I hate Phil Collins

I just took a quiz online entitled 'Do you hate Phil Collins?' This was the result:

Do you hate Phil Collins?

Congratulations! You hate Phil Collins. You blame him for every mishap that occurs during your everyday life, and with good reason! Pat yourself on the back, you're a good person.
Take this quiz!








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This doesn't actually do justice to how much I hate that smug, dreary, ugly, Tory, arrogant, dumping-by-fax, scumsucking, Dairy-Milk-ad-ruining, criminally-overrated shiny-headed twat. I hate hate hate him and can't believe that he's undergoing a minor resurgence. Why? What has happened to the world? It's worse than global warming. In fact, Phil is probably responsible for global warming. It's all the methane he produces. I've despised him since I first saw him on TOTP with a pot of paint on his piano 'singing' that turgid dull-fest piece of shit so-called song 'In the Air Tonight', actually the worst record of all time. Closely followed by 'Easy Lover'.

I hate Phil Collins even more than I hate Margaret Thatcher.

Sometimes it Snows in April

...as Prince once sang.

This morning, as I padded to the loo (I like to think of myself 'padding', rather than 'staggering' or 'groping my way', both of which are actually more accurate) for my first number one of the day, Buffy cried out "It's snowing."



And so it was. Poppy was very excited as we ran out into the garden to show her the virgin whiteness. Well, excited in the same way you are when you watch a really nasty horror film or go to a job interview or are forced to eat the jellied bit off the edge of a pork pie, the last of which hasn't happened to me since my childhood but I still remember it, oh yes. I honestly thought Pops would be excited by the snow, but she really hated it. 'Get me back indoors, now,' she cried, rather than lying down and precociously creating a snow angel. Shame. I tried to tell her that by the time she's old enough to appreciate snow, global warmng would have transformed Britain into a tropical resort over-run by giant scorpions, but she didn't listen. Just wait till I show her this blog (as soon as she's learned to read).

I just broke off from this post to cut Poppy's fingernails, to prevent the nursery from writing "Can you please cut Poppy's fingernails please" in her book, which they do every week. I hope the neighbours didn't hear all the screaming and call the police.

Poor Pops has had a rough week, what with having bronchitis and not being able to go to nursery. This meant that Sara had to take most of the week off work. And what with all that stress and the added trauma of me having to go to sleep every night with olive oil in my ears (which is another story) I would describe this week as 'pretty shit', except for one super duper event:

I got my new iMac. 20", 2.0Ghz, 250MB HD, superdrive, in case you're interested in that techie stuff. More importantly, it's so so so beautiful. The screen shines like a giant diamond that's fallen into a vat of Mr Sheen. It's well lovely.

Sara loves it too, mainly because it has a new version of Photobooth on it with even more special effects and video. I know, it's just too exciting. Here are just a few of the hundreds of photos we've taken in the last few days.









The snow has all gone now. Damn, my hopes of school being closed in the morning are dashed.

Your wife will put you in the corner

Welcome to the new look Roost. Granted, not as new-look as the new look Sara Sizzle, which really does look new. I've just stuck a picture at the top of the page which almost exactly represents my life. Except for the absence of a pint-sized tyrant called Poppy, who was just a twinkle in my winkle when this pic was taken.

The best piece of advice I received this week was from a Samuel L Jackson lookalike (if Samuel L lived on a pension in West Norwood) in the doctors' waiting room.

"Let me give you some advice, son," he said, shaking his head ruefully. "Never get old. When you get old your wife just puts you in the corner and..." He waved his hand in an impersonation of a woman gesturing dismissively at her once-proud husband, who now spends his days on the sofa moaning about his bad knee and his cataracts. Or sitting in the doctors' waiting room moaning about his bad knee and his cataracts to strangers.

I don't want to get old. As I've mentioned before, having a younger girlfriend helps, but then someone kindly left a comment telling me that Sara will probably run off with a younger man in ten years, as "there are many interesting young men in their 20s who like older women", thus leaving me alone with my male pattern baldness and my bad knee, wishing I had a wife to put me in the corner and wave dismissively at me.

I wouldn't be feeling so bad if the clocks hadn't gone forward last night, thus robbing me of an hour of my life. "You'll get it back in six months," I hear you cry. But what if I die in the next six months? That's an hour I could have spent doing something important like, er, playing Super Mario Galaxy or buying towels in the Croydon branch of Primark.

Easter Funday

Happy Easter, dear readers. There's a snow blizzard outside, Buffy is making fake bacon sarnies and Poppy is playing with a Kinder egg and a box of Ferrero Rocher ('With this gift, I am spoiling Sara.')

Buffy bought me a Dr Who egg and, excitingly, a David Tennant/Doctor Who figure. Very macho. He even has his own handbag. Now I need to get a Billie Piper/Rose so they I can make them kiss and stuff.

We visited Croydon yesterday. I know, I know, life doesn't get any more exciting. Actually, it does: we went to Primark and bought some towels. This was because I put our white towels in a black wash and you can guess what colour they came out.

I spend a large part of my waking hours at the moment fighting two consumer desires. One is for Guitar Hero III on the Wii. The other is for an iPhone. My Orange contract expires next week so now would be the perfect time to switch. But...but... It's so expensive. And I'm so skint. And if I got one, Sara would steal it and use it to take endless photos with as well as checking out her millions of friends on Facebook. So I'm going to resist. Resist, resist... Must.... resist...

5 Days With Poppy

Poppy, at not quite 10 months, has a more fully-developed personality than most adults I meet. Here are some things I've learned so far over this Easter Weekend.

1. Poppy doesn't like men who wear glasses


All was well, though Poppy appeared a little consternated.


Daddy, there's something on your face.


Gimme!


Don't fight me, Daddy - I always win


Mwahahaha - that's better!

2. Crisps are a source of great joy and despair

Baby-rearing rule No 324: Don't eat crisps in the same room as your baby. One whiff of a crisp and Poppy turns into a potato-snack-scoffing monster, who will scream and scream until she has a soggy bit of crisp in one corner of her mouth, a glass-sharp shard jabbing her throat and choking her, causing a cycle of laughing and crying that Gary Lineker never warned us about. I have this terrifying image of Poppy turning into one of those children you see on the bus, podgy orange-tinged fingers stuffed into a bag of Wotsits, E-numbered up to their eyeballs. We won't allow this, of course. Poppy will be a fan of organic fruit snacks if it kills us.

3. Chocolate is even nicer than crisps



4. 'Can't Speak French' by Girls Aloud is the best video in the world, ever



There's something about the sight of Britain's second most popular girl band prancing saucily in full Regency get-up, coupled with the jaunty nursery rhyme tune, that sends Pops into paroxysms of delight. Me too. Except for the fact that Nicola, normally my favourite girl aloud, looks pretty awful in this vid.

By the way, her second favourite video is Nickelback's 'Rock Star', although the look in her eye as she stares at the endless parade of stars, playboy bunnies and Nickelback fans is one of transfixed fear rather than pleasure. Especially when she spies the massively fat girl in the front row of the concert at the end.

5. The less permitted Poppy is to play with something, the more she wants it



This morning I came into the room to find Poppy sitting on her mat. With the Playstation. Somehow she had wrestled it from the shelf and had it on her lap, with the controller in her hand. She hadn't quite worked out how to switch the TV channel and start playing a game. I give her two weeks.

Right now, she is pulling nappy sacks out of their packet and scattering them across the floor; also playing with a (closed) tub of Sudocrem, and eyeing up a set of knives, a box of matches and a chainsaw. Ooh, that little scamp.

6. Mummy is the best person in the world

When Sara walks into the room, Poppy smiles so wide that I fear her face will split. She pants with excitement. She just loves loves loves her mummy.



That makes two of us.

Marky had a little breakdown

I often have revelations on the journey from Wolverhampton, on the occasions when we go up to visit Buffy's family, to our flat in south-east London. The train part is usually okay. (Although today we got delayed because someone selfishly had a seizure and had to be carted off at Coventry. Tut.) Last time, while on the bus, fighting the voices in my head that go 'Kill kill', I realised that I don't want to live in London much longer. Today's journey made me think I don't want to live much longer.

Either that or I need to learn to drive.

Buffy and I had Poppy in her buggy and more baggage than the donkey that carried Mary to Bethlehem, most of which I was carrying. In one of the bags was Poppy's latest toy, a lamb puppet which sings 'Mary had a little lamb' in the most irritating squeaky American accent I've ever heard, the kind of voice that bores into you like a dentist's drill into an unanaesthetised nerve. Every other step, the bounce of the bag against my leg set the lamb off.

"Mary had a little lamb."

Bump.

"Little lamb."

Bump.

"Little lamb"

We carried Poppy's buggy down the escalators and queued up to buy our tickets.

"Mary had a little lamb."

I should point out that I am quitting smoking and hadn't had any soothing, lovely nicotine all day. I ground my teeth. Sara exclaimed that she would be very happy if I was able to remain calm (unlike her) in these situation. The vein in my temple throbbed. The lamb bleated its satanic bleat.

"It's fleece was white as snoooooow."

By the time we got to Brixton and staggered out into the rain and headed off towards the bus stop, having gone up and down about a thousand escalators - I'm not even going to mention the point where I stepped onto the escalator at the exact point Buffy decided it was too scary on the escalator, so I then had to walk up 100 steps to help her carry the buggy down the same 100 steps, the lamb shrieking about how following Mary to school is against the rules; oops I already have - we were both fantasising about how easy life would be if we could drive.

So why don't we drive? The simple answer is that we can't afford it. Despite having pretty good jobs, we are as poor as church mice. This is all Poppy's fault. Or rather, our lax approach to contraception's fault. The joy Poppy brings us is worth millions a month, but unfortunately we can't spend joy on driving lessons and car tax, or on clearing our overdrafts.

The more complex answer about driving is that neither of really want to drive. I had driving lessons a couple of years ago. Apparently I had good clutch control but poor steering. The idea of actually being in control of a powerful killing machine makes me tremble. I can barely walk from the living room to the kitchen without knocking something over.

And I fear that putting Buffy in charge of a car would be even more dangerous. An example: whenever we are walking along the road and she sees a pigeon anywhere near the road, she curls up into a foetal ball and hides in a doorway until she knows the pigeon is safe and hasn't been squashed. You should see what she does when there's a cat near the road. I can just imagine her driving along, one eye on the road, the other fixed on the pigeons perched on nearby rooftops, gripped with terror in case one swoops into the road.

So I think we have two options: put ourselves through the public transport hell periodically. Or never ever leave the flat.

When we got home, I put my vegetarian principles aside for a moment.

Dads' Club

I've spent this weekend of glorious-yet-slightly-freakish London sunshine doing dad stuff, including doing something that could hardly be more daddish: going to the father and baby club in Brockwell Park. Dads' Club is a kind of drop-in centre for cast-out fathers who are tired of wandering the streets, a haven for middle-class nappy valley dwellers with wives and girlfriends who need a bit of time to themselves. (Buffy spends said time doing housework and rearranging furniture, her favourite hobby, not sitting in the bath eating chocolates which is what I'd do if I were her.) There are toys and little wheely things and free coffee and fruit: imagine a village hall full of babies crawling and running around, and their balding paunchy fathers trying to look sensitive yet manly.

I'm quite a shy person who finds it hard to go up to strangers and talk to them, so I had been wary of attending Dads' Club. What if they all ignored me? What if everyone else knew each other and muttered 'we don't like strangers' in menacing accents when Poppy and I arrived? However, Poppy makes a great prop, either to hide behind (metaphorically; she's not that big yet) or to use as a conversation starter. 'How old is he? How old is she? Oh, I've memorised The Gruffalo too.' That kind of thing. Most of the blokes there were talking about rugby, which I hate. But I did actually have a whole conversation with someone. I'm a bit worried though because I told him my name but he didn't reciprocate. Is that a snub?

I think I'll go back though. Poppy really enjoyed it. She's a lot more sociable than me (she takes after her mother).

It's been a strange week. I went to my Grandad's funeral and saw my cousins and uncle and aunt who I haven't seen since Little Jimmy Osmond was in the charts. We're a close-knot family. Everyone looked so old, which made me feel old. Talk about the ravages of time. It was like staring into the future and not liking what you see. Because Buffy is so much younger than me, I can kid myself that I'm young and vibrant. My laughter lines are just because I laugh a lot. The grey hairs are a trick of the light. I wonder how many years I have left before I start to look haggard and jowly? Will my much-younger girlfriend still need me - will she still feed me - when I'm 64...and she's still a sexy young thing of 52? My god, I'm making myself worry now.

I would also like to publically state that I don't want 'You raise me up' either by Westlife or Daniel O'Donnell, played at my funeral. Even if it is a guaranteed tear-jerker.

My friend Sarah emailed me the other day. She's editing a magazine which is being published to coincide with Paris Fashion Week, whenever that is, and is going to use one of my stories in it. Exciting. I haven't written anything new since Pops was born. I'm too busy hanging out at Dads' Club. Although I do have an idea for a novel/film: a group of blokes meet at Dads' Club - one's divorced, one's unemployed, one is a recent immigrant, one has a sick child - and become bezzy mates. Hilarity and lots of sentimentality ensues, and Dads' Club gives each of the men a new sense of belonging. Then the council threatens to close down the club... Guaranteed bestseller, I reckon. Now if I only I could get motivated to write it...

New Year's Resolve

Happy Almost 2008! I looked out of the window this morning and was surprised to see that there were no flying cars or people of bacofoil suits floating about in giant bubbles; nor were there any robots clanking down Norwood Road, just a couple of hoodies waiting at the bus stop. Rubbish. The future has turned out to be thoroughly disappointing.

Still, 2008 sort of rhymes with great, meaning my slogan for this year is 'Great! It's 2008!' Or 'It's gonna be great in 2008'. Or possibly 'Nothing will grate in 2008.'

My resolution is to blog more this year (I mean, next year). Yes, I know I've said that before. 2007 has been a Poppy-shaped maelstrom - the first half of the year was all about pregnancy, the second half was dominated by a pint sized tyrant; a tyrant who finally went into her own bedroom last night, leaving Buffy and I free to sleep in the dark for the first time in seven months. We soon discovered that Buffy's night vision is shocking these days, and after turning off the light she found herself paralysed and terrified, struck completely blind and compelled to put the light on again.

My new year's resolutions for 2008:

1. Be more organised. Put stuff where I'll be able to find it again. Use my diary. Don't be too scared to look at my bank account on days other than pay day.

2. Be healthier. Less drinking, fewer fags, more trips to the gym.

3. Make more time to play Super Mario Galaxy.

I don't need to make any other resolutions because I'm almost perfect anyway.

Happy New Year.

RIP Muffin and Flake

I've had a double whammy of sadness this week: both our rats, Muffin and Flake, pictured above climbing the Christmas tree last year, had to be put to sleep.

A couple of months ago, Muffin had two massive cancerous tumours removed. She seemed to have recovered and most of her fur had grown back. But then she lost the ability to hold her food and developed a head tilt. The cancer had spread to her brain.

At the same time, Flake lost half her body weight. She changed from being obese - she really was enormously fat - to a skinny little lightweight in a couple of weeks. And she was barely able to breathe. It was a tumour in her lungs.

I took them to the vets last night knowing they were both ill but expecting the vet to prescribe a dose of Baytril, the medicine they always give rats. But she said they both needed to be put down. It was awful. I watched the vet inject them, then stood there blubbing while they both lay down together and went to sleep...forever. I wish I'd asked the vet to do it in the back room because I can't get the images out of my head.

This morning, Sara and I buried them in the garden and cried together. Then I threw out all their stuff because the sight of it was making me feel worse.

I'm a complete wuss when it comes to pets. And now we don't have any. We're not going to get any more rats - not until Poppy starts asking for pets, anyway. Or, when we get our own place, we're going to get a couple of cats.

RIP Muffin and Flake. You were a pair of troublesome, pesky, incredibly expensive pests - but we loved you lots.

My life, and other interesting things

There's a new craze going down in the blogosphere - or at least, the teeny corner of it occupied by Sara, Kate and now me. Someone asks you five questions and you answer them on your blog. My questions were provided by Sara. I was hoping for some easy ones, like 'What's your favourite animal?' or 'What do you want for Christmas?' but, no, she's posed some real humdingers. Here goes:

1. What is the one thing you would most like to change in your life, given the chance? And why?

The facile answer is that I'd like to have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Like Nikki from BB, I'm certain I was born into the wrong class. Carpenter father, cleaner mother. There must have been a mix-up at the hospital, and some other sod is going to get my trust fund and massive inheritance. Sigh...

The real answer is easy: I wish my daughter Ellie didn't live in Australia, and I suppose I don't need to explain why. I wonder if I should have made it harder for her mother to emigrate with her... but at the time I just wanted to make things as easy for her as possible. Now my number wish is that Ellie was here so I didn't just see her once a year if I'm lucky. Yes, I see her on Skype twice a week, but it's not the same. I know from the first six months of Ellie's life, and now from having Poppy around, how amazing it is to spend time with your child, and how good it is for them. I worry that she thinks her daddy lives inside a computer (when I actually only live chained to a computer). I miss her and saying goodbye to her was the hardest thing I've ever done.

2. What's so great about Embrace?

When I tell people I love Embrace I get one of two reactions:

a) They say 'Who?'
b) They look at me with mixture of horror, pity and amusement, as if I've just told them I have an enormous pulsating growth on my bottom.

But Embrace are brilliant, and it's all down to two things: the tunes, which are uplifting and melancholy and joyful and designed to sign along loudly to, especially 'The Good Will Out', 'Nature's Law', 'Glorious Day', and 'Come Back to What You Know'; and Danny McNamara's voice.

'What?', I hear you splutter. 'But he can't sing! He sounds like a wounded buffalo who wouldn't know the right key if it inserted itself in his jacksie!' But I love Danny's voice. It's warm and intimate and real. And it gives people like me the hope that we could also be pop stars. Well, it would have done fifteen years ago.

3. If you could go back to re-live one day in your life, what day would you choose, and would you change any of your previous actions on that day?

Ooh, this is a good one.

Possibly the biggest life-changing day was when Poppy was born, and the end of that day was wonderful. I wouldn't want to relive it though, because it entailed tiredness, pain (Sara's) and lots of blood. Only a loony would want to go through that again! (What's that you say, Sara - you want another baby?)

No, the day I'd choose to relive would involve lots of pleasure and fun, and a big dash of excitement. A perfect day, when I wouldn't want to change a thing.

That day is actually the one when Sara and I first spent a whole day and night together, staying in the Grafton Radisson Hotel the week we both 'pushed the button' and got together. I remember so vividly waiting in the bar for her, with a large glass of wine and a lot of cigarettes, my heart pounding, feeling like a character in a glamorous movie. Then she arrived, looking so beautiful and I spent the rest of the day boiling over with happiness because we were together at last and we didn't have to hide any more.

I could go into more detail but will save that for my autobiography: 'Mark My Words'.

4. If you were the last person on earth, with only dogs and donkeys for company... would you kill yourself? If so, how?

I quite like dogs, and don't mind donkeys. Obviously I wouldn't want to have a relationship with either species, even if there was no one left on earth to frown upon it and a pretty young border collie... hang on, stop right there Mark! What I actually wanted to say was that I would never kill myself, because I don't believe in an afterlife and I think there would always be something to live for, even if there were only dogs and donkeys around. I can imagine some scenario like 28 Days Later where the whole world has been wiped out by a deadly virus. Somehow, I have survived, due to a one in ten billion genetic fluke. For a while I would go around feeling really special. Until I realised that I must share genetics with dogs and donkeys. And then maybe, at that point, I would actually kill myself. With a massive overdose of heroin. Well, you'd want to die on a high, innit?

5. If you were going to recommend a novel to your biggest idol which novel would you choose? And who is it that you're choosing for? Explain your choices.

Well, of course it would be The Secret History because that's the book I recommend to everyone, and the one I use to decide how compatible we are. If you like TSH, we can be good friends. When I lent it to Sara she went ape for it, so much so that I knew we were meant to be together. Well, that and the sparkling sexual tension between us.

I would lend it to Brett Anderson because he's my biggest idol, and I think he'd like it because it would remind him of when Suede were the coolest gang in the Britpop world, but they were still outsiders, and I think when he let Bernard leave it was a bit like the others pushing Bunny off that cliff, and poor old Brett has had to live with the consequences ever since.

So, does anyone want me to ask them 5 questions?

Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me, please.” I will respond by emailing you five questions of my choosing. You must update your blog with the answers to the questions. Whether you like them or not. You have to include this explanation, and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions. So, there you go. Cheers.

Yes, I'm still alive

It's been soooo long since I wrote on here that I've almost forgotten how to use Blogger.

Life has become dominated by Poppy. I get up at 7, stagger to the kitchen, warm a bottle, put GMTV on (more of which later), feed Poppy, put her down, get ready for work, squeeze onto a train, boot up my work PC, write a to-do list, receive numerous bulletins from Buffy about Poppy's doings (I missed Poppy's first laugh the other day; she was probably thinking about her poor old father slogging his guts out to pay for her baby wipes), watch my to-do list grow, squeeze onto a another train, get home, play with Poppy, watch TV, try to stop Poppy crying, eat dinner while rocking Poppy in her chair with my foot, put her dummy in for the millionth time, feed her, go to bed, get up at 7...

I might sound like I'm moaning but I actually love it. Poppy is so cute and gorgeous and loveable - and, importantly, looks quite a lot like me - that the hours I get to spend with her are ace. I particularly enjoy dancing with her in front of the mirror. We gaze at each other's reflections while jigging to 'The Salmon Dance' by the Chemical Brothers. That's her favourite. That and 'Puff the Magic Dragon'. Rather worrying that her favourite songs are about drugs.

Buffy spends 24 hours a day with the Popster, and remarkably hasn't gone completely insane. I think she retains her sanity by building up her friend list on Facebook and watching Cheaters, possibly the most irresponsible programme ever. People being confronted by a self-righteous TV presenter and a camera crew while innocently trying to shag their bit on the side. Shocking stuff.

The one thing you can guarantee when you have a baby is that your TV consumption will increase by about 400%, and ours was pretty bad anyway. Most people probably don't realise that GMTV is actually 15 minutes of programming on a loop for four hours. When you've seen Ben Shepherd say the same thing about Madeleine McCann for the eight time you start to wonder if you're having a recurring nightmare.

GMTV isn't the only thing on a loop. I've discovered that if you watch TV all day and night you only see eight adverts. Again and again and again and again until you HAVE to rush to the shops and buy everything you've seen in the commercials. Our cupboards are full of Organics shampoo and that perfume advertised by those two people making out in a boat. I also bought some tight white speedos as I thought that was what they were advertising but Buffy won't let me wear them. Not out, anyway.

The worst advert of all is that one about Mickey. I think he's advertising Head and Shoulders. 'Everyone knows a bloke like Mickey... he has a look for every occasion... he hates flakes... his favourite look is morning hair.' If I've ever wished premature baldness on anyone it's Mickey. Buffy thinks it's because I'm jealous of his good looks. But I'm not. I just think he's a c***.

Sara on telly!

If you're a reader of Sara Sizzle, you'll be excited to learn that she's on TV this coming Monday. She's on Cutting Edge, Bus Pass Workaholics, which features Sylvester Stein, the 86-year-old genius we work with. We haven't seen it yet but apparently Sara has a few lines. I'm very excited!

As you probably know, our daughter was born a week ago, and instead of blogging here I've been putting what remains of my energy into our parenting blog, Life After Birth, where I blog pretty much every day.

Quiche is coming!

It's the been the third most stressful week of my life this week.

First, our landlady announced she was selling our flat and we had to get out - then we had big rows with her - and eventually I found us another, much nicer place to live; though I still have to sort out our references.

Second, Buffy and I got into a big fight with the Mumsnet forum after I posted a link to our parenting blog on there. Half of them thought our blog was funny and sweet; the other half called me a sexist nob. Traffic to LAB went crazy, but the whole thing got too personal and we had to get Mumsnet to delete the post.

Third, we had the continued agony of the wait for Quiche. But finally - finally! - something is happening. Buffy is going to be induced tomorrow. At last, at last, our daughter is going to enter the world.

I know that's going to be the start of all the hard work. But I have no doubt it's all going to be worthwhile.

Here's a picture of Ellie in her bedroom in Oz:

Anyone out there?

I don't know if anyone still reads this blog because I haven't had a comment for weeks! Maybe you've all moved over to Life After Birth... where you can read all about the seemingly endless wait for Quiche.

Apart from willing Quiche into the world, what else have I been doing? Um...

1. Using consumer power to make Mars change their minds. Last week, Mars announced that their chocolate bars would no longer be veggie-friendly because of the introduction of calf stomach. So, Buffy, I and 6000 others wrote to complain and the company backed down. Hurrah! We can scoff Mars Bars to our hearts' content.

2. Watching My So-Called Life on DVD. I missed the entire show when it was on in the early 1990s. (Not sure what I was doing at the time; hanging around, being baggy.) It's fab and ace. Not as good as Buffy TVS, but what is?

3. Getting excited about Big Brother. Only 10 days to go. Quiche will have to be trained not to scream between 9pm-10pm.

4. Getting addicted to Facebook. On one level, I find it almost as irritating as Myspace, and it makes me feel old. But I can see that it's useful for keeping in touch with groups of friends. If you're on there, look me up in the London network or using my normal email address.

5. Getting depressed about Nottingham Forest getting knocked out of the League One play-offs. How shit.

6. Going a little bit mental. I really do feel a bit mentally and emotionally unstable at the moment. It must be the pressure of the impending birth, but I'm finding it very hard to concentrate on anything right now. I hope I'm not too difficult to live with at the moment.

Come on Quiche!!

Sweet little victory

I'm feeling very happy this afternoon for a very shallow reason - Sara and I won our company's Fantasy Football competition! (Or, rather, we came top of our league; there are three.) It's funny because our team, which we named before we knew Sara was pregnant, is called Up the Duff, because we had Damien Duff in our side. I've been trying to win for four years. Hooray for us!

I'm also happy because I finally completed on the sale of my house this week. I've been sensible and put most of the money in a savings account, ready for when we try to get back onto the property ladder... although we need a house price crash in London before we'll be able to do so. I've also put some money aside to start driving lessons again. And had a mini spending spree. I've ordered a camcorder so we can shoot endless footage of Quiche. I also bought Buffy a Nintendo DS which she's been playing all afternoon, doing brain training. I promise it wasn't actually a Homer Simpson-style bowling bowl present for myself!

If you think I don't update this blog very often, you need to see Life After Birth - I'm blogging there nearly every day. Sometimes twice.

Wimbledon commoners

We've had a very quiet bank holiday because Sara is too pregnant to venture too far, although she went stir crazy today and we ended up in Wimbledon, where I bought some distressed Converse then ran through a May Day downpour to Wagamama. Everybody was stressed and miserable, especially the waitress who barked 'Come', the parents of the numerous screaming brats, and me. I felt like murdering someone with the umbrella we'd just bought. However, yasai yaki soba and Asahi calmed me down.

Sara is in bed right now - it's 6pm - after being up all night, suffering in her last days of pregnancy. I've written more about this on our parenting blog.

Ooh, there are some yobs outside, shouting 'F*** off' at each other. Bank holiday high spirits.

Sara has already told you about the Flake tail trauma. It's called degloving. Last night, after the tail appeared to be healing, Flake bit into it and made it bleed again. I'm not saying she's stupid, but...

I've just signed up to Joost. TV on your computer. I haven't explored it properly yet but it appears to be mainly music programmes and stuff about lingerie models. It's all a far cry from when I first went online, when it took an hour to download a clip from South Park on Shockwave.com, if your connection didn't keep dropping, and we thought that was amazing.

Quiche will be here any day now. I will, of course, let you know the moment she arrives!

Mark

We need links!

An appeal to readers of Chicken's Roost and our girlfriend (as opposed to sister) blog, Sara Sizzle:

As you might know, we recently launched our parenting advice blog, Life After Birth. We really need anyone out there with their own blog or site to link to Life After Birth. We'll beg if necessary ;)

Thank you!

Mark and Sara

Cookie monster

Buffy has created the funniest blog post ever. I'm going to give up. I can't compete.

Worrying. Very worrying.

I had a very sad day yesterday at the end of what was a lovely week. Ellie went back to Australia, and we had a tearful goodbye in the less-than-cinematic setting of Hastings Rail Station's car park. (There's a fishing boat on a mound outside the exit; a statue of a Staffordshire terrier ripping up a giro would suit the town better.) Ellie is empathetic now and reacts to tears. Or perhaps she was just hungry, or grumpy after I'd lugged her from cafe to cafe, trying to find a nice place to spend some daddy-daughter time.

I miss her loads. She'll probably be talking next time I see her. Thank goodness for Skype and our video chats.

Meanwhile, back in the roost, there have been worrying developments... I opened my computer earlier to find this page open on screen:

Why Stop Lusting

Sara, is there something you want to tell me?*

*I am being forced to fess up. Sara found this page after accidentally Googling 'sa' (she was attempting to Google 'Sara Sizzle' but got interrupted). Personally, I don't believe in sexaholism. It's just a way of excusing randiness, isn't it? In fact... actually, I'd better stop there. This blog is meant to be for family viewing!

Ellie Vision

I'm happy/sad this week. Happy because Ellie is over, which is fantastic. Sad because it means I'm going to have to go through the upset of saying goodbye to her again at the end of the week... I already feel tearful thinking about it.

I saw her Friday, which was amazing, and then again today, bringing her to our neck of the woods and looking after her for most of the day. We went to Woolies to buy toys including a plastic mobile phone (Ellie loves phones). Then to the park to play on the grass and watch a BB6 rematch between Derek and Science. It wasn't actually them but it really could have been; Derek was a posh black gay man with two springers, who was offended by the Staffs belonging to a young chav, resulting in a massive row: 'You're gay', 'You're a hoodlum, you can't even speak English, go back to Brixton or Peckham, we don't like your sort in the park', 'Yeah..and you're gay.' Then we went to Escape in Herne Hill for lunch where Ellie sucked on a sun dried tomato.

She's so so much bigger and completely different to when I last saw her, four months ago. She's also an absolute angel. Of course, I'm biased, but she's so sweet and good natured. She hardly ever cries, is happy anywhere and is completely gorgeous.

Here's a video clip and some pics. There will be more Ellie stuff later in the week.