Air fresheners (clean your house and open the windows, you slob.)

Insecticide? (an almost imperceptible buzzing versus forcing your children to breathe toxic fumes that you paid to put there. Hmmm… decisions, decisions…)

The Toyota Prius (ecomentalist transport for the sanctimonious and stupid – it uses twice as much fuel as my Purple Wheelbarrow and costs three times as much.)

Shoe shops (Let’s all spend hours choosing shoes that aren’t waterproof or warm, hurt your legs, tear your soles and heels to shreds and make strangers say “tart” behind your back.) (Maybe I’m just still not getting this whole Women-Are-From-Venus thing?)

Bottled water (a bargain at only at twice the price of super unleaded. I wonder how they make it?)

5 blades on one razor (and yet it still takes exactly the same amount of time to remove exactly the same amount of fuzz. Well worth every penny.)

Tiny Flirt starts school on Tuesday. He will be in pre-prep? at Little Madam’s school, and he is so excited it’s wonderful. We took photos of them both in their uniforms this afternoon, and while Little Madam looked every inch the sophisticated little ingenue, Tiny Flirt was so proud and happy that even the photos turned out larger than we expected.

(Little Nutter was hiding in a corner of the garden,? tearing his Scooby-Doo shorts into threads and laughing at the Thomas the Tank Engine train crash he had created on the patio – so everyone was happy.)

But the heartbreak came before then; uniform standards are very strict at? Little Madam & Tiny Flirt’s school, and haircuts are definitely on the uniform list. His gorgeous ginger curls had to go.

So the flirt and I visited a barber’s shop underneath York’s Bootham Bar. An enormous pile of dark brown curls appeared? on the floor around? my chair – and, among them, the most beautiful golden-red curls landed like confetti thrown by demigods.

And? I endured a lopsided haircut because the lady cutting my hair could not tear her eyes from my son! Tiny Flirt sat pulling faces at himself in the mirror, apparently disinterested? in his? utter monopolisation of? the attention of every single human being in the building as his gorgeous curls were cut and cast down to the floor; passers-by were in tears at the obscene profanity of such an act. The proprietor of the shop could hardly bring himself to cut the Flirt’s gorgeous locks, only finding the strength to butcher his mantle? when a little voice called out, “I’d like a haircut please, thankyou” (simultaneously deaf-signed!)

There wasn’t a dry eye in the building as Tiny Flirt’s gorgeous mane was savaged; and he emerged from the barber’s shop looking older and considerably more sophisticated. That’s another milestone.

I was just asked about how I wanted my bald patch to be covered.

Error message

You appear to be attempting to take a photograph a Darling Wifey as she sews name tags onto a school uniform.

This camera does not operate in “alternate realities” mode.

Please refer to your Canon user’s guide and:

• disable “photographs that will cost you your life” mode
• put your camera away and retire to a safe distance
• stop subjecting your wife to menial housewifely tasks
• open a bottle of wine

Yesterday, the GCSE results were published and Darling Wifey got to see whether she had successfully fixed the problem that landed on her desk last Autumn. There’s not much to say about the results apart from this: school fees aren’t cheap, so we could only afford Tesco’s own brand Cava – but as they say on Red Dwarf, stuff the Champagne, we can celebrate with recycled urine.

As Darling Wifey recovered from the stress hangover (and she seriously? believed that she had been relaxed for the last couple of weeks!) I took Little Nutter to respite and went cycling with Tiny Flirt and Little Madam,? a seven mile round trip to an enormous and unused children’s play area at one of York’s Park & Ride car parks. I came back to find that Darling Wifey was in Superwoman mode and busy sorting out every single? niggling problem that we have accumulated since we met. As I manhandled two kids and three bikes through the house? I could hear? the dulcet tones of? my wife? delicately and diplomatically browbeating a health service bureaucrat into a mushy pulp.

Lifting this? weight from Darling Wifey’s life has changed the dynamics at home ever so slightly and my own? “stuff” no longer needs to be kept out of the way, so I’ve had a couple of random panic attacks. I think it’s fear that her formidable superpowers (troubleshooting, organising, and ruthless problem solving over tea and biscuits) might turn on me. So I hid in the children’s room, playing a computer game, while she simultaneously cooked a pasta e ricotta al forno, reskinned a website forum, debugged the control panel on another forum, discussed a plot for a novel with someone on Instant Messenger and planned all my DIY jobs for the last 9 days of the summer vac.

And along the way she managed to wangle some free iTunes.

So I’ve been a real man today: I provided. (Well, I downloaded Dido onto the iPod for her. The iPod is linked? to an old computer that we only use? to manage our home wireless network, so it is buried under junk in the corner of our bedroom,? which means that? there is still something she needs me for.) And along the way I rediscovered Asia.

Not the continent; the early ’80s, synthesiser-pop, prog-rock-revival group. Male vocals in suspiciously close harmony and with too much reverb;? several synthesisers being played at once by a bloke with his jacket sleeves rolled up (that would be Geoff Downes from “Yes”); electric guitar “solos” played over the verses like a descant…?

Let’s overlook the obvious fact that? Asia was a vehicle for names of much bigness from prog-rock’s heyday to make chart-friendly cash cows to fund their retirement villas; it can’t hold a candle to the original stuff. Who cares? It’s good!

Darling Wifey had a good day. At Christmas, a rogue teacher in her department (film rights available by separate negotiation – contact us by separate post) had left her looking at an 18% results shortfall. Cue six months of overtime.

Today the results came in – 1% above target.

We couldn’t afford a proper bottle of fizzy – we had to make do with £3.99 Freixenet from Tesco but, as they said on Red Dwarf: forget the Champagne, we can celebrate with recycled urine.

It had the desired effect: we were just talking about actors on a documentary. The bloke playing Mr Weasley had been in a? programme with the bloke playing Dumbledore. “Which Dumbledore?” she asked. “The one who’s not dead,” I answered. She is still crying with laughter.

Meanwhile Little Nutter had a fab day. He has been learning about calendars and has managed to decipher ours: tomorrow he goes to respite, and today he was at Fun Club. Even better – they were resurfacing the car park at? Fun Club, and Bob the Builder had brought three huge diggers to the party. Apparently he spent the day with his face at the window sighing “Bob the Builder” occasionally.

And Little Madam, Tiny Flirt and I have been playing with the bikes – including the tagalong we have borrowed from Busyknitter. Tiny Flirt announced loudly to everyone he saw, “I’m riding a bicycle!” We cycled about 6 miles. I only had to pedal 2 of them: Tiny Flirt propelled me the other 4 miles at a decent lick. And then cried as soon as he realised we were heading home again.

A good day.

We escaped last night.

We abandoned the children into the care of Grandma (along with a freezer full of junk food. Grandma doesn’t do wholesome home-cooked nutritious meals) clambered into the Purple Wheelbarrow and drove to Stratford-on-Avon to spend the night at a friend’s house. There, the comedy started.

When we arrived we charged into the town centre for a couple of early-evening beers (well, early afternoon beers to be honest) and then laughed at the tourists who were, it has to be said, particularly clumsy yesterday afternoon. The? winner was the outstandingly well-presented lady who clouted her head on the jeweller’s window whilst trying to get a closer look. It’s the birthplace of William Shakespeare – where better to enjoy a bit of slapstick?

Then we took up our tiny cheapest-seats-in-the-house in the Royal Shakespeare Theatre for their “Complete Works” production of The Tempest, starring a surprisingly short Patrick Stewart. It must be all those high-gravity manoeuvers in the USS Enterprise. I knew that fighter pilots ended up shorter, but I had no idea that a career in Star Fleet would turn you into a shorty as well.

Whatever, he was brilliant,? although? Ariel (Julian Bleach) was better – in fact, the only downside of the entire performance was the American in the seat next to me farting loudly in the middle of Prospero’s “I have bedimm’d the noontide sun” soliloquy. Fair’s fair, though, the high point was during the interval, overhearing the smartarse student? three rows behind me explaining to his nodding companions that “…Prospero has cut a deal with that Ariel bloke…”

After the show, our hostess attempted her usual hobby of getting the cast to sign her programme – only to discover that Trekkies don’t know how to behave at the stage door. After a couple of dozen hardworking thesps had? to push their way past excited space cadets (but they did spend time to chat? when genuine theatregoers stopped them for a few words and a quick scrawl on a programme) Patrick Stewart was mobbed by impatient and noisy fans who didn’t want a word – they wanted a photo or a signature on one. Understandably, he didn’t hang around.

Amazingly, one American woman was in tears.

Little Nutter was patronised in the corner shop this afternoon. There was no blood spilled, but feelings were hurt and pride was bruised. And it’s taken about three hours for me to stop giggling…

We needed to post some letters, buy some bread and get Little Nutter out of the house for five minutes before Tiny Flirt and Little Madam started applying for political asylum. The Nutter has been deleriously happy for a couple of days because yesterday we went to a petting farm dedicated solely for disabled children, and he was allowed to feed apples to? the goats (imagine the Sorcerer’s Apprentice force feeding a field full of fat ruminants) and take a rabbit for a walk on a lead. And today a very kind member of ASDf? gave him a case full of hand-me-down railway engines. And when the Nutter is happy, all our neighbours know about it. (Probably because he stood on top of the climbing frame in his pants again this morning, shouting “Happy!“)

So when I asked him if he wanted? to come shopping with me, he shouted “Yes please!” whilst frantically signing “Now! Now! Now!” and shoved the first shoes he could find onto his feet – Little Madam’s pink sparkly trainers.

He sat in the front of the car with his case of? trains and our two parcels for posting, and still managed to sign “Shopping! I want crisps!” all the way there; I’m not sure if he even knew he was doing it. And he threw the parcels at the Post Office counter at the back of the shop, shouting, “Hello Postman Pat! Happy birthday presents!”

The postmistress (what a great job title! Shame it doesn’t come with a uniform.) recognised him, and helped us to post our parcels, and then he started to fill a basket with our shopping. And at the checkout he helped unload the basket and very smartly spoke and signed everything we were buying. I was dead proud.

Then the woman at the checkout called him a good boy, patted him on the head and tried to give him a shiny tuppence. I have never seen him freeze like that before, and the look on his face was a picture. It expressed, in that perfect way that only a six-year-old’s face can express, his utter contempt for all things adult. I’m sure, if he had the ability, he would have said, “Do I look stupid?” But instead he just smacked himself in the face and shouted “Norby boy!” at her so loud that even I jumped.

The best bit was that everyone in the shop heard the wallop, his cry, and turned to look. It honestly looked like the woman had just belted him in the nose. And I just stood there giggling.

Last month Darling Wifey bought a new cabin bed for Little Nutter.

This annoyed me because I had neither the time nor the inclination to assemble it in his room (it being term time) so it had to go in the shed. Which meant that the family’s bikes had to be stored in the kitchen for a month.

“But it was a bargain,” said Darling Wifey, thus proving she’s her mother’s daughter, “and you never know when something like it will come up on Ebay again.”

Today, in true house-that-jack-built style, sorting it out began with chucking Little Madam’s broken bed base and Tiny Flirt’s mattress into the back of the car, ready to take to the tip. Then I gave Tiny Flirt’s bed base to Little Madam, dismantled Little Nutter’s old cabin bed and reassembled it in Tiny Flirt’s room, and,? as Little Nutter’s room was completely empty,? Vaxed his carpet. Then while it was drying I took the broken stuff to the tip. (“Can that bed be re-used, mate?” – “I wouldn’t advise it: it’s the mattress that three children used when they were being toilet trained.“)

I came back to discover that Little Nutter adored his bedroom: there was nothing in there but a very quickly set up train track. He was ecstatic. And Daddy, being a mean git, put the train away and started carrying bits of bed into his room.

As Little Nutter’s room is 7 feet long by 5 feet wide, Darling Wifey bought him a cabin bed with integral wardrobe, bookshelf, cupboard and? desk. I think it must have been designed by Swift.? To fit it all into the small space, the bed was 6 feet tall. And there isn’t enough space to assemble a 6ft bed/wardrobe/cupboard/desk combination? in a 7ft room whilst an angry 6-year-old is trying to re-lay his train track.

Meanwhile, Tiny Flirt, who has inherited Little Nutter’s old cabin bed, wants to know when we are going to paint it orange for him…

One the most important responsibilities a gentleman takes on when he marries and sets up home is the provision of a sturdy and reliable? prong for his good lady wife to hang her? millinery upon. After all, if you can’t give your good lady a? proper shaft for her chapeau, you can hardly claim to be providing for her most basic needs, can you?

First,? proper preparation is essential. You can’t just jump into screwing things into walls? and expect satisfactory results. You need to ensure that you are using the right size tools: if your screw is too small it will just fall out and your wife’s hopes will be dashed. Nothing is more disappointing for a lady than the sight of her husband doffing his cap politely, only for it to fall limply to the ground at her feet.

It is also appropriate at this point to mention rawl plugs. These handy little devices are caps for your screws, and I cannot recommend strongly enough that you use them. I get mine from a handy little shop on the green, for a few pennies each, and it is worth it for the secure knowledge that I won’t get any nasty surprises in the future.

Remember also that your wife will be expecting a lifetime of reliable service, so a sturdy, knurled protuberance will always give more satisfaction as it has more grip and can take more weight. Ensure that it is properly fixed into place with at least of couple of tight screws, and when you have finished? the job, remember to polish it off nicely – presentation is everything.

First of all, we are being very good and sticking to the rule of “no alcohol unless we have guests.” We have had guests every night we have been at home.

When we were away from home, we took the silly dog to see Busyknitter? (only because respite & grandparents were happy to take children for the weekend but not dogs.) Then we drove from Preston to Bamburgh – making it as far as Coldstream before the puppy puked on Darling Wifey’s feet.

In Bamburgh we stayed in a fantastically awful hotel that overcharged us on the basis of location alone. The bed was sagging under the memory of too many illicit liaisons, the bathroom appeared to have been fitted by the owner’s nephew in an attempt to save money, and the restaurant (judging by the cooked breakfast) was tantalisingly good… but not available for residents with dogs (which must remain supervised at all times.)

So we walked down the beach to Seahouses (aka Chav-on-Sea) and the best fish & chip shop on earth. But all good things come to an end – and we had to collect the children and return home.

Since then we have remortgaged the house to pay for holiday clubs for all three children. I recommend that. Preparation for the decorating proceeded well until the arrival of resident guests, who gave us the perfect excuse for letting standards slip, opening too many bottles, staying up until 2am and generally misbehaving. The downside was that I had to mend the door that Little Nutter ripped off its hinges after eating blue smarties so that one guest would have privacy whilst sleeping on the sofa.

Next week I will be mostly painting, drilling, sawing and visiting the dump.

Well, it’s better than working for a living…