The OODD Guide to Nappy Changing a Crawler…

So it’s happened. You’ve been dreading it for months now and, finally, it’s here!!

HE/SHE (delete as appropriate) is…

CRAWLING!

In a moment, HE/SHE finally mastered forward propulsion and, with an unremarkable shuffle, your life just changed forever.

What happened next? You panicked didn’t you? Don’t be coy, everyone does. Suddenly, the realization dawns that your little crying & pooing creature (that you’re not allowed to return to the shop because you lost the receipt or something) has cast off its most endearing quality – complete immobility. That’s right, from now on it won’t be staying where you put it and that’s bloody scary!

The blind panic that this triggers lasts around 24 hours (usually), during which time you tape the furniture to the floor, blunt all the butter knives and rip up the carpet (replacing it with Velcro).

Don’t worry it’s all perfectly normal.

Now that you’ve ruined your house, bubble-wrapped the dog and sanded down all the sharp edges on grandma, in a futile bid to overcome your little darling one’s kamikaze tendencies, another horrendous thought strikes: “How the hell am I going to change their nappies?”

Fear not, you’re in the right place. Here’s my exclusive OODD guide to nappy changing a Crawler.

You can thanks me later.

1: STAY CALM

What you’re about to do is like sitting down to watch Sex & The City 2 – essentially no good will come of this situation. It will (I promise) be a living hell from beginning to end. Reconcile yourself to that. Perhaps have a few moments of quiet contemplative swearing before you begin.

It can help.

2: BE DETERMINED

Crawlers can smell weakness, just like you can smell the contents of their Pampers. Don’t let them think they’re going to win – otherwise they will test you. Consider drop kicking a teddy before you begin to show your Crawler that you mean business. Place your Crawler onto their changing mat and tell them as confidently as you can that they’re nappy is about to be changed.

3: DON’T FORGET WET-WIPES

Crawlers have a special 6th Sense that instructs them in the best way to create maximum carnage during a nappy change. If said diaper is merely wet they may just conserve energy. If, however, it’s messier than an explosion in a gateaux factory it’s guaranteed they’ll move quicker than a Jeremy Kyle show guest when the free bar opens.

THERE WILL BE POO EVERYWHERE. 

Wet-wipes can hide a multitude of sins. By ‘sins’ (of course) mean poo. I’m yet to meet a surface that a wet wipe couldn’t clean. When cleaning a Crawler the wet-wipe is your friend. There have been times, if I’d laid them all out, I could’ve created a baby wet-wipe version of the Turin shroud.

4: RE-DECORATE

I may have over-stated wet-wipes cleaning abilities. They don’t (necessarily) get rid of the smell. Don’t worry, you’ll get used it. But if you’re planning to have visitors (ever) you’ll probably want to re-decorate – once a week should do the trick. If you have a spare room, consider getting a painter and decorator to move in on a permanent basis. Trust me there’ll always be stuff for them to do – mainly painting over pooey hand-prints.

5: BUY BROWN CARPETS

You’ll never regret a brown carpet. It may be covered in skid-marks but no-one will ever know*.

*This isn’t strictly true. The smell is something of a giveaway. Consider recruiting people with no sense of smell as friends.

6: BUY YOURSELF BROWN CLOTHES

For further elaboration, see my thoughts on brown carpets. If brown isn’t your colour, perhaps try getting into the vinyl or rubber scene*. Either material is very easily wiped down – although a lack of pockets may be an issue.

* This may make raise a few eyebrows among the neighbours – although they probably hate you already because of all the crying (from the baby).

7: STAY CALM

You won’t. Running around after a crawler who is smearing every item you hold dear in excrement is unlikely to have this effect. That said – I’m trying to fill up space.

8: IT CAN WAIT

Why not just keep putting off changing the nappy? I find the morning alarm-clock approach works a treat: “I’ll get up in 10 minutes” can easily become “I’ll change them in 10 minutes.”

Why do now what you can put off until later? Words to live by if ever I heard them!

9: DON’T NEGOTIATE

It’s likely that you’ll find yourself pleading with your Crawler just to stay still for a moment – this is often accompanied by tears (yours).

“Daddy’s had a long day, please be still.”

“Be nice to daddy, don’t put your pooey hands on the wall.”

“Please don’t wipe your bottom on the carpet!”

Don’t do this, it won’t help. Have some self-respect.

10: WINE HELPS

I find the best solution is just to go with the flow. Reconcile yourself to the fact that your home and all your clothes are going to have a ‘funny smell’ for the next few years and relax. Rather than worrying about avoiding the inevitable, just close your eyes and think about the copious amounts of alcohol you’re going to drink when your Crawler goes to bed. I’d recommend something with a strong bouquet, to mask any nasty niffs.

***

So concludes my OODD guide to nappy changing a Crawler. I hope it’s changed your life.

Still Sinking…

The Out of Depth Dad

@Outofdepth_dad

Facebook.com/OutofDepthDad

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s on the move!

It’s so true what they say, the grass is always greener…

For months it seemed the only question* I was being asked was: “Is he crawling yet?”

To which the answer was a firm “No.”

*Technically, this wasn’t the only question I was asked. Additional questions that have been proffered in my direction of late include: “Are you happy with your current broadband provider?”, “Would you like to add a drink for an extra 75p?” and, genuinely, “Can I tell you all about our Lord, Jesus Christ?” For the record, I answered “No” to all of the above. 

Sam’s mum and I spent many hours worrying about his crawling (or lack of it). We did it in that textbook modern parenting not-worrying, worrying way.

“Should we be worried he’s not crawling yet?”

“No. I mean, it’s not a competition.”

“Too true.”

But it is a competition – even if you don’t want it to be. We all silently seethe at the kid (there’s always one) who skipped crawling and is walking already – then again that precocious so-and-so is probably tap dancing, speaking basic French and learning to whip up a convincing bolognese too!

So, you can imagine, we were thrilled when it all clicked and Sam started to crawl in earnest. Boy can he crawl! He’s like the Road Runner is those old cartoons, there really is no stopping him.

Then it sank in. THERE REALLY IS NO STOPPING HIM!

Our joy lasted all of… oh… five seconds as we realized the size of our house has suddenly diminished and we are now sentenced to an interminable period of chasing around after Sam as he launches himself into harm’s way with gleeful abandon.

Wasn’t life so much easier when he wasn’t crawling?

Wasn’t that grass so much greener?

Wasn’t that a lawn far easier to tend?

After a quick Google, it became clear that there was no going back. We couldn’t encourage Sam to be a non-crawler for a bit, to make our lives easier. We were stuck with the situation.

The house, which up to this point had been our oasis, suddenly looked like a giant trap;  filled (Home Alone-style) with dangerous obstacles for our new crawler.

Everywhere I looked were sharp corners, lethal hinges, top-heavy bits of furniture and… and… well you get the idea.

Time and again, I’m drawn back to those David Attenborough documentaries that show how – via nothing more than instinct – the young of other species emerge into the world with a sixth sense for avoiding danger. Mother Nature must really have had a chuckle when, rather than giving human young a street-smart savviness, she decided to turn them into Frank Spencer like klutzes with the ability to find a crisis in any situation.

As a kid, one of my favourite films was Who Framed Roger Rabbit. There’s a scene, at the beginning of the film, shows the hapless Roger trying to look after Baby Herman, who (for comic reasons) dives headfirst into one lethal situation after another. Click here to view. As a child, I thought this was a ridiculous skit created to provoke laughter.  I now realize that I was wrong. The scene is much closer to a public information film, a documentary reenactment of the real life chaos that parents are perennially just moments away from. All it needs is a Michael Burke voice over and the Roger Rabbit sketch could belong in the old TV show 999!

God it’s terrifying. 

Oh and while I remember. How the hell do you change a nappy on a baby that won’t lie still for a more than two seconds? Just when you thought you’ve got the whole nappy thing down, they move the goal posts once again! It’s like trying to change the tyre on a Formula One car as it whizzes by at top speed! I literally don’t have enough limbs to hold Sam still, clean him and apply a new nappy. It’s impossible!!!

As you might already have guessed, my focus has now moved onto fantasizing about new and much greener grass – when Sam can walk.

Things will be so much easier then…

Who am I kidding?

 

Still Sinking…

The Out of Depth Dad

Facebook.com/OutofDepthDad

@Outofdepth_dad

 

 

 

Mission Bloody Impossible!!

Life’s full of little surprises at the moment, like the one I just gave myself when I tried to open the cupboard under the sink.

“Wait a minute, I’ll just get the washing up li… OH SHIT!***”

Like some latter-day Samson (without comparable hair), I’d inadvertently ripped off the baby-proof lock I’d painstakingly spend hours putting on the cupboard door. The air was momentarily blue with my frustration.

***I debated for a while whether I should represent the word ‘shit’ as ‘sh*t’. It seemed, for a moment, like that might be the most genteel thing to do. Then I noticed the ‘Bloody’ in my title and thought sod it.

Back to the cupboard under the sink… I’d just spent the last few days baby proofing the house and, boy, was it an unpleasant task.

With the prospect of Sam getting to grips with crawling firmly on the horizon, the need to protect him from himself is at the forefront of our minds.

“Just buy a few of those magnetic lock things,” said the mate that I consulted over the issue. “They’re easy to fit.”

Easy?

EASY?

Compared to what? Nuclear Fusion? I have never, in my entire existence, found anything trickier to put together – they’re like doing a Rubik’s Cube in the dark.

At first I was all GCSE technical drawing, with my ruler and pencil, marking onto the door the point where the locks should go. I drew my guide lines and attached the lock, clip and closed the door. I then pulled on the handle and door opened freely. As if the lock wasn’t there.

In the next six hours (I’m not joking) I fitted 6 locks. Each started with the pencil and ruler, then they were ditched – I may or may not have taken the ruler snapped it in half and thrown it out of the kitchen window.

The method I found most successful was as follows:

Stick the lock on.

Close the door.

Open the door.

Swear.

Try and rip the lock off.

Fail.

Get a knife and lever the lock off.

Scratch myself with the knife.

Swear again.

Get the the lock off.

Re-stick the lock, a little left from where it was originally.

Close the door.

Open the door.

Swear – louder this time.

Try and pull the lock off.

Lever it off again.

Realize the glue isn’t very sticky on the lock anymore.

Try moving it right this time – almost close the door and squint through the gap.

Stick it down.

Close the door.

Open the door again – nothing.

Swear – very loudly this time.

Kick something.

Throw the lock in the bin.

Have a walk around the garden.

Retrieve the lock from the bin. 

You get the idea.

So when I’d finally got the locks to work – you can imagine how frustrating it was to accidentally pull it off again!

Now the locks are in place, I’m like a forgetful safe-cracker, with my little magnet, trying to remember where exactly the lock is on the other side of the door. It takes forever! Seriously, the makers should forget the whole ‘child safety’ element of the devices and sell them to dieters. You could starve to death as you slide the magnet around, waiting for the lock to click!

GOD! I HATE DIY! 

Still Sinking…

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@Outofdepth_dad

 

 

10 lessons I learned from Sam’s 1st birthday party…

“Let’s have a party!” I said, with an enthusiasm that I now understand was naive.

“Yes,” said Sam’s Mum, ” something small.”

I must admit I don’t like the word ‘small’. I’m a BIG person, with a BIG appetite and a BIG mouth.

“Not that small. We want a day to remember.” I insisted.

“Yes, a small day to remember.”

“We’ll figure out the details later,” I suggested.

Small details.”

That woman has more wisdom than a whole host of Solomons. We ended up with a small-ish party and it almost killed me. I swear that next year we’re just going to show Sam a photo of a birthday cake and that’ll be it…

Here’s the 10 lessons I learned from Sam’s 1st Birthday Party…

1:

The party is not for the child.

It’s for the adults who’ve survived a year with a child. Rather than being called a ‘Birthday Party’ it should be named a ‘365 days without accidentally damaging your baby party”. Sam had a great time at the do, there’s no doubt on that, but he had no idea what was going on and would, I’m sure, have been most surprised that the collected throng were assembled for him.

2:

There will always be too much food.

This is something I find very tricky, I want to be a good host – part of which includes ensuring that no guest leaves feeling hungry. That said, guessing the size of appetite possessed by a group of grannies, new mums and their tots is an almost impossible task. I totally miscalculated, leaving a table that looked like my local Iceland was suffering from a power cut and had cooked everything in their freezers. Let’s just say that many sausage rolls found their way to a bin that day – totally untouched. Their sacrifice will always be remembered.

3:

Any salad is too much salad. 

Sam’s mum and I looked at the assembled masses of beige food and realised we needed more salad. So bowls of leaves were bought, dressed and ignored. Nobody ever touches salad at a children’s party, but it HAS TO BE THERE – it’s the law! If I ever get on Dragons’ Den, my big idea will be inflatable bowls of salad, that are placed on trestle tables to provide colour, then deflated to be used again. Genius eh?

4:

People aren’t really up for alcohol at midday. 

By the time the party started, I was so stressed that I quite fancied a drink – whether the sun was over the yard arm or not! The difficulty is getting someone else to drink with you. Grannies are no help in this cause, or granddads for that matter (stern looks from their better halves ensure this), while other parents are reticent as a mid-afternoon hangover (while looking after a youngster) is no fun at all. In this situation I found myself necking champagne making loud comments about not remembering the last time I drank during the day – to avoid any rumours of a perennial G & T with This Morning each morning emerging*.

*Note, this is a bad idea **.

**Note, I tried it once, it did make the show a lot more palatable.

5:

Babies love boxes. 

The sad truth is that no matter how amazing the present is, the baby will always prefer the box it comes in.

ALWAYS.

You could unwrap a fully-automated life-sized model of Disney World and the baby will ignore it and make a bee-line for the box it came in – to be fair this would be a pretty impressive box! In this situation, as your child impassively tosses aside an impressive selection of carefully chosen gifts, it falls to the parents to make ‘oohs!’ and ‘ahhs!’ on their behalf. I’ve never been particularly good at conveying emotion – I’m convinced it’s something to do with my Wigan-based upbringing – so I often find any enthusiastic exclamations can sound like sarcasm. In order to combat this I lift the tone of my voice an octave, which (if I’m not careful) leads to my sounding like an overly enthusiastic Mickey Mouse-clone exclaiming how lovely a teddy is.

God, this parenting stuff isn’t easy.

6:

I am no longer a raconteur.

Before Samuel’s arrival, I laboured under the deluded belief that I was something of a gifted conversationalist. I put myself as somewhere between Clive James and Peter Ustinov as a witty chatterbox that might give Parky reason to resurrect his chat show just to hear my anecdotes. Of course this was complete fantasy, but I could at least tell a funny story – I thought.

At the party I realised that these days had gone. My conversation is now limited to Sam and sleep. I started chatting to a friend I haven’t seen in some months and within seconds I was recounting my son’s bowel movements.

“Yes, we had a rather IMPRESSIVE poo today. His mum and I were VERY pleased.”

To their credit, my friend nodded as enthusiastically as you can to a story of a baby’s motion. Within milliseconds the chat had moved onto that old fall-back, the weather. Stephen Fry needn’t worry, I won’t be taking his seat on the chat show circuit any day soon.

7:

Agree the baby’s name in advance. 

Before you break into a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday To You… announce to the crowd how the child’s name will be used. Sam’s full name is Samuel, a two syllable word, which fits in with the two syllable gap left in the fore-mentioned song. The shortened version ‘Sam’ is only one syllable and can lead to an awkward lengthening of the name to ‘Sa.. am” – which the pedant in me hates. We found a clash of ‘Samuel’s and ‘Sa… am’s during our birthday song which I’m sure Gareth Malone would’ve hated. Not that I’m a fan of Mr Malone’s work either, but that’s another story.

8:

Name badges are great. 

Remembering names can, at the best of times, be a struggle for us all. A kid’s birthday party can be particularly taxing in this department, where most people don’t know each other. We didn’t give out name badges, but I wish we had done. My mum famously would go through the name of each and every one of my cousins before she’d settle on my name when trying to attract my attention. We had a few similar incidents at the party, which I won’t go into a avoid any blushes.

9:

Have a post-party, party. 

Sam’s mum and I were so EXHAUSTED by the time the party and the accompanying festivities were done that we needed a holiday. That wasn’t on the offing, but we did treat ourselves to a bottle of prosecco, a takeaway and half a movie – a major party for us. As any parent knows, I say ‘half a movie’ because we never have the stamina to sit up through a whole film. Those days are well and truly gone.

10:

Sam’s 2nd birthday will be small affair – tiny. 

Next year Sam’s birthday will be on a completely different scale. I enjoyed the experience for his first outing, but from now on we’ll be going smaller. I just don’t have the energy for anything else. Seriously, a year is no where near long enough to recuperate.

Still Sinking…

The Out of Depth Dad.

Facebook.com/OutofDepthDad

@Outofdepth_dad

 

 

 

 

5 Things I Didn’t Expect From Fatherhood…

I’m the first to admit that I was quite naive going into this whole ‘parenting thing’.

I really was.

I genuinely thought my days would be just as they were before, with a few nappy changes and the occasional bottle feed.

How dumb was I?

The answer is pretty dumb – almost Donald Trump levels of stupidity.

Thankfully I’m a quick learner. I can now change nappies with my eyes closed – not to show off, I just find I have to look at much less poo that way. All in all, I genuinely feel like some days I’m getting into the swing of this whole parenting thing. Some days. That said, there are still somethings that I do, on a daily basis, that surprise me. Moments that are a little odd, that nobody warned me about.

Here are my 5 Things I Didn’t Expect From Fatherhood:

1: I pick my son’s nose most days. 

There, I said it.

Babies, all babies, are snotty creatures. Sometimes it feels like producing snot is their actual job. Sam, like so many of his peers, produces bogies at a prodigious rate. I mean, if snot were gold we’d be millionaires.

You know that feeling you get, the slightly awkward one, where you’re talking to someone and they (unknowingly) have a bogie hanging from their nose? You don’t mention it at first, not wanting to be rude, but then you reach a point when you can’t mention it – as it’s been too long. The snot draws you in like a tractor-beam; soon you’re not hearing what they’re saying, instead you’re looking at the unwanted appendage swinging in the breeze. Well that feeling drives me nuts, and Sam’s face seldom isn’t home to (at least) a bogie or two.

With small babies (whose noses are two small to pick) there are these little vacuum pumps that you insert into your young un’s nostril and squeeze – in an attempt to dislodge the accumulated goo.  These devices are about as useful as… as… something not very useful at all. There are other bits of kit that allow you to siphon snot from your kid’s nose by inserting a tube in there and sucking on the other end. I’m sorry, but that was never going to happen.

So you can imagine my glee when Sam’s nose became large enough to pick. God there’s a sentence I never thought I’d write. Anyway, in order to keep him – relatively – snot free a good nose-picking is what I give him. The joys of fatherhood.

2: Work is ‘time off’. 

I do childcare for Sam three working days a week – he’s in nursery for the rest. My days with him are glorious, but tiring.

Oh, so tiring.

Sometimes I feel like I’m spinning plates, running around trying to do ten things simultaneously: play games, wash bottles, find toys, prep lunch – growing ever more exhausted until the plates start dropping.  These days I drop so many (metaphorical) plates the (metaphorical) floor looks like it belongs in a (metaphorical) Greek restaurant.

So my days doing work, which used to be the low-point of my week (although they were the majority of it), now feel like a period of relaxation. All I need to do is sit down and get things done, with nobody to worry about but myself. They feel luxurious.

There’s an old cartoon Click here where we see a sheep dog and Wile E. Coyote spending the day protecting and hunting sheep (respectively) – the gag is that both see this activity merely as ‘work’. Handing over Sam at nursery feels like the moment here where they both punch out of work and calm descends. It’s a great feeling. That said, I do miss the little fella during the day.

3: I’ve become competitive.

I’ve become strangely competitive. Which is strange because (generally) I’m not a competitive person. Or perhaps I see the foolishness in misplaced universal competitiveness. I’m not one of those people who feels the need to compete at everything, from ten pin bowling to getting away first from traffic lights. Why waste energy on things that are: i. Unimportant. ii. Physically or mentally draining. iii. Likely to be done better than you by a host of people? I’ve always limited my competitiveness to one or two key areas where I know I have talent, leaving the rest to those who are easily distracted by shiny things.

I have, however, become very competitive on Sam’s behalf. On our daily activities together I find myself silently comparing Sam to the other babies we encounter – always announcing Sam as the victor. Which baby has a nicer laugh? Sam. Which baby has better hair? Sam. Which baby would be most at home rollerskating in an Evian commercial? Sam.

I’m sure this will only get worse at the years roll by. As long as I don’t turn into one of those screaming dads shouting encouragement (read ‘abuse’) at Saturday football (unlikely considering how much I detest the sport) I think this should be manageable.

4: I smell poo everywhere.

Poo is a big part of my life these days (not my own). Sam’s mum and I talk about little else:

“Did he poo this morning?”

“A little.”

“How little’s little?”

“Cadbury’s Creme Egg sized.”

“OK. What colour?”

“Brown.”

“Dark brown or sandy?”

You get the idea.

I’m constantly sniffing the air to see if a nappy needs changing or (God forbid) a leakage has occurred. They say that Queen think the world smells of fresh paint, which must be awful. Wet paint gives me a headache. For me, I’m sure the entire world smells of poo. Why? i. It does. ii. I’m concerned there is an (as yet unfound) poo stain on my person, from a particularly involved nappy change. iii. I have poo tinnitus.

I’m not sure if ‘poo tinnitus’ is a ‘thing’, but if it’s not it should be!

5: Socks will always be with me…

In Star Wars there’s a line ‘The force will be with you, always…’ Click here. Fatherhood has brought me a similar thing, but with socks. “Socks will be with you, always…” Socks to a just-about-one year old are the best thing in the world. They’re right there at the end of your leg, ready to be pulled off, laughed at, shook about and discarded.

My life seems to be one long succession of putting on and picking up socks. Every item of clothing I own has one of Sam’s socks in its pockets, rescued from the floor. Seriously, his socks are everywhere, in my shoes, in my kit bag, behind the TV… I even went through a phase of using them as impromptu book marks.

The only place I rarely find socks is on Sam’s feet. And if that doesn’t sound like something a dad would say, I don’t know what does!

Still Sinking…

The Out of Depth Dad 

@Outofdepth_dad

facebook.com/OutofDepthDad/

Is Postman Pat on a Zero Hours contract?

We need to talk about Pat Clifton, probably better known as ‘Postman Pat’.

Everybody knows his bright red van, black and white cat and ‘happy man’ persona. But despite Mr Clifton being such a familiar (strangely un-aging) face to so many of us, I’ve got the feeling that there’s a story just below the surface that nobody’s talking about.

For the last 30-odd years Postman Pat has been delivering mail, with the aid of his cat ‘Jess’, to the people of Greendale (and surrounding districts). A genial fellow, Pat has never been what anyone would consider the ‘perfect postman’ – or perhaps we should say ‘post person’?

Pat has the habit of, well, mislaying the very items he’s supposed to be responsible for. A strong and stable pair of hands he is not! This truth was apparent even in the earliest part of his career, when Clifton worked under the direct supervision of postmistress Mrs Goggins. The affable pensioner always seemed to look the other way as Pat, instead of delivering the large quantities of mail he was tasked with,  would spend an entire day chasing a single letter he’d mislaid. Many would say that it’s to her credit that Mrs Goggins saw Clifton’s benefit to the community, as a slightly hopeless helper, outweighed any true ability he had as a deliverer of mail.

Times sadly have changed and I’m now worried about Pat. He no longer works for Mrs Goggins, his role is now under the supervision of the privatized ‘Special Delivery Service’, which I’m convinced has him on a zero hours contract.

It’s a well known story of a new company coming into a previously public sector enterprise and squeezing existing employees. The ‘Special Delivery Service’ seems happy to invest in equipment – they’ve automated conveyor belts that must spend half of their time empty considering the tiny amount of post Greendale receives. They’ve also bought a helicopter, dune buggy, snow mobile and all manner of post vans.

But have they invested in Pat?

I think not.

Clifton is clearly on a zero hour contract, with no hope of career-progressing training.

Why do I think this?

1: Pat is always on duty. No matter what he’s doing, any day of the week, Clifton can receive a phone call from the Special Delivery Service and is expected to get to work straight away. Birthdays, outings and school plays have all been ruined by Pat’s un-defined working routine.  The strain this constant state of uncertainty is having on his wife Sarah and son Julian is clear for all to see.

2: Pat never takes his uniform off, nor has the uniform been updated. It’s my suspicion that he wears it all the time to save money on clothing. Pat deserves better than that!

3: Pat drags out deliveries for much longer than necessary. He seems to literally go all around the houses, getting into bother, rather than just delivering the items he is given. I’m concerned Pat is trying to up his hours (and income) by unnecessarily prolonging his work.

4:Pat’s mobile. It’s an old Nokia, clearly he’s not financially solvent enough to be considered for a smartphone contract.

We can only hope that things improve for Pat in the near future. A career in the postal service, a role that became such a big part of his identity, should have treated him better.

 

P.S.

I’m slightly worried I’ve been watching too much kids’ TV!

Still Sinking…

The Out of Depth Dad

@Outofdepth_dad

www.facebook.com/OutofDepthDad