Intermission - Cool Dads Don't Wear Socks with Sandals

A little break in the story to talk about something that happened today.
There is a competition in the newspaper my parents read. 'The Daily Dinosaur' is trying to find the nation's coolest Dad. In the kitchen, The Parents have left the paper open at the competition page. I glance at the rules while I have breakfast.

-draw a picture/take a photograph of your own dad (someone else's dad might be better)
-tell us in 50 words or less why you think your dad is cool

Normally I would not look at this impossible job twice BUT the prize is 'A Trip to Cape Canaverel!!!!!!!!!!!!' oh and a car.
I go to the loo and think. There is a copy of the paper in there. I trundle upstairs to my bedroom and find a paper lying against the door. Serena the cat runs past me yowling. I have to wrestle a newspaper out of her collar. I think the parents want me to enter the competition.

So I give it some thought. There is the HUGE difficulty of showing what my dad looks like because this really is going to put the judges off. He is a cross between Isambard Kingdom Brunel and the wino who lolls about on the bench near the post office. This is quite a good photo of him. It was taken as he was about to leave the house to go to a conference of dentists in Norway. Norway is very cool unlike Dad.

Uncool things about Dad
-he wears socks with sandals (cool dads never wear socks with sandals)



-he wears a vest all year round
-he carries a toothbrush in his pocket
-he argues with the TV
-he takes me to football practise (wait a mo, that's quite cool)
-he doesn't care what other people think about his shorts (also quite cool)
-he cycles to work with the spiderman helmet I bought him and THAT is cool
-he winks at me if I don't eat mum's vegetable medley - cool
-he tells cool funny jokes e.g. How did the rocket lose its job? It was fired! What do scientists use to freshen their breath? Experi-mints!

Maybe I will enter that competition.

Wanttogoto Places No. 1 - The Smithsonian Institution

Some time ago Science Fan told me about the Smithsonian Institution in Washington in the USA. I have never been but it is on my list of wanttogoto places. At the Smithsonian Institution there is a whole exhibition on Apollo 11 . In 1969 Buzz Aldrin went up to the moon though Neil Armstrong sort of stole the show and Michael Collins was there as well but he didn't get out much. Their mission was to get to the moon and get back again. While they were there they did loads of interesting experiments and collected 47 pounds of moon stuff. They were not looking for aliens as the moon is dead. Which is a shame.
And they even had time to jump about on the moon for a bit. Well two of them did. It makes me wonder, if you are going to go to all the trouble of training to become an astronaut, you would actually want to get out there and have a little walk about. So once the 'Eagle' had landed in the Sea of Tranquility, I wonder if there was a big fight about who was going out and who was going first.
If there was a big fight then Neil Armstrong must have won and he got to say, 'That's one small step for Neil Armstrong (big breath); one giant leap for the rest of you (cackle)'.
But of course NASA changed it to make it sound as though he got on with everyone and was thinking about the whole world and not just about being the first person to step on the moon.
Anyway what they found out was that they could really fly to the moon and get back again without dying. What I have found out is that at the Science Museum we are going to meet a REAL astronaut; a man who has been into actual space in a spacesuit. Buzztastic.

No aliens though.

School Party

School and party are two words which don't go together. The photo on the left shows just how much fun a party at our school can be. However some of the best party fun I've had was at Dexter's house when we were actually allowed to use long dangerous sticks to hit a fairy. It was a pinata fairy and it was his sister, Trixie's party and the party bags had little hairclips in them BUT hitting the fairy was quite a thing.

For the rest of the journey up to London Miranda read a book twice as big as her head. I wasn't going to read the title but since half the book was on my side, I couldn't help notice it:
'Big Bugs are Best!'
Of course they are. Especially when they are in a book written by your own dad which is really showing off. Dexter kept trying his best to contact me from his seat in the middle of the coach. But he is actually useless at throwing and the little balls of paper kept ending up on the back of the driver's head, causing him to swerve violently. This made Mrs Trundle have to stop the coach and be sick. There were cries of 'cheat!' and no fair!' from those of us who got the time of Mrs Trundle's sickness wrong. In the end I felt sorry for her. She didn't even have the energy to stand up and bellow.
So we arrive outside the Science Museum and as soon as the coach jolts to a stop, Mrs Trundle makes a miraculous recovery. I race to join Dexter and Tom and his mum. We stand in a big group, parent helpers and us lot waiting for orders.
'Stay with your partners please children! And stick to your grown-ups!' Immediately Dexter and me and Tom pretend to stick their heads to Tom's Mum's arms. She laughs and then stops when Mrs Trundle says, 'that is not funny!'
All the grown-ups give one another a look. Mrs Trundle holds up her clipboard.
'Now has everyone got their clipboards and worksheets?'
We all wave our clipboards up and down like Mrs Trundle is too hot and we are trying to cool her down.
'Alright, alright,' she says. 'Follow me - Wilfred! Dexter and Miranda! You're with me! Come along!'
We all slouch over to her and I'm sure I see a parent saluting.
'But I want to go with my friends, Miss,' whines Miranda.
'I need someone sensible, Miranda. To keep an eye on these two.'
Looks like she hasn't forgotten the last school trip then.

Going to the Most Interesting Place on Earth

I can reveal the big reason why Mrs Trundle is miserable - she gets travel sick. She's a teacher and she gets travel sick. I ask you. It's not as though we're going to travel to the unknown savage bits of the Earth (which would be quite fun) like Livingstone. And we're not going to make a long journey by boat or train or even bicycle. Part of the fun is trying to decide when she will be sick - she thinks we're paying attention, for a change.

I think you'll agree that I am going to the most interesting place on Earth - THE SCIENCE MUSEUM!!!! My friend, Dexter thinks so too and we are both a bit excited. But although he's my best friend and we're on the same coach, we're not allowed to sit together. I have been put next to the new girl, Miranda and she is miserable because she is separated from, 'The Bug Club' gang. I am also just behind our class teacher, Mrs Trundle and she is also miserable but grown up which is worse. Mrs Trundle cannot really believe in science or she would not have stopped Dexter and me experimenting to see which bits of Dexter's lunch would roll right to the front of the coach. Dexter only eats round things. Anyway, finally everybody is in their seats and the coach sets off. As soon as it does everybody reaches for their pack-up because you need to eat on a long journey.
'What have you got in your pack-up?' I ask Miranda.
'Nothing!' she says and grabs her very tiny plastic container, then hugs it and turns to the window. I can see her reflection as she squashes her face against the glass. I want her to turn round so I can see what she has in her box.
'If you push your nose harder against the glass,' I say, hoping to grab her attention, 'you'll look like my godmother's dog, it's called a pug.'
Miranda immediately shrunk her head back into her neck like a frightened tortoise. 'Oh shut up!' she shouts. I shrug. I don't understand what the matter is but then I never do according toMrs Trundle. I think they just don't understand me.

This is a picture of our coach. Our old headteacher was a coach enthusiast and he gave this one to the school when he retired. It was made in 1948 and Mrs Trundle said thankyou but I think she wanted something that didn't bounce about quite so much.

Buzz Newsflash!

It is my absolute dream to walk on the moon, in spacesuit like Buzz or in space like Buzz or work on a lunar module, like Buzz. Maybe I will start calling myself, Buzz.

Buzz Aldrin was in the UK! He went to a big party at Buckingham Palace, run by Prince Philip.This was all to do with him being so interested in keeping people fit. Course you have to be really fit to be an astronaut. It's important to start early, so I have a training list-

-play football every Wednesday after school with Dexter
-run around at school-ALOT
-jumping from the fourth step of the stairs every morning (next week it's the fifth)
-using the roundabout in the community playground to pretend zero gravity

I suppose I could include the yoga class Mum makes me go to but we don't do much except for breathing and crossing our legs . Anyway I begged The Parents to go up to London with me so I oculd meet him. But they would not do it. Granpa Jack came round and said that he'd met Buzz Aldrin. I said, "I know that but I haven't!"
He said if he didn't have an urgent appointment he would have taken me and that he would try and speak to Buzz on the phone. Hmm.
I am going on the school trip to the Science Museum soon. That's one good thing I won't miss but I don't think Buzz will hang around waiting for me to go to London.

A Bug Club!

I can't believe that Miranda already has a club. With members. Turns out her Dad is an entymologist which is a big way of saying bug hunter and he's always flying off to hot jungles to find the biggest bugs in the world. What a show off.

So, there's a new girl and she is called, Miranda. She came to the school at Easter and she is a bit of a girl. For example, she has an especially pink pack-up and a red spotty sparkly headband which lights up in the dark. I don't know about rugby yet. I do know that if a walrus could speak, it would sound like Miranda.
We are in the playground at playtime and she is looking at the ground.
'Probably looking for a hairclip,' says Dexter.
'Yeah, or a fairy,' I say.
So we go up to her and actually ask her what she is doing. She pushes her glasses up her nose and bellows, 'I'm looking for a red ant, I saw three at lunchtime and I believe there is a nest nearby.'
We take two steps back because her voice is so loud and she sounds as though she might bite something.
'You're looking for ants!?' says Dexter. 'But you're a girl!'
'What do you know?' she shouts 'My Bug Club is ALL girls!'
'What Bug Club?' I ask and I look around.
And that's when I notice there are quite alot of girls crawling over the grass holding onto Tesco bags.
'Caterpillars,' she bellows, 'lots of them and grasshoppers, if we're lucky.'
I am unbelieveably green with jealousy. A Bug Club! Dexter's mouth is opening and closing but nothing is coming out of it.
'Well, we've got a club!' I say, trying really hard to think one up, 'it's a really good one, isn't it Dexter-for boys!'
'Let's go,' says Dexter, 'Alex Stevens has got a new football.' And he runs off.
Miranda purses her lips and sneers at me. 'You don't have a club!'
'I do!'
The whistle goes for the end of break.
'Boys!' she says and pulls her cardigan straight. 'I prefer insects.'

A Sparkly Pink Rugby Player

Below is an example of something that is pink AND sparkly. Mum says, the one on the right is OK because it is old but that just makes it even more boring for me. I have never seen a sparkly pink rugby player but I think that would be VERY funny and might help a lot of young baby-girls take up rugby. Somebody should think about that.

When I was baby-child, I believed that all girls liked pink, books about fairies and rugby matches. I was mostly right. Pink is still quite big at my school; pink pack-ups, pink school bags, pink headbands but maybe girls grow out of pink. I don't know if mum was ever a girl-she says she never liked pink. She wears a lot of stripey trousers which are too big for her and T-shirts which say stuff like, 'Would you like it?' and it shows loads of chickens with their feet rotted off or 'Poor Cow' with a cow mooing out of someone's shoes or my favourite-a diagram of a car engine and an exploding earth beneath the words, 'driven to destruction'- exciting stuff. She says I can wear pink if I want to but Dad says 'over my dead body'. I did find some books about fairies in an old box when I was on a rummage. Mum says they are antique books and books about fairies nowadays are all commercial and sparkly and pink- I don't think she's read Artemis Fowl. The rugby thing comes from my godmother. She was a girl once and she says that rugby should be played by all girls. She takes me to rugby matches and shouts the rules at me. She jumps up and down (ALOT) and buys me forbidden fizzy drinks and packets of crisps to keep us going until the next fizzy drink and the celebration bag of sweets. She's great.
Anyway, the thing about girls is that they are a bit difficult. You think you understand them-pink, fairies, rugby- and then one turns around and does something different that makes her less of a girl and more of a friend. Tricky.

It's That Time of Year

The electric lightbulb versus the hoop. Hmmm, no contest.

It's that time of year. The time of year for, 'THE SCHOOL TRIP'. I'll tell you now about the one we've already been on-to Mablethorpe-on-Sea, which isn't as much fun as it sounds.
Firstly there was no sea, not on that day anyway. Not unless you count looking at it using a pair of high-powered binoculars.
Secondly we had learning objects and these were:

-to know about different environments
-to know how to use a map (including use of a key)
-to know about EVERYTHING

And learning objects ALWAYS mean worksheets. But what was even worse was the actual place we went to - Mablethorpe Hall. This place was run by teachers as well-probably. Anyway, they kept shouting and telling us not to touch things. All the old buildings were bursting with things you weren't allowed to touch and worksheets and really helpful questions meant to make you think. After we'd escaped from the old buildings, THEN, then we had to dress up as Victorian children. I don't know why because although the Victorians were fantastic at inventing stuff, they were rubbish at childhood. Only the rich children had toys and then they had things like, the hoop. How could they have invented the electric light and the hoop at the same time? The Victorian schoolroom was the final awful thing, a school within a school, teaching stuff we'd learnt 4 million years ago. Even, my teacher, Mrs Trundle looked bored and she's practically Victorian.

I'll tell you the story of the best school trip in the world next time.

Have Space Suit-Will Travel

Just take a look at this man in his spacesuit-ready for action and space and probably handy with a lawnmower as well. This looks like an old style space suit, the sort Granpa Jack would have chosen becuase there is room inside the helmut to smoke his smelly pipe. I would choose the space suit on the right. It's a bit more up-to-date and probably a bit safer in the big vacuum of space. Here's an interesting thought. Perhaps space is like a giant vacuum cleaner and the earth is in a constant state of being sucked up but because it's big- like those bits of lego and cat-food that get caught in the household cleaner- it actually just stays where it is.

Some day someone is going to work out how to unclog us from the vacuum innards and we'll probably go flying off into another cleaner universe. And all without the aid of a space suit.

Last Bit of Christmas Stuff

Below are some people trying to look good in boiler suits. I say don't bother. Boiler suits used to be for tough grimy jobs to do with boiling stuff - not for looking cool. Now you can wear them for anything messy which to my mind is just about everything that you do in the world. The best type of suit is of course a space-suit. ANYONE can look good in that. I'll show you a picture later to prove it.

So, I promise this is the last bit of Christmas stuff-for now.

The doorbell rings.
'Why don't you answer it, Wilfred?' says Mum. 'It might be for you.'
'It's a bit early for Dexter,' I say.
'Maybe it's not Dexter,' says Dad.
'But who else would come round this early on Christmas morning?' I am thoroughly confused.
The doorbell rings again. 'Maybe you should answer it, Dad, it might be a stranger.'
'Just answer it, Wilfred,' says Dad, pushing me towards the door.
I open it. Granpa Jack is standing in the snow with a blue scarf wrapped around something that is making his arms sag.
'Let me in, my boy,' he says, 'please.'
I let in in but don't say a word about how nice his old people's home is at, 'The Pit of Despair' and how awful he was to lie about it; I don't say anything mainly because I am not meant to be speaking to him. He heaves himself inside and underneath his coat he has an old boiler suit on. He winks at me. Then unwraps his scarf and out pops a small but powerful looking motor.
'Maybe I can help you put these two together?' He points at the sleigh and the engine. 'If you'll let a miserable old fool like me help you that is?'
I can't help it. I start grinning like a baby-child. I've got snow, a sleigh and now Grandpa Jack has come back to FIX A MOTOR TO IT. Dad has another drink in his hand but this time he's smiling.
'Thanks, Dad,' I say.
'Better get on with this, young Wilfred!' says Grandpa Jack, 'just bring that oilcan in here will you...'
Mum's eyes are going poppy as she looks at the engine on her hand-crafted fair-traded rug in the sitting room.
'Perhaps we should do that outside, Grandpa Jack,' I say quickly.
Dad claps me on the shoulder. 'Wilfred,' he says, 'I think you're finally getting it.'
I have no idea what he's talking about.

What a Wonderful Present!

So this is it. The sleigh of my dreams, except for the dream where it has a motor attached to it and goes REALLY fast. It is the best.

I throw on my dressing gown and race downstairs. Mum is in the hall, humming happily to the vacuum cleaner, classic FM top tunes. Dad is bent over the hall floor. He is cleaning up some cat sick.
'Happy Christmas, Mum, Dad!'
Mum smiles. 'This is a wonderful present, Wilfred,' she says, patting the cleaner and her eyes are happy. 'Thankyou, dear.' Then I have to fight off her kisses.
'Father Christmas did come last night, didn't he?' and she's waves the pretend Father Christmas note at me.
'But I saw him!' I say. 'He's real! Really!'
'I know,' says Mum, 'don't we Dad?'
Dad nods. 'We had to open your present, Wilfred. We sort of guessed what it might be and then Father Christmas left crumbs all over the sitting room and the cat wasn't very well...'
I thought of the food mixture I' d given her. 'Ah, well, hmm,' I say.
Dad gives me a big hug. 'Come on, Wilfred we've got something to show you.'
In the sitting room the fire is burning, the radio is churning out gloomy carols and outside the snow is falling. It is perfect.
'Can I just go outside and play for a little while, before breakfast, please!'
'You might want to open this first,' says Dad and he drags a large parcel out from behind the tree. 'Then, when you are dressed you might want to take it outside with you.'
I stare. I gape. My heart thumps. It is wrapped in winking snowmen.
'Open it then,' says Mum.
I rip off the paper. Underneath it there is a wooden sleigh. It has iron runners and curved ends. And it is beautiful. I read the label.

'To Wilf, sorry it's not motorised. Love, Father Christmas'

IT'S SNOWING!

Cloudseeding-that's what it reminded me of (see right).When scientists wanted to make rain they could put chemicals in the clouds and whoosh! Rain. So when I woke up it was like a scientist had been really busy outside making snow, instant snow. And I know there are snow machines but this would have to have been a giant machine because the snow was EVERYWHERE and really deep. I think it is especially thick because Mrs Next-Door has chucked all her snow into our garden. And now the four million cats from our garden have all gone into Mrs Next-Door's garden. She won't like that.

There is something wrong. My eyes are open but all I can see is white. There is white falling outside the window. It's snowing. I suddenly remember last night and all those bright sparks falling from his fingers. White sparks like snow. . . It's snowing!
'IT'S SNOWING!' I yell and I sit up in bed.
'Jin-gle bells, jin-gle bells, jin-gle al the way,' sings Dexter the computer, except it does not sound much like singing but I don't like to tell him this.
'Happy Christmas, Dexter! The garden's full of SNOW!' I can't even see where Mrs Next-Door's specially reinforced concrete wall is.
'Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse o-pen sleigh-heh,' Dexter makes it sound about as much fun as eating cabbage. But I don't care-last night I saw Father Christmas.
I hear the noise of the vacuum cleaner singing. It's tuned to a classical radio station-Mum and Dad have opened their Christmas present already! And it works! YIPPEE!!

I Dream of Small Grey Sheep

You may wonder about the small grey sheep. My screen saver is meant to be a 'magical Christmas scene' with LOADS of snow falling. But something has gone wrong and the falling snow just looks like grey sheep. It piles up at the bottom of the screen like a big sheep mountain-not very magical at all really.

'Happy Christmas, Wilf!' says Father Christmas and he turns to leave. 'I hope you get what you want!'
I panic. He can't go now, I have so many questions that need answering, questions like, 'how do you build an igloo big enough to fit an entire toy factory in?' and 'How do you manage to deliver billions of presents to billions of children in under 12 hours and where does Einstein fit into all that?'
But all I can manage is,
'Wait a mo! Where's your sack?'
He is quiet for a second and then he winks. 'Who needs a sack when you've got magic kiddo?'
And he waves a long, thin hand and white sparks appear all around him. They pop like bubbles and he is gone. Just like that. For a moment I cannot move. The room is back as it was, the tree, the lights, the cat licking her bottom. But nothing is normal, not now.
'I've just seen, Father Christmas, Serena. I'VE JUST SEEN FATHER CHRISTMAS!' Serena is disturbed mid-lick and stalks out of the room and I fly upstairs. I want to tell Mum and Dad, I want to tell Granpa Jack, I want to fling open my bedroom window and shout out the news! Father Christmas is alive! But Dad accidentally painted my window shut last summer so I have to just stare very hard out at the night sky, hoping for a glimpse of him.
'I've just seen, Father Christmas,' I say to Dexter, the computer.
'Does not com-pute,' says Dexter.
'Oh, yes it does,' I whisper.
And in my sleep, I dream of small, grey sheep falling from the sky.

Fascinating Invention No. 5-The Vacuum Cleaner

The vacuum cleaner is an especially interesting invention to me as I am making a musical one for The Parents as a Christmas present. It is another amazing machine invented by the Victorians. Hubert Booth made the first vacuum cleaner after he saw an American machine in action. The inventor was trying to clean railway carriages by BLOWING the dust off the seats and Hubert decided it would be better if the dust was SUCKED. So, he tried out his theory - not at home, not in a laboratory but in a posh restaurant. He took out his hanky and sucked at the seat of his chair and nearly choked to death. This might seem a bit mad but when he turned the hanky over it was covered in trapped dust. He went on to make giant vacuum cleaners which rich people hired and made their servants use. They were so big they had to use really long hoses to snake in through the windows, after clearing away all aspidistras and small children. Luckily they were able to make smaller cleaners.

I Believe That Mincepie Was Meant For Me

(right) This is Gizmo from a film called 'Gremlins' that I am not allowed to watch. He reminds me of my friend, Dexter, especially about the ears.
(below) This is just like the gizmo, Father Christmas carried with him. How cool are those flashing lights.

'Hem hem!' coughs a quiet voice.
I jump and spin all in one go. A tall man in a metallic red jumpsuit stands next to the Christmas tree. In his hand is some sort of gizmo with flashing lights on it.
'I believe that mincepie was meant for me,' he says, sounding a bit American.
I'm not worried; he looks more like a hairy Buzz Aldrin than a burglar. I want to ask how the gizmo works but my mouth is stuck.
'In case you're wondering,' smiles the man. 'I'm Father Christmas! Santa Claus! St Nicholas! Take your pick!' His gizmo beeps and he punches a button. 'And I should have been in France nanoseconds ago.'
My mouth unglues. 'But, but you're not fat and where's your sack!?' I blurt out these crushing facts in a weird high voice.
He laughs and pats his flat stomach. 'We're all more streamlined these days, pardner!' He bends lower. 'Still got the beard though and I bet you can't pull this one off!'
'How do you know about that?' I ask.
'Didn't your parents tell you? I know everything, Wilf. Everything. I even know about Granpa Jack. Two naughty boys.'
That made me think.

Happy Christmas Serena

Apart from cream tea, the most disgusting thing in the universe to eat is a mincepie. Read on.
"Three centuries ago, a mince pie was a huge dish called “Christmas pye” and described as “a most learned mixture of Neats-tongues (ox tongue), chicken, eggs, sugar, raisins, lemon and orange peel, various kinds of spicery, etc.”
This is of course DISGUSTING but Dad (see right) thinks mince-pies are what beards were made for which is also DISGUSTING.

'Miaow!'
Serena is hungry, I can tell, so I crumble most of the mince pie onto a plate for her and leave a few crumbs on another plate. I pick out a glass and fill it with some of Dad's red drink.
'Miaow!'
She's really hungry. I pour most of Dad's red drink onto her plate and mush it up together with the mince pie.
'Happy Christmas, Serena,' I say, as she tucks into it.
I bite a carrot in half and leave that on the mantlepiece; I throw the other half in the bin. The cat's not really interested in healthy food. Finally I leave a note I typed out all ready. It says:

"Thankyou for the mintspie and the drink. It was kind. Bye.
From Father Christmas.
P.S. Your super son, Wilf let me borrow his computer to write this note. Get him a motorised toboggan next year"

There, that should do it. Mum and Dad can believe in Father Christmas again and also think that I believe in him as well! Sorted!

Keep your Wig On

A little known fact about my Dad is that he wears a wig. When I was little I quite liked his wig; I called it his big hair and he would pretend to make it bark at me. Underneath his big hair is a smattering of microscopic hair and to make up for this he likes to grow an enormous beard. He catches food and insects in it and last Christmas I bought him a special beard brush. Now he likes to weave his beard into a plait which quite frankly is a bit embarrassing.


'A-larm! Midnight! A-larm! Midnight! A-larm! Midnight!'
I wake up with a start. Dexter is flashing blue and green at me.
'Shut up!' I say. 'You'll wake Mum and Dad!'
'You programmed me,' Dexter intones in his annoying way, 'keep your wig on.'
I slip out of bed and put on my dressing gown. It's time for me to make it up to The Parents. I'm getting to be quite an expert at creeping round dark houses, so no need for Granpa Jack's stupid torch. Downstairs in the silvery sitting room the Christmas tree twinkles. I heave the musical vacuum cleaner from behind the sofa and leave it with the rest of the presents beneath the tree. Pity I didn't have a box, underneath the wrapping paper it does look pretty much like what it is but without the music. Good job I've got this extra present. But first there's a job to do. Serena is curled up in front of the fireplace. I find a plate of mince pies and carry them through. Serena must be hungry because she trips me up and the pies go flying. I avoid treading on most of them and pick up one for the plate. I hate mince pies but it has to be done-a mince pie has to be eaten. More tomorrow. feeling too sick to continue.

But What about my Sock?

This is the carrot house. How amazing would it be to live in a house designed around carrots? Unless there are really big rabbits on the loose and that would just be plain scary. The carrots on the mantlepiece are just normal-sized for the reindeer. The port on the mantlepiece was meant to be for Father Christmas but since I told the Parents, 'the truth about Christmas' Dad has decided that he should finish it off himself.

Everything is really quiet up until bedtime. I stay in my bedroom after tea and look at the snow on the screensaver. It looks less like snow and more like small grey sheep falling from the sky - I suppose it's better than no snow at all.
'Bedtime, Wilfred!' Mum calls from downstairs.
I run down to the sitting room. The Parents are slumped in chairs in front of the fire. They are burning the last of Mum's Christmas present.
'That's a good fire!' I say, trying to cheer them up because I do feel bad about the chairs.
But then I feel worse about telling them the truth about Father Christmas. They had to find out sometime but they have taken it very badly. Still, I stand there waiting for the usual Christmas Eve speeches.
'Goodnight, Wilfred dear,' says Mum and she sighs.
'Goodnight,' says Dad.
'What about my sock?' I ask, 'or a carrot for the reindeer?'
'What's the use?' asks Dad, clutching a large glass of something red.
'But what about a mince pie and some port for Father Christmas?'
'I've drunk it,' says Dad.
'You said he wasn't real, Wilfred,' says Mum. 'So what's the point?'
'I know,' I say and I feel sad because I like to put out the carrots and the mince pies, even if there is no point. 'I'll just go to bed then, shall I?'
This very bad, usually by now they would be busy cooking and singing and smiling.
'Just as you like,' says Dad and he takes a giant swig from his glass.
Oh dear.

Dad Explodes

Dad doesn't explode very often but when he does things get messy. The last time he exploded was in Tesco. He had just read something political in the newspaper of the woman standing in the queue in front of us. He told Mum about it very loudly and she told him to speak quietly. But he just got very cross about the state of things today and woke the woman's baby up. She called him something rude and he EXPLODED. He was even more embarrassing than normal.


So to continue. Dad is looking fit to explode because we've done him a favour.
'Don't tell me that wood,' he points a trembling finger at the neat pile of sticks at his feet. 'Don't tell me that's the antique chair I've been restoring for Mum!'
'There were two of them,' I say but not very loud.
Dad puts a hand through what's left of his hair. This isn't looking good.
'Dexter did one of them,' I say, turning round but Dexter has run off-again.
Don't tell me you've chopped up both of them!' groans Dad.
So I don't-tell him that is.
'Speak then, Wilfred!'
'You told me not to.'
'Don't be cheeky!' he's shouting again. 'Or...or Father Christmas won't be coming!!'
Mum appears in the doorway. She has her disappointed face on. 'Oh, Wilfred, Father Christmas will be unhappy with you.'
I think carefully about how I am going to tell them that Father Christmas is not an actual person. Because right now-
I'm fed up with them.
I'm fed up with Granpa Jack.
I'm fed up with the whole magic of Christmas.
'Well, Father Christmas isn't real anyway! So there! Ha-ha!'
I didn't mean to add the end bits but I couldn't help it.
There is a long pause before Mum says in a really quiet voice. 'We believe in him.'
Her nose turns red and her eyes are leaking.
'I need a drink,' says Dad.

Fascinating Invention No 4-The Tempest Prognosticator

Back to Barometer World. Barometers are all about the weather. This is something the Parents talk about ALOT. Not in an interesting, 'this how clouds are formed and rain is made', kind of way but in a, 'blah blah it's hot' or 'blah blah it's cold', kind of way. The Parents do have a barometer. It is in the hall and Dad likes to tap at it and say stuff like, 'looks like rain' when actually I have read the instructions on the Barometer World website and our barometer is not even set for the correct altitude. I ask you.
The Tempest Prognosticator was invented by Dr Merryweather-seriously, that was his name and he invented it to predict when thunderstorms would come. In 1851, he studied leeches and noticed how they got overexcited when the weather turned nasty. So he stuck them inside a glass dome and when a storm was coming they would rush up the glass and tinkle a little bell. He also got a bit overexcited and called his invention, 'one of the grandest ideas that ever emanated from the mind of man.'
It didn't catch on.

Something Interesting in the Woodshed

These are a bit like the chairs we found in the woodshed. You can see why we chopped them up.

'What are those over there?' says Dexter, pointing at two spindly old chairs in the corner. They are covered in newspaper.
I shrug.
'Dad maybe. They're probably going to the dump...I know! We can chop them up for firewood!' I say.
So we start chopping, one chair each. It's great fun and by the time we are finished, I am quite warm. The chairs are gone and in their place is a satisfying pile of wood for the fire.
'They'll be really pleased,' I say, as we begin lugging it into the kitchen.
'Hello, Wilfred,' says Dad as he fills the kettle. 'Hello, Dexter-what have you two boys been up to?'
Then he drops the kettle in the sink and turns as red as Father Christmas' coat.
'Where did you get that wood?' he asks very, very quietly.
'Your shed,' says Dexter, 'they chopped up really easily.'
'Shed...they...chops,' repeats Dad and his eyes are all poppy.
Something is wrong, I can tell. 'I was just doing what you asked me to,' I say, all the same I'm glad I haven't brought the axe in as well. Dad looks as though he's about to explode. Now what?

Now we can be real jungle explorers

The jungle. It's a fiercesome place, filled with oversized disease carrying insects, lost neighbours and heaps of cat poo-our garden actually. Mum and Dad saw Mrs Next-Door sneaking through the broken fence once. She was carrying an air rifle. Dad thought she was hunting for cats to shoot and he went out to find her but he got lost. Mum went out to search for him and found Mrs Next-Door. She was hopping about, swatting at flies with the barrel of her gun. She had trodden in cat poo and was a bit unhappy. Mum said she'd lost it which was quite funny for Mum.

So Dexter and me are going to chop up some logs for The Parents. Dexter is amazed when I tell him.
'Will your Mum and Dad let you do that?' he asks, as we crunch along the drive to the garage.
'Oh yes,' I say, airily; although I know The Parents would NOT let me near an axe really. 'There're some axes in the garage. They need some logs for the fire. They told me.'
We squeeze past the car and come to the workbench. There are two small axes hanging from nails. Dexter accidentally scratches the car but it's not much. We run into the back garden-jungle, whooping and waving the axes. Now we can be real jungle explorers. Some of the weeds and bushes are over my head. I hack them down and startle two cats out into the open. We spend forever looking for branches low enough to hack off. There are none. I only find a few weedy twigs lying on the ground.
'Can you burn cat poo?' asks Dexter. 'I've found loads of it.'
'I tried setting fire to it once,' I say, 'it's a bit smelly. Let's go to the clubhouse and try out your ears in the dark.'
We race to Dad's tumbledown shed, leaning against the garden wall. And inside is just what we've been looking for.

Back to the Story

Dexter is supremely keen on Rudolph and his sleigh pulling ability. He thinks he looks so great in his flashing Rudolph ears but he actually does not. This is a picture done by a baby-child and this is about as clever as Dexter looks in his flashing Rudolph ears. I, on the other hand, am very interested in Santa's sleigh because it is a remarkable invention. I would truely like a toboggan that could fly but I'll settle for one with a motor. Strapping Dexter and his flashing Rudolph ears on the front might be an interesting idea though.

Back to the story and back in time to Christmas! Remember-the Parents were trying to fob me off with collecting firewood with Dexter.
Dexter is standing outside looking up at the sky.
'I'm getting an x-track for Christmas,' he says, flashing his Rudolph ears on and off. 'I'll let you play with it if you want.'
'Could do,' I say, trying not to be bothered.
'Yeah, it's really good. It's the one on TV and I bet I'm getting the super-x car to go with it!'
'I expect I'll be a bit busy,' I say wanting him to be quiet and listen to me for a change.
'And it'll be the red one,' he says.
'I'll be too busy,' I shout, 'playing with my MOTORISED TOBOGGAN!'
Dexter's Rudolph ears stop flashing. 'Can't see the point-when there's no snow.'
I decide to change the subject.

Spoilt Boy

Dexter is a spoilt boy-that's what the parents said. I heard them muttering about him after a visit from Dexter's Mum. That party his sister had, got just a teeny weeny bit wild and the house burnt down. It's supremely brilliant because it means that Dexter and all his games will live with us until they build the house back up. Dexter's Dad is a builder so it shouldn't be too difficult. Dexter is going to move in with us tomorrow and can sleep on a mattress on my floor. When Dexter's Mum asked if this was OK, Mum and Dad put on their solemn faces and said, 'is this acceptable to you, Wilfred?'
So I pretended to think about it and pulled a tummy-ache face. 'I suppose it will be acceptable,' I said sadly but my feet couldn't help doing a little jig. 'And I suppose he'll be bringing all his toys with him, I'll just have to clear some space...'
'Oh, everything was burnt in the fire!' shrieked Dexter's Mum. 'We'll have to buy him a whole truckload of new games and toys-I hope you've got the room, Wilf...'
'No!' shouted Mum and Dad.
'YES!' I shouted at the same time but even louder.
'That's all settled then!' said Dexter's Mum.
The Parents were too busy doing goldfish impressions to reply.

The Family Holiday

I have been quiet because I was forced to go on holiday with the parents. They wouldn't listen to me when I said that I could stay with Dexter and his big sister. His mum and dad were going away AND they were letting Trixy and Dexter have a party! Anyway we had to travel about 50 million light years in the car to get to Cornwall where the only thing you can eat is cream tea. This is supremely disgusting and what with all the marching about to stare at places and having no food, my ribs now poke out alot. The cottage was fab (see picture) although the parents thought it was a miserable shack. There was running water-coming down the walls and electricity-from 9pm-9.30pm and an open fire-but no chimney. We didn't spend much time there for some reason but we did spend too much time going to see crumbling buildings and big gardens where I had to fill out little forms to make sure I enjoyed myself. The supreme place to visit in Cornwall is, 'Barometer World'.
www.barometerworld.co.uk
If only more places were as interesting as this place.

The Magic-get-out-clause

On Planet Parent they believe in the power of the 'coat' . The 'coat' will stop you catching cold, flu, pnuemonia, kidney ailments and any number of nasty diseases. I believe the 'coat' is a nuisance-it gives me heat burn and stops me running faster than Dexter. His parents never make him wear a coat. But that's not the worst of it-I also have to wear a vest. In my opinion that and a coat could be fatal. Will they listen? I wouldn't mind too much but it's still not even snowing.

I've had enough of pretending to believe in Santa and being nice because it's Christmas. I turn at the door and look at them happily unwrapping their little Christmassy tree toys. The fire is flaming and it's getting a bit hot what with it being like Summer outside. They look so cheerful-it's almost a shame to say it but...
'Father Christmas will burn his bum if he comes down on top of that fire!'
But Dad's prepared. 'I expect he'll come in through the window then, Wilfred. And it's 'bottom' not, not the other word.'
Oh no you don't, I think. 'But you always lock the windows before you go to bed, don't you?'
Dad looks at Mum. 'Put your coat on before you go out, Wilfred,' she says.
That old ploy. Distraction. 'And if he can't come in through the windows he won't be able to being me any presents!'
Dad gets up and rubs his hands together over the fire. I bet he's really sweating in this heat now.
'And Dexter's house has two burglar alarms,' I point out.
'He'll just have to use magic then!' Dad almost shouts this out.
Now I know he's desperate, he's using the magic-get-out-clause. I spot Dexter through the window and decide to let them off the hook.
'I suppose so,' I say and try to run off.
'Coat!' they both shout.
'But it's not snowing!'
'COAT!'
There's no arguing with them sometimes.

Good King Wenceslas

I need hardly point out Mum's terrible mistake here. She expects me to go and get sticks for the fire and that's alright BUT the snow is not lying, 'deep and crisp and even' like in the sad carol, 'Good King Wenceslas'. It's not lying at all, it's not even falling-nightmare.

I hope my story isn't too confusing for you. Basically you need to know how difficult the life of a nine year old can be-especially at Christmas. Carrying on then...
In the sitting room there are some sad carols playing on Radio Dinosaur. I would like to watch the TV but my Unspeakable Parents won't let me. They have decided it is time to decorate the tree. Mum stands on a tall and exciting ladder. She puts lots of little wooden toys and heavy glass balls on the tree. These decorations are mostly as old as my parents and make the branches bend.
'Just hand them up to me, Wilfred,' says Mum, with her hand sticking out.
'Can't I just put one on?' I ask, juggling two of them very carefully.
'NO!' my parents say together.
I try something else.
'Can't we have a tree which sings when you shout at it?' I ask. 'Dexter has one.'
My Dad pats me on the head.
'Look, son, why don't you listen to the carols or go and find Dexter? You two could find lots of sticks for the fire!'
Mum beams at me. 'Oh yes! That would be so helpful, dear.'
I decide to give the carols a miss-they're making me want to kill something.
'I'll find the sticks,' I say. 'Sticks, logs, branches, trees...'
'Just sticks, Wilf,' Mum jumps in. 'You know kindling. Like the poor peasant collected in this carol, 'Good King Wenceslas'.'
She's babbling rubbish now-time to scoot.