Every night between 10.30 and 10.50, I perform a task. It involves tiptoeing into my six
No, no, no Mr Joggin Dad, you’re doing it all wrong, wrong, wrong!
year-old son’s room, carefully carrying my sleeping first-born in an upright position to the bathroom, with his head resting on my shoulder. Once there, I pull down his pyjama pants and sit him on the toilet so that he can do his night-time relief – something he rarely fails to do even though he is usually still in dreamland. I then carry Prince #1 back to his room, tuck him into bed snuggly, and repeat the whole exercise with Prince #2, my precious four year-old second son.
“You know, you shouldn’t do that! You should allow your children to learn to visit the toilet at night by themselves“. Continue reading
A friend of mine passed away yesterday.
He was a friend who I have never met in person, but has been a big part of my subconscious since 1993. That was the year I first felt his menacing presence and thought to myself “Now, there’s a person I wouldn’t wanna fuck with“.
He was briefly in and out of my life after that, until 2001. That was the year I was living in London and got reacquainted with him. And what a reacquaintance it was! The way he spoke, the complexity of his personality, the way he can assume the role of a gentle giant on the one hand, then erupt into a fireball of rage and violence on the other, often within a split second. Continue reading
It’s pretty cold in Sydney these days.
“Get your sweaty ass off my couch” is what my wife would say, if she saw me doing this!
For those who have never experienced it here at the ass-end of the world, our winter doesn’t engender the fuzzy, jingle-bell, white-snow kind of feeling that northern hemisphere people are often used to. Our one is more the windy, biting, chill-to-the-bone kind that belies the sunshine above our heads. It is also the only time of the year that reminds me of the fact that I have nipples.
It’s not that the low temperature suddenly makes me beam with pride that I have them. Rather, it makes them beam so high that I wish I didn’t. I’m not sure about other men (as for women, I won’t even go there), but every time I head out for a run during winter, these stiffened nipples of mine rub very uncomfortably against whatever top I am wearing. Continue reading
That was the amount of money my wife and I spent on our innocent date night a couple of weeks ago. And it came to that amount only because we snuck our two boys into my in-laws’ house and ran out before we could hear any protests. That little antic saved us at least $80 in babysitting money to a stranger, who would probably have eaten another $40 worth of my junk food stashed in our house.
- Perhaps not as eventful, but just as enjoyable!
Still, how did it add up to $129 when all we did was have dinner at a cheap and cheery Lebanese restaurant, before watching Iron Man 3 at a cinema?
Let’s see, we went first to the restaurant to eat. And because it was so cheap and cheery, I virtually ordered half of the menu. And that was just for my wife, who’s on the slender side but can eat like a rhino. I, of course, ordered the other half of the menu just so that I don’t make my wife look bad with all that food in front of her. When all the dishes finally arrived, our table looked like a Klump family dinner scene from The Nutty Professor, except devouring them was a couple who could probably both fit into Klump’s trousers.
I have an affinity with running, one that has grown over the years to become a passion. That passion, at least for me, is rarely motivated by the reasons that people commonly assume are behind the act of running. To lose weight? My weight is just fine, thank you! To improve cardiovascular fitness? What’s that!?! To win races? Yeah, right! To clock ever-faster pacing? Couldn’t care less!
A privilege to have a hobby that puts THIS in my head
Don’t get me wrong, I always strive to beat my PBs in every race that I enter and my mood swings depending on whether I succeed or not. But I can honestly say, hand to heart, that wanting to become a better and faster runner is about the further thing from my mind whenever I lace up my trusty pair of Brooks and head out for a jog.
So what is it, then? Why would anyone put himself through the drudgery of running, putting undue pressure on the joints, unsightly sweat on the body and unattractive grimace on the hills? Why would anyone do this, often for an hour or two at a time, when there are so many more pleasant things to do in life?
Fucked if I know!
But let me put it another way. What if you were blessed with the opportunity to take up a hobby? Continue reading