The airport queue of unending horror and the day I sprayed my body half orange and got a pedicure

2012 here were are! But how did we survive Christmas and New year? Well something like this...

The Friday before Christmas and there's a snowstorm in Manchester just large enough (ie three large fluffy flakes) to shut the airport for a miniscule window of two hours and leave us stranded in Switerland. Possibly if not definitely - the worlds most expensive country to buy anything other than a flugelhorn or a mountain goat.

We queue resolutely and patiently for a transfer and miracle of miracles - we're transferred onto a heathrow flight leaving in 30 minutes. So - Becks and I peg it through security and passport control and celebrate with a well earned large red wine at the boarding gate (I actually remortgage my house to pay for the drinks - but we're so chuffed to be making it home after all). And then they go and cancel all flights out of Zurich due to a "supposed" storm that was on its way but hadn't actually arrived as yet.

Four and half hours later and we're nearing the front of officially the longest queue I've ever been in in my entire thirty six years of existence. By hour three the airport is issuing emergency rations of water and a nice man with a beard is shouting at us to "give it to the people who really need it." Then comes the food crates. Police with hands twitchy by their gun holsters look warily at the baying crowds. It's like something out of a UN food drop in the third world.

To our left an elderly man passes out before our eyes and Becky runs over to get the attention of a medic - anyone in charge. Behind the man who has possibly just died in this queue - an irate man is shouting and wagging his finger. He appears to want the possibly dead man to be dragged to the side to allow the rest of the queue to step over him and book their flights.

"So this is how the apocolypse feels..." I wonder to myself. Lord of the Flies in an airport. That's what we lived through.

We get to the front. Having looked after a bunch of teenage American kids for a short while whilst their teacher tried to get them home safe to Boston. They were having a worse time than us. This was their third day of trying to get home - originally from Florence (and that didn't even include them getting caught up in the gun rampage that killed two guys in Florence whilst they were half way up Brunelschi's great dome - and no - that's not an innuendo).

We find our bags back in the arrival hall - in what can only be described as "Bag Armageddon". It's a Bag graveyard. Thousands of bags piled sky high. We ask one guy how long he's been looking for his luggage..

"Three hours," he says forlornly.

Luckily Becky has a pink bag and somehow we find both our bags in literally five minutes.

Next day - we get home. Exhausted and ragged. And then we're off to the Panto in Crewe. Snow White!

The "Buttons" of the show was incredibly funny - but the strange thing were the dwarves. a). They were kids wearing masks. and B) they changed the song and C) - they had different names. No longer do they sing "hiho hiho it's off to work we go". Clearly some sort of embargo on that tune. Nevertheless - the kids screamed their heads off - and we laughed pretty hard too.

And before you could say "Santa's got himself stuck half way down the chimney" - it was Christmas Eve. So - we duly dressed Declan as a giant Star above Bethlehem - and wrapped a tea towel around Fintan's head and headed off to the Christmas Eve mass. Within thirty seconds - Fintan and Declan had run up to the front of the altar and were busy stripping all the straw from Jesus' manger and feeding it to the plastic donkey besides it.

"Stop that Fintan. Declan - put the straw back. Now!"

"Ohhhhh...." they cry in unison.

Back at home - we sprinkle magic reindeer dust outside so Rudolph and Santa can find us easily and it's off to bed.

The next day Santa brings us Star Wars At-Ats and toy fire stations and ambulances and as dutiful parents we spend at least 3 hours assembling lego racing cars before they are taken apart in a matter of three seconds.

Fintan holds up the random lego pieces and says...

"Can we build it again..."

We wonder whether Job would still have such patience if lego had been invented back in the day.

One of my presents is a night at the Hilton hotel and Spa near us whilst Grandpa and Nana babysit.

So a few days later - I find myself at the Hilton. Sarah and Chris are there - a surprise present for Chris as well.

"Hello," we say.

"Hello," says the receptionist, "So will you be taking your pedicure before you check in. You are down for 11am."

Chris and I look at each other. Chris nearly collapses.

"Woah! Woah there! Pedicure? Pedicure? We're men. Hang on a minute. Pedicure. What about a manly massage or something."

"No Chris. No Tom. You're having a pedicure - it'll be nice. You'll like it." Say the Sarahs.

We look at each other dubiously.

"Ladies. Your massages are due right now - here are you robes and towels."

Chris and I look at each other and mouth the words all men use in times of great duress and panic. "Bar..."

We get the Hilton to open the bar early for us as hotel guests continue to traipse up for Breakfast.

By 11am we've downed three pints and the Dutch courage is within us.

"Let's do it!" Doobie do it!" and we head in for our "Manly foot massage / pedicure".

We head into the Spa and these friendly ladies start scraping our feet and then massaging them.

"So - do you get many blokes doing this?" we ask.

"Some...."

There are ladies having pedicures who are laughing at us in the corner. They are drinking champagne.

"Can we have a drink?" we ask.

Duly - two beers arrive and we feel slightly better.

We have a good laugh with the ladies massaging our feet. In fact - we have such a laugh that the girl having her pedicure with her mum actually falls off her chair.

"Would you like the only for men laquer applied?" the pedicurist asks us.

"You what?" we say.

"Nail varnish? Is it bloody nail varnish?" Chris asks. "Behave - I'm not having that."

"Look I bet David Beckam has this done every day - come on - you gotta try everything once.." I tell him. And with beer on our side we get our nails painted purely to "strengthen them for footballing reasons only..."

I've never laughed more in my life.

After the massage we spot the fish in the corner.

"Can we have a go with them?" we ask enthusiastically.

"Yes. No problem."

And so - we immerse our feet in a tank full of Garruda fish for ten minutes. They pack quite a pinch at first. In fact - the girls before us left screaming and refused to put their feet back in. But we're made of sterner stuff.

Like little tiny electric shocks. It's weird. Not exactly relaxing. Just odd. We wonder if we will emerge with stumps for feet.

We track our wives down in the "relaxation room" and duly gatecrash and ruin the entire relaxing ambience by crashing down on the giant bean bags to drink our beer.

"Get out! Get out! You're ruining the ambience!"

We end up having to haul the girls to their feet cos they're just way too pregnant to get themselves upright from a bean bag these days.

Downstairs - there is an offer on a spray tan - only £17.50 for a can of spray tan.

Chris weilds the demo can at me menacingly.

"Yeah - go on..." I say - full of beer bravado.

Seconds later my right arm is a strange mahagony brown colour and it's not coming off. Chris is in an absolute fit of giggles - as is the receoptionist.

The receptionist composes herself and explains to me that "you better wash that off your hands - it won't come off."

Which has Chris in even bigger stitches. I look like an oompa lumpa who has only been half dipped in luminous orange.

Later I go swimming - half man - half oompa. But strangely - I begin to quite like the tanned zebra effect. I've had an absolute ball - I may be a bizzare shade of orange and have the shiniest toe nails in the land - I may have spent half the day in a fancy dandy brown robe - but - I feel good.

Life is good...

Mexican Table ninja assassins and other journeys into Adventureland...

On the scale of eventful months. Its been eventful. In which - Sarah ends up in hospital for a few days and gets put on bed rest for her and the baby, and I stupidly attempt to take the kids to Disneyland Paris on my own. My cardinal error was not informing all the authorities - the fire, air and sea rescue and ambulance services that I was entering France. It is a well observed fact that a member of the Arnold family cannot under any circumstances go on holiday without at least one visit to casualty.

Flying in the face of such certain odds, I set forth with the kids from Chester train station. Stage one. Get to London in one piece. A mini bag of Jammee Dodgers prove my saviour on the train. Ten points to Branson for that sales gimmick!

I trek from Euston to Kings Cross with Fintan carrying his mini backpack full of dinosaurs (you need at least thirty seven for a journey of this magnitude). I point out where I used to work to Declan who shows absolutely no interest until I produce a fruit shoot from my bag.

We meet up with "Nana Market" and take a double decker to the South Bank.

"Look kids. The Houses of Parliament!" I try to explain about the gunpowder plot a little. No reaction.

"Look - the River Thames!". Nothing. Tough crowd.

We get off at the South Bank and walk past a bunch of thirty years olds skate-boarding badly whilst trying to look cool - and the kids go mental.

"Look Daddy! Wow! Look at that! That's awesome daddy!"

We stand next to a big sign that Uncle John designed for the Olympics and take some pictures. Tourists look at us weirdly (we are standing next to the London Eye at this point and for most people - signage doesn't tend to float their boat quite as much as iconic landmarks).

We get back to the hotel and we have a "picnic" in the room, followed by bouncing on the bed for three hours.

And then we're off. The next morning we hit the Eurostar and three hours later we're at Disneyland Paris. And we're alive. I double check that I'm still in possession of two children. Check. Two kids.

By now - I feel surgically attached to the massive black ruc-sac on my back and the Mclaren thats glued to my arms with a child inside. Our ability to subsist relies on every carefully picked object placed inside that bag. Nappies. Haribo. DVD Player. Power Adapter. Ipod. Colouring Books. Crayons (for me). This is a greatly packed bag. Until I get to the hotel and realise that in my panic - I've packed only one jumper for each child. And it's about 2 degrees outside - with a thick fog sweeping in and threatening to turn us into giant icicles. Oh well. As long as I keep food off of them. They'll look as good as new. By day two - we are harboring small alien lifeforms in the fabric of their tops and ketchup is layering upon chicken nugget which is layering upon fermenting milk stains. By Thursday we'll have created a nicely rounded French Cheese.

The park is ace. Declan literally has some form of mental overload when he sees Woody and Buzz Lightyear at the parade. He manically shakes his head back and froth (like a victim in Scanners before their head explodes). And he points in gobsmacked awe!

"BUZZ LIGHTYEAR!" he screams for all his worth. Fintan waves frantically at Peter Pan and Goofy.

This is ace. I'm loving it. And despite the immense crowds. So far - I haven't lost a child yet.

We shoot the crap out of the Evil Zurg on the Buzz Lightyear ride and whilst we cruise around the "its a small world ride" I explain how "mummy used to work in Disneyland Paris - she worked on the potato cart". They don't seem overly impressed. Perhaps this is a right of passage for all Irish women.

Day three and I'm feeling pretty damned confident with this whole looking after the kids on my own in a foreign country malarkey. We begin to integrate with society fairly quickly and by lunchtime we are ordering "Le Royale" from the restaurant in Adventure land and are practically multi-lingual.

We meet Sanjib and Liz and the kids and things are going swimmingly. The sun has come out and its practically a heat wave. Eighteen or nineteen degrees. Which is pretty remarkable for Autumn. The kids are laughing - we are jesting - the families are catching up and all is happy in the world.

We stop at a Mexican-themed restaurant and that's when the giant heavy wooden table contrives to fall on top of Fintan's leg. I stare in horror. The Disney waitress stares in horror and offers us ice. Fintan freaks out - which is fair enough cos the table is really heavy. I take a look and get that gut-awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. A Mickey Mouse plaster might not cut the mustard here. A large chunk of leg is bruised and bleeding and I know whats' coming...the medic at the Disney site doctors stares at the injury and gasps.

"This will need at X-ray at once!" he says seriously. And I'm filling in accident forms and wondering quite how I explain to my wife how I managed to let a really heavy table land on our son and break his leg.

"Hello Sarah. Now I don't want to panic - Fintan's okay - but we just need to go to Casualty with the nice Disney man and get his leg seen to..."

"WHAATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT?! What the *&! The table fell on his what?!" Well - you get the picture. All in all - she took at well...I think.


Three hours later we're in a Paris casualty and Fintan is sitting on his hospital bed waving his free Mickey Mouse cuddly toy at the Doctor. In pigeon French I manage to say...

"le Tableuex - Kaput...Leg / Jambon - Le Garcon est ma pere!" and do my best mime impression of a table falling on a small boy's leg (we are after all in the great city of mime - the founding nation). What I think I may have actually said in translation was:-

"The table fell on the Ham and that boy is my father!"

An hour later. We are whizzing back to Disney - back stage - behind the scenes - where it all happens. It's an intriguing netherworld. Musicians sucking back on their last Galloise before they enter the happy fray once more.

And most importantly - there are no broken legs.

I look down at Fintan and smile at Declan.

"There are easier ways to earn a fluffy bloody toy guys. Much easier!" and we laugh as we head back for another two days at the park!

Swim like a Brick Son! Drive that Train Pa! Get out of the Duvet Cover Dad! Now!

I haven't blogged for a few months as I've mainly been eating Tolberone and working hard. But - I'm slowly weening myself back off the hard triangular stuff and coming back down to earth.

It's been eventful. Way back at the end of August in a far flung distant memory, we went to the South of France. The highlights included:-

1. Racing around the campsite on an oversized go-kart with Declan riding "side- car" on mine and Fintan in another.

2. Not explaining to Declan what happens when your two year old "side-car" pilot decides to lift up the handbrake at speed.

3. Going to the local beach...the main advice being..."drive down the beach and choose a nice spot by the sand-dunes...if you go too far and you see that no-one's wearing any clothes - well - that's the nudist part of the beach...if you go really too far and you get out and there are only men wandering around without any clothes on...you've gone to the nudist gay part of the beach". As it turned out - we went to the bit of the beach where it mainly blew 3 tonnes of sand into everyone's butt cracks and generally stuck to any and all areas of exposed flesh where suncream had been applied. We might as well have covered ourselves in treacle before we set off. Honestly - I'll never get the hang of beaches.

Towards the end of the holiday when Declan was getting a little more adventurous around the water (adventurous and stubborn is probably the more accurate term) - we had out first mini drama of the holiday (no family holiday is complete without a drama of some sort).

We were sitting by the pool watching Declan (who had up to that point shown an absolutely healthy fear of deep water) lean over and fall head first into the pool and then do his best impression of floating face down and not moving. The "Play Possum" instinct had kicked into overdrive.

Before I could shift a single toe and dive in and save him - Sarah had launched herself straight into the water (sundress and shades still on) and dragged him out.

For a brief moment I had considered jumping in to rescue both Sarah and Declan but decided that having a giant lump bellyflop on top of you was probably the last thing you needed in these sort of situations.

So we dragged him out and he coughed and spluttered and looked at us and said "I sinked Daddy!" In fact - he spent the entire day telling everybody he met just how brick-like he was in a water situation.

Fintan mainly explained that it was ok because he could have swum to the bottom and rescued him if Declan wanted. So even Fintan seemed to take to the "Brick" usage for Declan. For the rest of the holiday we tied an inflatable spider man rubber ring and two layers of cotton wool around him just in case.

I mainly enjoyed teaching the kids the "art" of making BBQ fire. This involved the three of us sitting around the sizzling meat as flames started licking up this rather blackened looking Olive tree by our chalet. Although I don't think this French cycling bloke was too impressed. He set up his tent and campfire just next to us and every night when he returned from his bike-riding exertions, every night he washed his clothes and hung them up proudly on his improvised washing line strung between the olive trees. And every night I created more bitter smoke and fire than was practically sensible even for a gas BBQ in the middle of a French tinderbox. And every morning he set off for his cycle with the acrid stench of BBQ'd chicken embedded in his jersey. Oops.

Still - what a holiday. I highly recommend any holiday located within a vinyard. Even if there was the collapse of all society - you'd still be within striking distance of at least ten thousand gallons of red wine! Wahoo! Easily enough time to hold out til everything settled.

Last week we set off to Llangollen so my father-in-law could drive a massive old steam train for the day. A small percentage of the Irish population travelled over to watch the special occassion - and most of us ended up on the train being driven by Frank. Which was quite a novelty. We sat in the "first class" carriage and I handed out "fingers of fudge" to the family whilst we waited for Hermione, Harry and Ron Weasley to turn up. We contemplated whether it was actually possible to call a finger of fudge "a fudge" and decided that it was humanly impossible. And then Sarah's brother Andrew and sister Karina encouraged everyone to stick their head out the moving train in turn whilst they took pictures.

Now - I don't know about you - but apart from a love of the fairly solid association my head enjoys with the rest of my body - I've also seen that episode of The Young Ones where Vivienne sticks his head out the train and gets decapitated. And I was keen not to watch that in real life. It was only when we actually went through a tunnel about a second before Sarah was about to stick her head out - that they finally stopped that game. And there I was relying on the sensible one to help me out (aka Deborah!).

We got to check out the footplate / hotplate (whatever they call it where the driver stands with all the coal and the furnace) which was pretty impresive and insanely hot.

"Flipping eck that's hot," I said to the Train man supervising Frank my father-in-law.

He stared at me in much the same way as a swimming instuctor would stare at a grown adult pointing out that the wet watery pool he'd just got into was "rather wet".

After that I attempted to sound vaguely knowledgeable about pressure certs for the engine and the grade of coal that worked best on this engine (Polish or Russian coal is best - although the Welsh coal is the ideal grade).

Before we knew it - we were rattling back to Llangollen and running down the empty carriages in delight. Andrew and I stopped off in the original Flying Scotsman bar carriage (wow - it must have been something in its day) and by 5 we were home and sinking a few jars and glasses of wine.

A pool tournament ensued - the highlight being after twenty minutes of play when Sally my mother-in-law attempted to pot the stripes using the black ball.

"I didn't know we had to use the white ball to pot them..." she told us through fits of giggles.

Later still - after waiting nearly seven hours for our take-away to turn up. I demonstrated my unique "putting a duvet cover on a duvet" technique. This (especially after a few jars) involves physically climbing inside the duvet cover to find the corners. And until someone invents an easier way of doing it - that's the way I'm gonna carry on doing it. All I'm gonna say is - hats off to those guys in the hotel industry and all those nurses. What a job - in and out of covers day in and day out. How many are accidentally zipped or buttoned up inside them to die a tragic death - we'll just never know...never...

Cowpat minefield buggy rallies, the F1 car battle of great trauma and the African drum fest of much tranquility

Three weeks ago we're making slow progress as we traipse across a giant field full of Declan-Sized cowpats. Things are made slightly more complicated by my brave yet foolhardy attempt to wheel a buggy across the field towards the "Pageant of Power!".

"Don't jump in the cowpats Fintan! Dirty Dirty!" Sarah hollers.

"Where are the stanks? Want Stanks!" Declan declares from the luxury of his mountain buggy. This is extreme off-roading for a buggy and I cringe every time I hit a rogue cowpat. Some of these are way too fresh and squealchy for my liking. But mysteriously - there are no cows. Up ahead I see a line of food stalls - their delights wafting towards me. I know what I'll be ordering...Fillet bloody steak and chips! Payback for the cow mines dotted every yard across the place!

We head into the enclosure. This place is brilliant. The noise is bonkers. I feel the urge to shout really loudly at my kids just because I can. The roar of engines and the distant hum of RAF helicopters whoomping towards us drown out everything.

Fintan jumps into a helicpopter and gets strapped in - ready to fly. Declan is a bit more suspicious and remains firmly emplaced in his buggy seat. Next thing we know - there's an almighty "KABOOOOOOOM!" and the kids nearly crap themselves. They look at me for confirmation - is it a friendly kaboom or a bad kaboom.

"Tanks! They've got tanks!" I shout at them manically. It's like being a kid all over again. All those hours spent with my toy soldiers blasting the crap out of them every weekend (the odd skirmish with my pet dog Maisie gave some of my Fusileers realistic amputations and war injuries) were about to realised in a truly humungous scale. They were re-enacting an entire battle in the field one over.

We race over to see a bunch of soldiers running across a field firing at a tank. Smoke everywhere and the thump of dummy rounds. Up ahead - RAF helicopters drop flour bombs (rather than flower bombs - which may or may not have been a more symbollic token) onto the forces below. The kids are mesmerised.

"Stanks daddy! Stanks!" screams Declan in delight.

"They're tanks Declan. Tanks. Not Stanks!" Fintan corrects him.

"NO FINTAN! STANKS! NO FINTAN!" he roars back.

These kind of arguments can actually go on until the end of time itself - so I nip it in the bud and we head over to these kid-sized Landrovers. I plonk Declan in next to Fintan and off they set. Wizzing across the field - leaving their "driving instructor" aka a terrified fifteen year old boy - to steer them back on course and away from the giant duck pond in the middle. Next we take on the kids rollercoasters and the fun-house before we head over to the racetrack and watch the classic cars hammer the gas and race round the track. The noise is immense and the kids are loving it.

There's a display area for the classic cars. I spot a classic Ferrari and a few F1 cars on display. And there's a large number of one-off antiques that have the kids enthralled.

"Chitty Chitty Bang Bang!" Declan grins as he stares at a 1918 classic that is about as long as a train and shaped like a missile. It looks stunning.

I turn my back for a split second and next thing I know I hear Declan shouting "Roary the racing car!" as he attempts to clamber into the priceless F1 car on display. I make a dive for him and manage to stop him clambering fully inside. Declan senses he is losing his opportunity and in desperation he clamps his wee little hands around the F1 wingmirror.

"Noooooo Declan....not the wing mirror! Let go!" I plead as a crowd gathers. None of the crowd look bemused. They look worried. Worried that an irresponsible dad has lost control of their kid and let them run amock amongst probably the worlds most highly valued assembled collection of historic cars ever seen.

"NOOOOOO Daddddeeeeee!" Declan moans as he hangs onto the car wing mirror for dear life. This is his only chance to drive Roary. Of this he is sure.

"Let go Declan!" Fintan joins on. My little deputy sherriff!

Eventually - I peel him off and we move on to to look at the racing boats - before finally we head home - but not before Fintan jumps in the police-car driving seat, presses the onboard police computer and begins pressing the buttons randomly. I look inside the cop car. It appears that he he genuinely connected up to the police network. For all I know - he's just sent out an APB to set up a roadblock on the M56.

"I think we should get out of here...he's turned it on..." Sarah whispers to me.

We smile at the nice policeman showing the kids how to don riot gear and we do a runner (not before Fintan "arrests" himself and demands to be put in the back of the police van. We duly oblige).


The week later - my sis is up with John and Lula. It's just amazing to see them again. We have an action packed time of it. Conwy castle, fish and chips looking out on Conwy harbour. It's perfect. And the next day we're off to Liverpool on the train.

We head round the maritime museum at Albert Docks - on the top floor they have an African Slavery section because of Liverpool's involvement with that historically. It's very educational. But the most amazing part - was the re-created African village and the African drummer dude in the corner of the village.

John and I surreptiously wander over to the guy playing his drum and Gazoo. We grab ourselves a drum and begin to hammer out a beat. I feel a bit of a malco but the guy soon gives us a hand. Sarah and the kids wander over and soon the whole family is sitting with an African drum between their legs and we're hammering out a funky beat to the main guy's lead. After five minutes we start to get more confident and he adds a few alternate rhythms. Declan is going mad for it and Fintan has somehow grabbed two more drums and is trying to play all three at the same time. Like a crazed "Animal" from the muppets.

We're beginning to slip into a happy trance when our lead drummer begins to sing. It's beyond mesmeric and I could truly stay there all day in this happy little drum bubble. But eventually we leave - to make African masks and to head outside and clamber over HMS "The worlds tiniest warship ever" which is having an open day in Liverpool.

The naval officer says it's okay for Fintan and Lily (Chris joins us half way through the day) to steer the ship and there's nothing to worry about - they can't break anything. But then as Fintan grabs for the big red button below the ship wheel - the Naval officer panics and updates his line..."They can press anything - except that button..." he adds. And there is fear in his eyes. I wonder what the button does. And urge fintan to press it for a laugh...but he doesn't. Shame really.

The day ends with a Vulcan fly-by to mark the anniveray of the Liver Building (100 years or so?!).

"Spaceship Daddy" Declan screams.

"Wow - it was a real spaceship daddy!" says Fintan beaming.

Tanks, Warships, Vulcan Bombers - is there no end to the military delights the North West will lay on just to keep my kids happy....?!

Melty metal slide death, drunken rambo dancing and other adventures

"Where are we going daddy?"

"We're going to a wonder emporium..."

"Where's that?"

"Near the playground that burnt down."

"Ok."

"Do you want to see the burnt down playground daddy?"

"yeah - why not."

So on the way to the Wonder Emporium (it does exist). We detour via the mangled mess that is the playground. It's a sad sight. Fintan and I gawp at the melted blue panneling around the climbing frame for a while and stare at the buckled metal slide as if it were some long lost work of Dali Surrealism.

What's the world coming to when someone burns a playground to the ground? Honestly. Maybe it's some sort of council directive. Bringing us back to the 70's. All we need are a few smashed bottles of magners strewn about the see-saw and the swings wrapped around the metal rails fifty times and we'd be there! Austerity measures see...out with the new and in with the old and defunct! Future proofed for decline!

We visit the giant life sized dinosaurs at the zoo for 2 weeks in a row now. The T-Rex is literally as big as a house and some of the dinosaurs spit water at us. Declan mainly screams "T-REX!!!!!" over and over again in wild abandon whilst Fintan tries to creep up on the water (aka venom) spitting dinosaur for five minutes. The kids won't pose in front of the dinosaurs - so in the end we get Fintan to take a picture of us next to the T-Rex. I am dead chuffed.

Later - Fintan and Declan throw coins in the magic waterfall (in the tropical realm).

"What did you wish for Fintan?" I ask (trying to get an early heads up for Christmas).

"I wished that no-one would eat the water buffalo any more daddy." He is quite adamant on this point.

I feel a pang of guilt. Stupidly - I told him as we looked at the water buffalo in their Zoo enclosure that I once ate a Buffalo burger and it was mighty tasty indeed with some ketchup. Note to self - this is never a good idea. After mentally scarring my child so early in life - I decide to be more tactful with Declan and change topics. So I pick him up to show him the crocodile.

"If you fell in the water with that crocodile Declan - he'd probably eat you!"

Declan stares at me - fails to register what I've said - and concentrates on screaming "A crocodile everybody! a Crocodile!" with great amazement.

My great problem seems to be - I'm trying to tell too much of the truth - I think I'm forwarning them - preparing them for their adult lives. Say - if they do ever stumble across a crocodile in the wild (deepest Wirral maybe) - they'll know that crocodiles are inherently dangerous to man. But I think my argument is flawed. They're just kids after all. Maybe they don't need this kinda forwarning just yet?

Only last week - I was sitting with Fintan and got dragged into the whole "But where is Jesus then?" conversation that periodically crops up.

"Well - he's in heaven with his dad - God"

"And did God make the universe daddy?" (This is the lowdown from school).

"Well - yes - he made everything." And here... here's the bit where I should have just shut my mouth. But stupidly - i decided to expand.

"Although Fintan...there is a theory - the Big bang theory that the whole universe came out of nowhere in a giant big Bang. See - there's this bloke called Hawkings..."

Never - ever - on any account go down this road. Within about 2 sentences you're so out your depth - it's truly frightening.

Friday week - Sarah and I were at a wedding - beautiful setting - amazing surroundings - by a lake. Rock band playing some fantastic covers. Within an hour - Chris had managed to peanut my tie and wedged it round my forehead Rambo style. I looked about the bar. Like a manic whirling dervish - Chris was busy creeping up on every besuited smartly dressed gent at the wedding and whipping their ties up and over the face and onto their heads. Within half an hour - the room was awash with an army of staggering boozed up Rambo's pogo'ing on the dance floor like deranged loons. Later still I slow dance with Sarah - and later still - somehow - I am twirling Jay around the floor like I'm some sort of Rumba dance legend...

Things get even better when the cover band closed the night off with the Stone Roses - She bangs the drums. Which was a turn up for the books as I think they were an Oasis cover band by natural trade - and were hoping for a rousing medley of Oasis hits to finish off the night.

Later that night at the bar - while I expounded to my fellow revellers on the merits of nicking the portaloo's at the wedding and hiring them out at Glastonbury under the monicka "poshbogs.com" - charging a tenner a dump (scuse the vulgarity - but there you go) - later - I bumped into the lead singer of the band. Stupidly I tried to see if he was interested in joining my poshbogs.com enterprise with my fellow wedding party goers (Jay and Sean). Never has a bloke given me such a look of utter aloofness in my whole life. It was like being sneered at by a weller / gallagher combo all in one glance. Brutal real brutal. But he'll be sorry when we hit the big time. I mean - these toilets had carpetted floors for gods sake! Carpet. In a portaloo. It's the future i tell you. The future!

I wander outside and simulate a flying butterfly silhouette against a massive tree in the distance (by cunningly standing next to the giant search light that's been set up for the wedding). Soon - I move on to batman signals - into the night sky. I am pleased with my efforts but am soon railroaded by some younger party boys - from the jackass school of hard knocks and japes. Next thing I know - there's two blokes simulating a certain manouvre Brokeback mountain stylee - and it's being projected and backlit up into the nightsky and a row of 50 foot trees for every party goer to see....Oh god - what have I started? And with that we make our exit.

My job is done here....for another night...

Romans Go Home! Twenty Foot Giant Cub Scout men in dresses and Swiss Yodel mugs...

"One day daddy - will we go into space?" Fintan asks as we watch Dr Who.

"Yes. One day - you and I might even get to go into space for a day trip. But when I'm very old I imagine." (I already have a secret plan to remortgage the house and buy me a Virgin Galactic space ticket - but I haven't mentioned it to the wife yet!).

I warm to my theme. "One day Fintan, everyone on earth will leave in spaceships and journey off to other planets and other stars. 'Cos eventually, the Sun will expand and first it'll eat up Mercury and Mars and then us. So we better be gone by then or it'll get pretty hot!"

I am pleased at my little educational explanation about the way the universe works. I am giving Fintan a solid grounding in Red Dwarfs and interstellar space travel. What more can a kid ask for?

"Daddy...?"

"Yes Fintan." We are busy watching some "playdough" people in Dr Who melt in a Vat of acid.

"Is the Sun going to blow up the earth before or after Jenny's party?"

Oh crap. This educational malarkey has backfired in pretty spectacular style.

"No. Don't worry about it. The earth won't get eaten for millions of years...billions probably and we won't be around then anyway..."

"But where are we going to go Daddy? Where?"

"Well - in our spaceships. Or in the Tardis."

"Daddy. Are you made of Playdough or real?" he asks.

"Ok," I decide. Time to turn off Dr Who. Explaining time and space travel to a five year old is opening up way too many cans of worms for me. I got so many cans - I have a practical can factory.

We resort to the tried and tested favourite. "Monsters!" combined with "Raft". This segues nicely into a game of musical bumps combined with front rolls. Things are going well til Declan attempts a double roll and a single strand of spaghetti from lunchtime comes launching out of his mouth along with some bolognese.

"I sick daddy!" he grins and hands me the strand of spaghetti covered mucus globule.

"Thank you Declan - that's lovely."

We go to see the army of Romans busy camping in the centre of Chester. There's 'fousands of 'em - all over the city. For a supposedly genius Empire - you woulda thought they would have invented woolly trousers for North West England. The short Roman pleated skirt look might be fine when you're busy eating grapes in yer Chaise Lounge in Rome for the summer - or chilling at the Roman baths at Ephesus. But - Chester. No good. And that's probably why they stopped at Hadrian's wall.

"There's no way we are going any fookin' further up North. It's fookin' freezing."

"Centurion. You will go where I command. To the North!"

"Fook that. I forgot my thermals!"

We watch a pretty fiery re-enactment of some Celts bashing the crap out of each other in the amphitheatre. Then we walk over to the main Roman encampment and watch this gnarled looking authentic blacksmith making swords at his Roman Furnace. He's wearing what appears to be a small discarded potato sack. It's indecent enough for familes to start covering their hands over their toddlers eyes. Eighty year old men in potato sacks. 9 out of ten for authenticity. One out of ten for decency. How he doesn't burn his nadgers off - I'll never know!

Overall though - it's pretty cool. All these guys look like they wear this kit out every weekend. Entire families are dressed up.

A Roman Centurion comes up to me. "Have you got the time mate?"

"Yeah. It's one twenty." I tell him.

"Cheers mate. Lads!" He shouts to a gang of Centurions and their wives sitting around a fire. "The re-enactment's in ten minutes."

"Can't wear watches can we? We'd look stupid!" he jokes and wanders off to get his sword and man-sized shield.

What? As oppossed to wearing a red pleated skirt and sandals in the middle of Chester on a Sunday afternoon. Nooo.....don't want to look stupid.

Having said that. As a unit or column or whatever they're called - they look pretty impressive.

I pass a druid lady giving the Romans a right bashing to a group of onlookers (What they ever do for us eh?!).

"We had the written word! We had the written word!" the old druid gal warned us sternly.

"And they knew it! The Romans knew it!" (She's taken this all very personally - all things considered).

"And that's why they marched down to our Island stronghold in Anglesey and destroyed our great library and our great books. To wipe us from History!"

"Is there any evidence of a great Druid Library?" someone in front of me pipes up. He's got a kid in a buggy and looks a reasonable sort. She glares at him.

"Well... No. But I'm sure there was one. There must have been.."

We move on. And I think to myself that I might like to dress up at the weekend and bash the crap out of my mates in mock battles. All I need to do is grow a three foot ginger beard and put on twenty stone and I'm practically a Celtic warlord cum Braveheart extra in one fell swoop! (whatever that means).

We head home and the following day I'm in Switerland again. Switzerland is a nice place. The mountains and the lakes. It really is picture postcard. And they have double decker trains. Double Decker trains rock!

I skype the kids from the hotel. Sarah brings the laptop into the living room. There's Declan grinning back at me sitting on his potty watching the tv.

"Hiya Daddy! Come home!" he says and then turns to get back to business. Skype is truly great. But - it's still hard being away from the little blighters!

At the airport on the way home I am tempted to buy Sarah a yodelling Coffee mug. But - something stops me. I think it is a vision from my future...I am in casualty...the nurse is trying to remove some china shards from my head...Somewhere in the background my wife is talking to the police and saying something about "Yodel that one you stupid eejit!". So I opt for a tolberone instead. Chocolates are much safer!

Today I head into town and take surrepticious delight in finding my book on the bookshelf in Waterstones wedged somewhere between Dave Balcadi and Agatha Christie. Not bad company. I take a photo for my blog. And wait for someone to eject me. There might be rules against taking photo's in bookshops. You just don't know these days.

I pass a twenty foot giant, trundling down the centre of the road. There is a twenty foot Giant Cub Scout with a passing resemblance to Baden Powell (in a dress - what the heck is that about?) immediately behind the first beardy giant. And following up behind are a gang of at least thirty more giants. One looks a bit like Maid Marion and another is in a lovely gold dress.

"Look Fintan! Look!" Giants on the road. Giants!

"I know that Daddy. I know that." He looks at me as if I'm possibly the most embarrassing dad ever.

"I already seen them daddy."

The London Book Fair of Excessive Booze Overload and Train Fire Calamities

"Daddy! Blow Dandelion!"

"Ffffthppppp..." I am covered in a few grams of toddler spittle as we play the amazing new Dandelion game in the garden.

He comes back with more. Thousands more. It occurs to me that the "Blow Dandelion" game shall unleash a further plague upon my garden. But really - you can't get more than there are already. The only thing keeping them at bay are the other weeds - vying for attention. Next week - next week I shall lawnmow. But today - today I shall enjoy some playtime with the kids.

If I reflect on the last 2 months (which kinda explains the lack of blogging time) - I would summarise it as "controlled bedlam". My average out the door time is now somewhere around 05:45am and sometimes I finish work at near midnight. But...and here's the weird thing - I'm loving every minute. Whether I'm half way up a giant silo, standing on top of a really big turbine or whizzing through Crewe - the gateway to everywhere...

Last month we headed down to the London Book Fair to check out what was going down in the book world. Being a dedicated author and all - I took my wife along and we spent a good half an hour checking out the general hubbub of publishers and agents hard at work...and then we went in search of alcohol. Now - the London Book Fair is humungous. I never realised Earl's Court was so big (and had such horrific accoustics). Mice whispering in the farthest corner sound like elephants having an on-musk mating battle to the death. (Which made my impromptu work conference calls the most disastrous telcons in history. It was like talking to someone on Mars using tin cans and string - with ten thousand bees buzzing in your ear).

Either way - they had a Pizza Express inside. I love Pizza. Specially spicy Pizza. And specially red wine, beer and Pizza. And then more beer and my wife's Pizza too when she's not looking.

The queue for lunch is orderly but large. There are about thirty people ahead of us. We wait so long - I think there must be a Pirates of the Caribbean ride at the end of it. We strike up a conversation with the couple in front of us.

"Hello - big queue eh?"

"Yes. It is..." These people aren't overly chatty. They are proper book business people. Everyone eyes up everyone elses label IDs on their shirts. Labels are bad - labels create a pecking order. Luckily my "Tom Arnold - Byker Books - Author" has some vague bargaining power (it doesn't get you a Ferrari or a free back rub or anything - but people spark up a little and open up a little more).

"So what do you do?" I ask the lady.

"I'm an illustrator for children's books," she says.

"Wow - that's cool,"I say. For we have both children and books and I am wondering if she drew anything good or not.

"So - you do anything famous?" I ask. It's probably uncouth but what the hell.

"You know the Gruffalo?" she says.

"Holy cow - you did the Gruffalo? That's the best book ever - our kids love it - and the artwork is just phenomenal - you did that?!"

Sarah has already picked up the signals. Back up back up - mayday mayday - pull out pull out. But I am a bloke and blunder on - gushing about how cool that is.

"No - I was the author's illustrator before the Gruffalo..."

The tumbleweed crosses our path. A dead crow caws above my head and for all the spin I try to put on it - she senses my obvious disappointment. I am a mirror into her soul.

Oh well.. Pizza time!

They bolt for a table and don't even offer a goodbye. Miserable B*stards.

Everyone is young, female and thin....or fat, male, grey haired and old. Many are American.

They all drink mineral water and stare at us in disgust as we order an actual bottle of red wine - on a Monday at lunch in a Pizza Express! Shock and awe! Where was Joanna Lumley when I needed her?! Damn these responsible booky people.

We're having such great fun that we order a few more wines and leave with a spring in our step and 14% pumping through our veins. We chat to many more people and drink the free wine at the Scientologist stand. No-one else is - so we might as well. L Ron Hubbard wrote lot of books. Seriously. He's in the Guinness Book of Records for it!

We get to London Euston at about 5:30 and stare at a blank board. Not a single bloody train is going anywhere. Crap.

"Due to a fire on a train - there are no trains from Euston currently. All trains to the Midlands - please make your way from King's Cross. For Liverpool and Chester Please go to Paddington and take a train to Reading..."

"F*ck off!" I curse the announcer. Has he ever attempted to get to Chester via Reading before? We'd be better off nicking a push buggy, strapping a particularly flatulent weasel to the back of it and making our way under fart power back to the North West than go via Reading.

I decide to ignore their advice (the Vigin train person tells us it will be 4am before we get home via "The Reading Method").

"Let's go to the pub until this whole "fire" thing blows over.

So we sit and wait a few hours and low and behold..things free up again. Nine thousand tired groggy commuters stampede towards a train that holds a few hundred people at best.

As we are pegging it down the councourse - Sarah says to me..."If we get split up I'll meet you on the train..now give me my ticket." Wow - she means business.

It was like something out of the apocalpse or a 1950's Horror movie(or Monday night commuting in London). Random panic...men stampeding over women. Wives leaving husbands - children screaming...

"Sarah! Sarah - where are you?!" I am bolting down the platform in a maelstrom of panicked commuters - whistles are blowing and I've lost my wife. I am having a major dilemma - do I board the train or do I not?

Is she on it...or not. If I leave her behind then I am officially paying for that mistake for the rest of my shortly to be divorced life.

In hindsight - I wish I'd had a chance to shout my "Last of the Mohicans" line at her..."Sarah - where-ever you are...whatever happens...I will find you..." But it's too late for retrospective melodramatics.

So I board and clutter down the train just as we pull away. To find her sitting happily ensconced in her seat texting me...

Men really don't stand a chance do they? We really don't...