One of the functions of the hitcounter at the bottom of this page is “Referrer tracking.” It keeps a record of all the queries people have entered into search engines and been linked to my blog.

This is a weird and wonderful insight into internet activities.

Some are understandable, given the name of the blog and the information posted down the side: I rate highly on searches for “Exiguus” (naturally) and “Severus Snape.”

But “incredible decorating with junk?” How did that link to me? And why did someone search for it? Or “blog nappy poo” and “nappy discipline?” Who would look for such a thing? And why do they have to come to my site? I really don’t want to know anyone with these inclinations, even if they are discreet about it!

And I haven’t told my dearest about “mouthful wifey” – although I think I should. Preferably from a safe distance…

But my all-time favourite is a search somebody made on Yahoo on Tuesday 10 June at about 0630 GMT: “his hand on her bottom”

If that’s what it takes to find me…

By the way…

Apparently, this is me: “A venerated sage with vast power and knowledge, you gently guide forces around you while serving as a champion of the light.“

I’m not saying who, but some damn fool left the key in the front door whilst looking after Little Nutter this afternoon.

Everyone knows that for every difficulty Little Nutter has with speaking and communicating, he more than makes up for it with his genius for technical things, machines, puzzles and, best of all, locks. He is a criminal genius in the making.

Everyone knows that all doors must remain locked, and keys kept on high shelves, out of sight, where devious little masterminds cannot see them and hatch plots.

So when I arrived at xxxx‘s house to collect him, I was called round to the garden via the back gate, and Little Nutter saw me arrive and ran into the house. Thirty seconds later I followed him in to find the front door open and no sign of the child.

Thirty minutes later I found him, slightly more than half a mile from the house. He greeted me with a wave and a shout of “Daddy!” It seems that he was relieved to have been found.

Since getting home, I have ordered a safety alarm for him, had a migraine, and drunk half a bottle of wine. Oh yeah, and the laxative thing was extraordinarily effective.

Little Nutter is booked into nursery full time from tomorrow. They have three locks, staff on the door, and security cameras.

Addendum

After thinking about it, running at full sprint for 30 minutes and finally finding Little Nutter is exactly what dads should do. That makes me superdad.

From now on, I shall wear my underpants on the outside.

Yes, I am an unfashionable old git.

I knew it the moment I saw the airheaded bloke behind the counter in the optician’s. He was wearing blue jeans, a check shirt with double cuffs but no cufflinks (DUH!) and the jacket from a tailored suit.

He couldn’t string a sentence together. His typing speed, when entering details into his computer for my appointment, was three seconds per letter. (The last time I saw someone search for the letter “e” on a computer keyboard, she was four years old!) And when I told him I wanted circular frames, he spent twenty minutes trying to understand that a circle is not a “slightly less flat oval.”

With heaven-sent relief I was handed over to the professional who conducted my eye examination. We chatted sociably, and whilst I spoke with pride about my children, she told me of the impending arrival of her first great-grandchild. The eye examination went on in the background, almost as though it didn’t happen, occupying a fraction of this wonderful woman’s attention. With nothing less than absolute professionalism she typed up my prescription, wished myself and my family all the very best, and returned me to the care of the Male Bimbo at the shop front.

As she left, I swear she was shaking her head…

Little Nutter sat on my glasses.

Crunch.

They are just about wearable – but I can’t bend them back into shape because the stress fractures are beginning to show. And anyway, I need a stronger prescription, what with middle-age threatening to make an appearance and all this work with books and on computers. So, after thirty months, it is time for an eye test and some new boggles.

It is a heartless way of telling a man that he is an untrendy old git.

At Vision Express they won’t let me choose the frames I want. Apparently I have to tell it’s website about my “lifestyle” (which quite frankly I thought was only a marketing ploy used by the media to part you from your cash) and my professional needs (they have got to be kidding! I need to be able to see!) so that they can construct an “eyewear profile” for me. So I closed that window.

At Specsavers (where my eyecare appears to be their top priority, just in case I was in doubt about the services offered by opticians…) the website didn’t actually call me a dinosaur for wanting round lenses, but there was the clear implication that they thought people would point at me in the street unless I wore something from their “Titan” or “Manley” ranges.

They nearly redeemed themselves. They have my style of glasses in their catalogue. Unfortunately, this particular style has the same name as Darling Wifey’s last boyfriend.

5:54 am. Woken by Little Madam, who was in tears. She had come to tell me that the Grinch had stolen Christmas.

6:15 am. Breakfast with the boys. Little Madam was eating Coco-Clusters in the conservatory whilst looking for toys beginning with the letter ‘C.’ (Big Bird was still in the shower, and Oscar the Grouch was slurping coffee whilst giving Tiny Flirt his morning porridge.)

7:05 am. Thomas the Tank Engine won the Imola Grand Prix. (Little Nutter had fixed him to the front of a Scalextric car. He only won because Tiny Flirt had caught the other car and was eating it.)

7:30 am. Found my shoes. Tinky-Winky was wearing them underneath the dining room table.

7:55 am. Disaster on the drive. The car was parked the wrong way round, and Little Nutter did not like this. The only solution was to put Little Madam and Tiny Flirt into their seats and let Little Nutter watch from the front room as I turned the car around. As I drove to nursery school he babbled the sharpest reprimand I have ever received .

8:25 am. Penny, a nurse at nursery school, greeted Little Nutter with a cheery ‘Hello’ and asked if she could see inside his Precious Things Box. As I fled through the main entrance and back to the car, screams echoed across the car park and a crash (the drinks table, judging by the accompanying splash) made the windows rattle.

8:35 am. I arrived at work to find the computer network is offline and Interpol wanted me to verify that a picture on a fax was a true likeness of one of my students, currently on a school exchange visit to France.

8:55 am. The doors open for the students. Today, Year Eleven will be circulating round school with their new Clearance Certificates awaiting my signature so that they can leave the premises forever. Every lesson today will be disrupted by a drunk 16 year old.

9:10 am. Registration of my tutor group was delayed by the late arrival of one of the girls, who had stopped at the Brooke Advisory Clinic on the way into school. She brought some free samples for her friends.

9:35 am. Helped another teacher whilst he vomited in preparation for his interview pending a decision on his promotion.

10:00 am- 3:30 pm. Completely failed to notice that Darling Wifey was urgently trying to phone me. Was too busy trying to teach 14 year olds about commitment in sexual relationships with reference to the teaching of the Apostle Paul.

3:40 pm. Collected the boys from nursery school. Little Nutter was stark naked in the sand pit, frightening all the little girls. (That’s my boy!) Tiny Flirt was fast asleep in the arms of the prettiest nurse in the building, his head snugly nestling between her breasts. I was so proud.

4:05 pm. Collected Little Madam from after school club. Had a long discussion about why I should beat up “Danny” from Class Three and whether boys are really made of snot and crushed slugs.

4:20 pm. Negotiations commence on the possibility of chocolate and crisps for supper. Matilda and Shrek are loaded, unloaded and reloaded into the DVD player by increasingly angry children until Daddy blows a fuse and unplugs the device.

5:45 pm. Supper. Baked potatoes with cheese and baked beans. Tiny Flirt demands his in the same form as everyone else, complete with spoon to increase his throwing range. Little Nutter eats his on the floor in an accurate impersonation of the cat (complete with purring.) Little Madam takes a full hour to eat hers.

6:45 pm. The boys have collapsed, asleep, in the conservatory. They are changed, cleaned with baby-wipes, and inserted into their usual sleeping pits. Little Madam finally finishes her baked potato and asks for a glass of wine with her ice-cream.

7:00 pm. Little Madam is put to bed. “The Owl and the Pussycat” is read.

7:05 pm. And again.

7:35 pm. And again.

7:50 pm. And again.

8:30 pm. Pizza arrives. Wine is opened. Pizza is eaten. Wine is drunk. (Tomorrow is Saturday.)

9:30 – 11:30 pm. Marking philosophy examination papers.

11:30 pm. Internet. That takes us up to now – and goodnight.

(Edited to add: 00:25 am. Before logging off, I went into the kitchen for a drink & found some fruit juice in a glass on the table. Stupid to drink from a cup in a darkened room in this house, very stupid indeed.)

Darling Wifey’s Dad & I went to the Test match yesterday. It’s about time there was a Test Match North of Leeds – but more of that later.

The best part of the day (apart from watching England win by an Innings and 69 runs to take the Series!) was spent talking to the pair of American tourists in the row behind us. I can only ask one question: Why did they spend fifty quid on a pair of tickets if they had no idea what cricket was???

They had been staying in Lumley Castle (a 14th Century Castle-turned-hotel) and were asked, when they booked their rooms in February, if they required tickets for the Test Match. “Hank the Yank” admitted he thought this might be a quaint English way of surcharging tourists for something essential, so he said “yes.” And people wonder why American tourists in England have a reputation for stupidity!

So, like lambs to the slaughter, they strolled down to the Ground and took their seats for Day Three of the Second Test between England v Zimbabwe.

“What’s Zimbabwe?” asked “Wilma.” A brief discussion on South African politics followed, as the players were led out onto the pitch. Play started, and naturally the crowd applauded the first boundary of the day.

“When will the other team come out?” asked Hank the Yank. A slightly longer discussion about how both teams wear white followed. It was easiest to explain that one team has two men armed with clubs, and the other team has eleven men on the pitch. They have more men because they are unarmed.

The biggest shock came when Our American Cousins discovered that the England fans were cheering Zimbabwe on.
“Why are you cheering for the other guys?” asked Hank. “Don’t you want your team to win?”
“Of course,” we answered. “But we have tickets for tomorrow as well, and if they don’t do well, the game will be over by teatime.”
“You mean this game can last for two days?”
“Only a really short game. This one started last Thursday and could have gone on until Tuesday if Zimbabwe had played better…”

It’s very strange, but their seats were empty after lunch…

Anyway, Durham County Cricket Club did the ECB proud. It was an outstanding match, and the venue was flawless. But then I would say that – the groundsman is a former student of mine.