speak', I communicate with my children as contemporaries.

Me (44): "Ah Jack, is he the one with the loud mother?"
Daniel (7): "Well yes mum, she is, but she does have to cope with Jack and two other youngsters."

I do sometimes worry about Daniel's penchant for joining in 'adult' conversations.  We were sat at Wakefield train station the other day, admiring his brother's new trainers when Daniel suddenly said: "Is it just me or is Teddy looking hot today?"

And then he swiftly returns to being seven and super cute (and perhaps slightly deaf).  In a local cafe, I ordered the Seafood Trio Salad.  When it arrived, Daniel peered intently at my platter of prawn, smoked haddock and salmon and after a few minutes of inspection, I had to ask: "Daniel what are you looking at?"
"Well," replied Daniel, "I'm trying to work out what's see-through."

And speaking of food, to deter Teddy from throwing chewing gum out of the car window, I painted the picture of some poor unsuspecting little spearmint-partial mouse coming along for a nibble and dying a horrible clamped-jaw death, to which he replied with a perfectly serious tone: "Oh, can't you feed chewing gum to animals?"

Gypsies recently set up camp on a local park.  As we drove past the other day (football training to more football training), I put on my PC hat (yes, I do  have one, thank you for asking) and chatted to the kids about the lives of travellers, the difficulties they encounter through their nomadic lifestyle and also the rights and wrongs of the local residents' reactions.  We had a very mature and sensitive conversation about the pros and cons for each group until Daniel suddenly piped up in his broad Yorkshire accent: "Y' should just taser 'em!"

I gave him a good talking to about this attitude but, in his defence, this is Daniel's answer to most situations from world peace to his brother singing too loudly.

His arsenal of Nerf products grows and now extends to crossbows, snipers, machine guns and rifles, he has a frighteningly accurate aim and his bedroom wall is adorned with a countdown calendar of the 1,825 days until he can join the Cadets!

I'll end with a classic that's actually not from the mouths of my own babes / angels / gun-toting warmongers.

En route to a recent camping trip with my friend and her children, we arrived at her house in leafy Cheshire.

As they were leaving their moggy overnight, my friend ensured the cat had everything she needed; clean litter tray, ample supply of fodder, open window, pack of cards etc.

However, her concerned (and perhaps slightly over-dramatic) daughter asked: "Mum, what if she eats all the food at once and runs out before the morning and dies of starvation?"
Before my friend could speak and reassure her daughter that the cat would be absolutely fine, her son jumped in: "If she does die, can we get a dog?"

I am referred to as the member of my family 'with no sense of humour' and admit I don't often find much LOL mileage in double entendre or glaringly ambiguous print, however, I did have a brief (inward) chuckle at this sign in a Slaithwaite bakery the other day.

* She's loud and quite big as well so I've changed the name to protect all parties, mainly me

The elusive passport

So, where was I.....?

The lack of recent blogging is due to the fact that I've been on my travels, largely to North Wales, Bridlington, back to North Wales and Gatwick Airport.

The airport jaunt, as seasoned withdewrespect readers will know, is a thrice annual affair. Well, actually I head down six times, three sad trips three happy trips, which alternate.  (If you've no idea what I'm on about, please refer to previous blog editions and all will become clear.)

My recent outward trip to the South Terminal was, undoubtedly and predictably sad, but also slightly more traumatic than usual.

Here is my original schedule (I like schedules)

Schedule
06:30:00 Leave house, walk to local train station with one child
06:37:00 Catch trains / buses to Gatwick (via Wakefield Westgate, Kings Cross and Victoria - dodging the tube strike which ironically turned out to be the least of our worries)
11:30:00 Put child on flight to Portugal
11:45:00 Catch trains / buses home (via Victoria, Kings Cross & Wakefield Westgate, blah, blah, blah)
17:30:00 Arrive home, put kettle on

Simples.

Here is what actually happened

Schedule (revised, re-revised and then torn into little pieces)
06:29:00 Put on shoes, open door
06:29:01 Give negative response to husband's question as to whether I've got child's passport
06:29:02 Commence house-ransacking when aforementioned passport not in its usual place
06:34:00 Leave house in a blind panic, dragging dazed, bed-head child and suitcase, sprint to local train station (minus passport)
06:37:00 Catch train to Wakefield Westgate - sit in a complete daze with head in hands wondering what the fuck to do - swear under breath a lot
06:50:00 Arrive Wakefield Westgate, text husband, text ex-husband, text son's football manager, text friend who works at Manchester Airport - all seeming very logical at the time, still swearing
07:10:00 With a range of helpful / unhelpful responses to my texts, we board the London-bound train and I spend the next two hours ringing airlines, airports, embassies, passport offices, consulates and the Samaritans just for good measure, child sleeps
09:20:00 Arrive Kings Cross, mentally exhausted and once again, excuse my French, still wondering what the fuck to do.  Courses of action open to me; ex-husband posts son's Portuguese ID card (valid for Europe-wide travel) - however, we don't have a secure address in London and it might not arrive on time; keep wracking brain about where British passport is hiding; go to Portuguese Consulate and beg for temporary travel documentation.
09:30:00 We decide to do the latter and, with tube strike laughing at our predicament, we jump on a bus
09:59:00 Bus moves at snail's pace due to strike-induced gridlock on London streets, pedestrians walk past us
09:59:01 Get off bus and set off walking to Portuguese Consulate, battling our way along packed pavements, yes, I'm now adding drama to a story that really needs no adverbial additions
Approx 11am - the schedule has gone so far out of the window, it's unreachable, and I've now lost all track of time, the flight has been missed and a new flight booked for tomorrow evening, the race is on....
The rest of the day was spent mainly at the Portuguese Consulate, a little pocket of Portuguese blandness, baffling bureaucracy, bolshiness and, for the masses in the waiting room, boredom.
At around 4pm, we are just minutes from collecting the documentation when I have a flash of inspiration and text my husband telling him to check under the photocopier lid in the kitchen.

My phone rings: "You're a bloody numpty." (passport located: check)

It is a special day in my life, my husband and ex-husband are in total agreement - united in the accurate realisation that I am indeed a numpty, having left passport on photocopier around a month previously.

Happily armed with a five-day licence to leave the country (somewhat ironically when the news is full of the truly tragic chaos at Calais as people clamour to enter the country) we bade a cheery farewell to the Consulate, at which point Teddy reverted to form and asked: "Will we need to go back to the Consulty place?", and we head to an over-priced hotel room near Kings Cross and proceed to haemorrhage money in various restaurants and an extortionate tour of Wembley.

The truth is we both thoroughly enjoy some rare mum and son time and I, for one, am bloody delighted that I'm a right numpty!

The flight is duly caught at 9.30pm the following day and my lovely husband drives five hours to bring the contentious passport and makes it with (literally) seconds to spare due to static traffic on the M25.

Teddy arrives safely in Portugal and we arrive safely home in the early hours of the morning and I put the kettle on, just 32.5 hours behind schedule.  (I need to stress that an extra 30 minutes was added to the return leg of our journey by my husband who managed to take a wrong turn on the M1 (wtf!!) and head on the M6 to Birmingham!!  Clearly numptiness is infectious.

I have to say, my boy was an absolute superstar throughout the whole scenario (as were aforementioned ex and current husbands) and we all learned a valuable lesson in, well, remembering to remove items from under the photocopier lid.

The case for the defence

The theatre where I work has some tenuous historic association with Stanley Baldwin and Rudyard Kipling and I was quite shocked when a visiting high school teacher had heard of neither.

Still huffing and puffing about it when I got home from work, I told my husband the story and asked if he'd heard of them, to which he replied: "Isn't that Mike Baldwin's brother and that chap who makes the cakes?" I give up!

It's not often that my other half provides blog fodder, it's usually the prerogative of my delightful sons, mainly Teddy.  I sometimes think that one day he'll sue me for libel and my entire blog will be read out in court and I'll get sent down for defamation and child cruelty.

So I'm going to write my defence in readiness for the hearing.

Although he's a complete dingbat at times (sorry, your Honour, but he is), my life, quite frankly, would range from dull to incomplete without him. 

Teddy born with transposed arteries and had lifesaving open heart surgery when he was seven days old and again when he was one-year-old to mend a hole in his arterial wall.

At the age of four, his parents parted and I moved him away from his birth country, his father and half of his family.  He said goodbye to friends, nursery school, bedroom and dad and coped with the emigration, change of lifestyle and language with a maturity that belied his young age.

From then onwards, three times a year he flew alone with merely a chaperone service at either airport, from the UK to Portugal and at either end was completely immersed into two vastly different families and cultures.

He adapted to his new life and accepted his step-father, step-brother and step-sister with applaudable ease, acceptance, dignity and grace.

A new brother came along just weeks after he started school and he proceeded to worship, adore and protect this child with every bone in his body.

Society bizarrely labels my boys 'half-brothers' which to me suggests incompleteness. I seem to distinctly remember them both coming out of me, pretty much intact as two entire wholes, and therefore people use the word 'half' at their peril around me and my children.

Despite his early life on the operating table, Teddy now speaks two languages fluently, runs like the wind, plays football and rugby, is the life and soul of the party and has moved from the cotton wool of primary school to chaotic corridors of a high school the size of a small town with confidence and composure.

My Facebook wall is covered with posts from mums understandably proud of their children's achievements but for me it's always nicest when accolades come from others.

Last Sunday, we had just finished a meal at a Bridlington restaurant when the couple at the next table came over as they left and the gentleman said: "We just want to congratulate you on your children, they are an absolute delight and a credit to you."

Luckily, my husband and mum were capable of speech and thanked the couple and agree with them.  I just blubbed, that's what proud mum's do.

Anyway, no edition of withdewrespect would be complete without a Teddy-ism, and I will conclude my case that I would simply give my life for him.....but he is a right dingbat!

Teddy: "There's a lad at my school that we call Gary, or Big G or sometimes even Gary the Snail."
Me: "Really love, that's nice.  What's his real name?"
Teddy: "Blake".

Are we 'sharing' or really sharing?

My personal jury is still proverbially out on whether Facebook is guilty on all counts of being dangerous, divisive, fake and wasting billions of hours in the workplace.  (I am not, by the way, anywhere near my place of work as I write).  Or, whether it is a friendly and fun way to stay in touch with friends and family old and new, share news and photographs and bring together communities.
Hmmmmmmm
............................
...........................(talk among yourselves)
...........................
Sorry, had to break off there, the boss walked in.

So, what was I saying?

Let's look at exactly what we 'share' on Facebook.  We share pictorial evidence of family trips to parks and museums, walks in the fresh country air and paddling on sandy beaches.  Smiley happy siblings ambling alongside rippling streams or skipping over lapping waves.

It gives the impression of family life where life is a constant walk in the park.

Who are we kidding!?

You don't share pictures of mum pulling her hair our, having a nervous breakdown in the kitchen while the kids lay into each other and dad sits ignoring them watching A Place in the Sun (Home or Away).  Or is that just my house?

Speaking of sandy beaches and educational TV, Teddy was watching The Island with Bear Grylls the other day (again, I didn't feel the urge to photograph and share).

However, it was a special moment when one of the men decided they'd had enough and wanted to leave the island so they had to use the 'emergency radio'.

Teddy turned to me and asked: "This is a rubbish programme mum, they're supposed to be living in the wild on a desert island and they even have an emergency radiator."

The other week, I felt honoured and proud when a dear friend asked me to judge an Easter bonnet competition at a children's party she was organising.

Hindsight.....I won't be doing that gig again!!

Ten expectant angelic faces glued their beady eyes on me as I inspected every creation laid out on my friend's kitchen table.
I noted detail and complimented each one on the different way the fluffy blobs and colourful feathers had been artistically glued on.

Then I had to choose the winner.....cue drum roll and held breath (don't try this at home kids).....

As I reached out my hand to point to the winning entry, the floodgates opened. 
Nine wailing five / six-year-olds is quite a din let me tell you, police helicopters were soon hovering above and a bright search light was panning up and down my friend's street.
Funnily enough, the happy smiling winner clutching her prize is the very image that would make it onto Facebook, not the nine red-faced blubbers hurling themselves at their mothers as they threw me daggers and made a mental note to cross me off the next party invite list.

Forget on-camera 'hey, I take my kids to the park every day' sharing, my idea of sharing with friends is actually physically sharing time with them; round at their house, judging Easter bonnets, eating cabbage soup and chatting about conservatory roofs, being beaten by my 12-year-old neighbour at draughts or helping them de-clutter their spare room.  Those are the good times that you just share and enjoy, and don't need to share on social media.

And don't get me started on emojis.  Again, it's an opportunity to share your image of yourself as a fun, hip, cool person, when perhaps in reality, you're not!!  The other day I posted a snippet on Facebook followed by a cocktail glass, a Cuban cigar and a Panama hat.  In reality, I'm a 'don't drink, don't smoke' repressed and depressed wuss and I don't even know where Panama is!!

And another thing....sharing medical ailments....what's that all about?!
Speaking of which, I went to the doctor's this week..... (I'm aware this blog sometimes verges on an entry in a 1980s Crack-a-Joke book).....  Why is it that when you arrive in the doctor's surgery, a mole that just an hour earlier was the size of a small Carribean island owned by Sir Richard Branson is suddenly barely perceptible to the naked eye. 
Sorry, just felt the need to share.

I'll leave you with a classic Ted'ism.

Driving along the M62 on the way home from visiting Grandma in Bridlington.

Teddy: "Mum......"
Me: "Yes Teddy?"
Teddy: "I wish I was a bird, then I wouldn't have to pay to go on holiday."