Teenagers, eh?

If you’ve been paying close enough attention to the comments added to my blog, you might have noticed a rather forward-sounding individual going by the name of Zanna_x.

Only the occasional “Dad” gives the game away that Zanna_x is indeed the fruit of my loins (do I detect a clothing franchise there?), and hence is allowed to take enormous liberties that would result in the swift decapitation of any other such offender, or at least would send me into a severe case of the sulks!

Yes… I have… (gulp!) a “Teenage Daughter”!!!

Well, those of us of a certain age (i.e. 20 plus!!!) know that today’s Teenagers know nothing.

Thay carn’t spel, do’nt no nuffink about grammer n puncturation, bearly knoe there ABDs, an’ adinup? That’s for swotty lame-oes!

Oh, and if you actually ask them anything… the stock response is “Wha’?”

We-e-e-e-e-e-ll, I suppose the real truth is; they do know some things… just different things.

They know how to program DVD players for a start, and they know just how many gigabutts there are to an iPodsworth, and therefore just how many years of music they’ll never listen to they can carry around with them on a nifty gadge that costs barely 120 quid. (Although they’ve no idea how much 120 quid is!)

They DON’T know what LPs are, for Pete’s sake… although after a brief debrief on the subject, my Teenage Daughter now equates them to mp minus 10s. (I thought mp zeros, but apparently that’s FAR too modern for this old codger!)

It seems that after years of tuition, they can scarcely string two words of their native tongue together into a sentence, and yet they’ve developed a whole new language from scratch. Thr gr8 @ txtn.

But, and this frightens me, most seem to know exactly what they’re going to do with their lives.

As I teenager I certainly didn’t, and even now I pretty much walk around in a daze as the whole world passes me by in a blur. (If it weren’t for my Teenage Daughter, I’d have absolutely no idea what’s hip and groovy these days.)

But go on… look at her profile!

She’s got A-levels sorted, what she’s going to do at Uni, how she’s going to earn a living (my little pension plan) and where… not in the UK you’ll notice!!! And she’s got a Plan A, a plan B AND a plan C!!! And (get this!!!) that’s before she’s even mentioned the alternative source of income that she’s already planning to supplement her main career. (I didn’t plan to get that many “plans” in there… it was just skill!)

So, what happened? Did I miss the meeting where this was all agreed?

Or has there been some sort of firmware upgrade? Downward compatibility’s gone out of the window a bit with Teenager v2006 but the expansion potential…!!!

And have you seen the musical instruments?

That’s the oddest one-(wo)man-band I’ve ever come across… and I haven’t the foggiest idea how she’s going to carry those drums!

But that’s beside the point – doubtless she’ll get one of the entourage to take care of it.

On the other hand, some things, I guess, never change.

Moods and attitudes – yeah I remember those!

My mum used to give me that “I know what you’re thinking – stop thinking that!” line. Cue lots of pet-lip, wrinkled brow, denying everything and wondering just how does she know! Now I understand… it’s written all over their cherubic faces, ain’t it?!

And they also have causes.

It was “Nuclear Power – No Thanks!” in my day, complete with yellow window sticker – can’t quite remember whether it had a smiley face, a cross face or a radioactive face, but I’m sure you know the one.

Well, my Teenage Daughter is a vegetarian… I don’t know where I went wrong!

Actually, to be fair, and to avoid getting kicked, I should point out that she is vegetarian for the only reason valid, in my opinion. And that’s because she wants to be.

It stems from a number of things, I think; the ethical treatment of animals and a healthy lifestyle are on the list, and I believe she’s pretty well clued up enough to be asking herself the right kinds of questions and testing her own principles. (The problem with having principles, of course, is you have to stick by them!)

But, by gum, does it cause problems at mealtimes.

She loves cheese, in fact она очень любит сыр (где мой сыр? Private joke!) but cheese, and for that matter, dairy, really does make her ill… and if you take away meat and dairy… er… what’s left?

“Erm… Air on toast please, hold the butter… oh and has the bread been near any animals…? It has… rats!!!”

“Rats on toast?”

“Er no… just a glass of water, please, no flies.”

OK, I made all that bit up, but we did, just this weekend, get embroiled in this very conversation at a local baker’s…

Me: “Do you want to share a vegetable pasty?”

Daughter: “Do you want to?”

Me: “Yes, do you?”

Daughter: “OK then.”

Me: “Well, we’ll need to check it’s vegetarian pastry.”

Daughter: “I hadn’t thought of that!”

Me: “Does your vegetable pasty have vegetarian pastry?”

Mabel: “Ooh, I don’t know. Does the vegetable pasty have vegetarian pastry, Doris?”

[Strange look from Doris.]

Me: “Is it just butter in the pastry, or is there lard?”

Doris: “Ooh, I don’t know love, do you know Mabel?”

Mabel: “No, I don’t know Doris.”

Doris: “Do you know Betty?”

Betty: “What’s that?”

Doris: “Does the vegetable pasty have vegetarian pastry?”

Betty: “Ooh, I don’t know.”

Doris: “I’ll go and find out for you.”

[Doris walks into back room… to make a telephone call!]

Me: “You see, it’s my daughter, she’s vegetarian, and she hadn’t thought of that.”

[Notice how I surreptitiously deflected the blame there?]

[Doris returns.]

Doris: “She’s on the ’phone, but I’ve left a message on the voicemail.”

[Ooo… get Doris!!!]

Mabel: “Ooh, she could be ages, don’t really know when she’ll ’phone back!”

Doris: “Ooh yes, she could be ages.”

Me: “Not to worry, I’ll have a steak slice.”

Well there’s always a way round life’s little problems, ain’t there?!

Anyway, I suppose I should end this piece in time-honoured “Dad” fashion, and embarrass my daughter… it is, after all, what I’m for.

Really real truth be told, my daughter can spell, she’s hot on grammar and punctuation, she knows her ABCs and for that matter her АБВы, and she’s doing adinup at A-Level, so she must be good at that too. She’s even borrowed a book from me (“Does Anything Eat Wasps?”) and is finding out all sorts of stuff that will come in handy for when her teenage kids know nothing. She knows the value of a penny and what a record is. She can string hundreds of words together and frequently does, and she cn txt @ lite speed. She really can play all those instruments and she really does have a lifeplan. What is more, she makes sure I don’t get too out of touch with the modern world. She makes me laugh, and I love her so much I generally feel like I’m going to burst.

But most of all, she’s the best daughter you could wish for and I’m the World’s Proudest Dad.

Love you, sweetie! xxx

The Joys of Spring!

Yes, Spring has sprung.

OK, I understand that Spring officially commenced about 4 weeks ago, but everyone knows that the arrival of Spring has nothing to do with the vernal equinox and everything to do with the arrival of the Easter Bank Holidays.

As a movable feast, that being the second Sunday after the calling down of the chocolate-milk producing cows to low grazing, except in a leap year, or something like that, this year’s Easter is a late one, and so whilst we blokes have had the benefit of a bit of a long hibernation… the lawns are just aching to be mown.

The grass just does not seem to understand the First Gardening Commandment – Thou Shalt Not Scythe Thy Pasture Before The Friday Of The Good.

Nevertheless, now being said Friday, I got the mower out.

Tradition dictates that the first job is to untangle the unnecessarily long flex that has been wrapped about the mower handle for six months. My mower is only small, but clearly I am expected to mow the London Marathon or something. That can be the only reason why the flex is so extensive! One day, I might take advantage of this and plug it in next door, while they’re not looking. Look after the pennies, and all that.

Anyway, I know the flex was fine when I left it, but during the winter gloom it has gradually constricted and entangled itself in the manner reminiscent of a boa that’s had one or eleven too many Bacardi Breezers during it’s stay. Where’s that extra arm when you need it?

OK, it took a while, but mission accomplished.

Our mower lives in the garage, with the fridge freezer, and the spare bedspread, and the extra shower cubicle doors, and a sofa… I could go on.

The cars, meanwhile, live outside. I feel there’s something very British about using a garage for everything except its job spec. I nearly said everything except what it’s designed for… but maybe that’s the point. In my experience, garages are designed to accommodate cars, but only on the understanding that you don’t actually want to get out of them. Perhaps you’re supposed to drag them in.

Oh, and DON’T CLOSE THE GARAGE D... too late. Never mind, it’ll knock out, I’m sure.

Anyway, the point is, mower in garage, therefore I decided to do the front lawn first.

I stepped onto the lawn to inspect something, although I’ve no idea what because I was immediately distracted by the springiness underfoot.

I remember Titch Alanmarsh telling me that this might happen, and that it’s not A Good Thing.

So, after about ten minutes bouncing, the dampening effect kicked in enough for me to gingerly step off the lawn. I looked closely, and sure enough… moss.

How on earth did that get there? I don’t remember planting any!

Anyway, I thought, I’ll be a good little gardener and rake the moss out before I trim the grass.

My very good lady had said to me, just ring the doorbell, if you need anything. So I rang. And rang. And rang again.

Then I played Mozart’s Musical Joke on the doorbell. Twice.

Hmmm… clearly my beloved had gone to Mars, or something. Or maybe she was hanging the washing out.

So I walked round the side of the house to the gate and lovingly beckoned, “Oi!!!”

“What!!!?” came the tender reply.

“I need the rake!”

“Which one!!!?”

Which one? You mean I have a choice? I wasn’t banking on that!

“Erm, the lawn rake!” I manfully demanded. Half of any job is confidence, oh yes indeed!

“Where is it?”

“It’s in the garage!”

After all, where else would it be than in the garage, next to the sacks of birdseed, the disposable barbecue and the ladder?

A minute or so later, my attention was garnered from the opposite end of the garage with a sweetly alluring “Oi!!!”

(“Oi” is practically a term of endearment in our house.)

“You mean that lawn rake there!!!?”

My living delight’s outstretched arm was pointing at said lawn rake, positioned next to the workbench, the garden chairs and the contents of the previous car’s boot, a full eighteen inches from where the mower had been.

“That’s the one. Thanks, love.” No need to feel sheepish, she’s come to expect it of me!

Okie dokie, so set to with the lawn rake and give this moss what for.

Huge chunks of evil vegetation spewed forth and this was rather satisfying in a masculine sort of way, for a good minute and a half, until the arms started to ache and the lungs gave in.

Well, I’ve only just got over the flu… that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

Unfortunately, I’m committed now. It’s not the kind of job one can start and not complete, and even if one could, one is in danger of earning some serious brownie points if one pulls this off! Hey guys… we all KNOW how important that is!!!

Besides which, if I tried to mow the lawn in this condition, I like as not wouldn’t stop bouncing before Autumn – and so, of course, I persevere, stopping every 90 seconds or so to lean on the rake and do a passable impersonation of an asthmatic orang utan.

It was during one of these rest breaks that my next-door but one neighbour pulled up onto her drive, the top down on her Vauxhall Something-or-Other Cabriolet.

I don’t want to give the wrong impression here… I’m working in the garden, the love of my life is hanging the washing out, and the next-door but one neighbour has been out for a spin in the convertible – but it ain’t exactly a heat-wave.

Sun’s out, yes, but the temperature is about 13 or 14 degrees C, so maybe 55 Fahrenheit. I hear the breakers down in Newquay are pretty decent, but I think you’ve guessed that this ain’t exactly Surfer’s Paradise!

But we are a resolute lot we Brits, and I’m sure next-door-but-one figures, “I’ve got a convertible, I’m damn well gonna use it!!!” Good for her!

Anyway, she gets out the car, and through the duffel coat I hear her muffle that traditional, and funny every time, British phrase “You can do mine if you want!”

I could’ve, but that would probably have meant spec-ing out the job, square-meterage of lawn and such, working out an hourly rate, clearing some room in the diary, that kind of thing – not to mention going to university to earn a horticultural degree, getting a loan to set up a business and obtaining a licence to trade from my home.

And besides, I had to go to Sainsbury’s later.

So I declined.

I guess she figured I probably would.

Anyway, we spent a few jolly and friendly minutes discussing the relative merits and demerits of working in general and gardening in particular, at which time she pointed out that “at least it’s a nice day for it.” We then decided that had it been raining, however, I would have been inside in front of the telly and perhaps in possession of a cold beer.

Nevertheless, it was a pleasant and enjoyable interlude, and availed me the opportunity to regain some of my lung capacity and a few of my faculties.

At that moment, darling appeared with a recuperatory cup of coffee, and I praese-ed my chat with next-door-but-one.

“Well, at least your getting all the rubbish out and the lawn won’t die this year.”

Next-door-but-one’s cold beer plan sounded the more appealing, it must be said.

(I’m really not cut out for this working for a living lark – or simply working, for that matter. I feel I’m more your rich philanthropist type – that seems to be the role I was born for. I certainly have the philanthropist’s heart at any rate, but it seems I am finding the talent for accumulation of wealth somewhat elusive. Well, back to the grind, I suppose!)

I was getting on well, a good three-quarters through and it had only taken me three and a half hours – or was it a week? And I’m beginning to really feel like Dermot O’Gardener.

On the plus side, I had gathered enough moss and thatch to start a Home Counties Roofing Company – maybe I should check out that business loan after all!

Anyway, onward ever onward, and a slight change of orientation as we approach the house. Wouldn’t want to put the rake handle through the front window now, would we?

The grass is a bit more lush here… ideal conditions for one’s moss garden it seems, and so thorough raking resulted in an even more threadbare appearance than the rest of the lawn. Topsoil’s OK though.

Another coffee, tending of my wounds, and a deal of that good old Yorkshire grit, and that was it! Job’s a good ’un!

I’m well fed up now!

Oh, hang on… tools away, garage locked, lovely thatched roof on the compost heap… right, I’m going in – complete with real manly blisters on my soft girly hands.

So, like I said, I got the mower out today. OK, I didn’t actually mow the lawn... but it has got a nice parting.