08/11/2014

Wilson goes in search of Colin...

Today, as promised, we drove up to London — ostensibly to see Baby William, but principally so that Wilson could check that Colin the Knitted Camel wasn't being held there against his will.

On the drive up W accompanied everything that came on the radio — including the news bulletins — with his spoons, but although I had tried to reassure him I could tell by his playing that he was very tense. The constant unmusical tapping made me pretty tense too, but I said nothing.

Before leaving the car I made him promise not to steam in accusing anyone of kidnapping Colin, and he reluctantly agreed.

When we went inside, William was just being fed… and Colin was nowhere to be seen. 


07/11/2014

Colin has been abducted?

This morning the postman brought a letter for Wilson containing a Polaroid of Colin the Knitted Camel playing with his friends. 

W showed it to me proudly, saying that Colin seemed to be settling down well with his new family.

Some time later he showed the picture to me again, saying, 'This isn't Colin's handwriting — I'm afraid he's being held against his will!'

I told him he was overthinking this and Colin was fine, but it seems the only thing that will set his mind at rest is a visit to see Colin in the flesh. 

Well, in the Pure Cotton Double Knit...


06/11/2014

Bonfire Night

In the past, Wilson has always enjoyed choosing his fireworks for Bonfire Night, drawing up an 'ignition schedule' then helping to let them off in the back garden. This time, though, he asked to go to an organised display in the village.

The fireworks were certainly far more exciting and elaborate than we would have had at home, but I think W was motivated mostly by keeping the cost down this year, so he could put the money saved into his Winter Holiday Fund.

There was a small incident when he accidentally tipped some of his dried ants into someone else's mug of tomato soup, but apart from that the night passed very pleasantly.


05/11/2014

Wouldn't It Be Luverly...

While eating my breakfast cereal this morning — with a fork, as all the spoons had mysteriously disappeared — I heard a strange, percussive sound coming from the living room, accompanied by a breathy, tuneless whistling I recognised as Wilson's.

Going in to investigate W told me that Amy, one of his Twitter friends, had suggested that playing the spoons would be an ideal way to welcome a new baby into the world. 

Hmmm. I suppose spoons have the advantage of being easier to transport to the hospital than a guitar.

He's been practicing for several hours now playing, inexplicably, a strict-tempo version of 'Wouldn't It Be Loverly' from My Fair Lady

I asked why he'd thought that would be appropriate, and he said it was just what was stuck in his head when he started; it was either that or 'Ghost Town' by the The Specials.

Well, 'Wouldn't It Be Loverly' is firmly stuck in my head too, now. 


03/11/2014

Music to give birth by...

Wilson has seen Robbie Williams singing 'Let It Go' to his wife during labour, and he's reconsidering his role as Birthing Partner to his friend Ms Rowena. 

Now he thinks perhaps he should turn up with his guitar and mouth organ instead of his Kathryn Tickell CD.

Speaking as a father myself, I have told him I think that would be a very bad idea, but the bees are saying it would be lovely. 


02/11/2014

The Sign Man cometh...

Wilson was very tired after his last-minute Hallowe'en adventure yesterday, so I felt a little bit bad about rousting him out of his bed and marching him outside to deal with the signwriter who had 'Come to do yer car, mate!'

W had engaged him to paint over the 'CoffeeMobile' lettering on the car and replace it with 'Pud-U-Like'… and had forgotten to cancel when the plan went belly-up.

Once he had placated the signwriter and we were back indoors, he confided to me that his Trick-or-Treat takings were a bit down on previous years, which he blamed on his lack of advance preparation. 

And the fact that people couldn't understand him when he said 'Trick-or-Treat?' due to his having cut the mouth hole in the pumpkin a bit too small to move his lips…