It’s week two of drama class.

After my simian experiences from last week (https://whatsadaddyfor.blog/2017/09/20/getting-into-character) I ask my son if he wants to go into the class on his own this time. No dice.

So again I’m sitting in a circle with the group of P1 and P2 children who are peering curiously at me. I feel like Rodney in that old episode of Only Fools and Horses when he has to pretend he’s a child to get a free holiday. I feel like a plonker.

Jo, the angelic, patient instructor gives me a little smile. Encouragement or pity, I can’t tell.

She welcomes everyone to the class with girlish enthusiasm. Boy 1 asks her if we’re getting a bag of sweets this week (I’m keen to know myself, but didn’t like to say). Jo smiles.

We start by playing a game which is new to me. Duck, duck, goose. For some reason I can’t seem to grasp the rules and it quickly descends into farce.

What happens is that boy 2 walks round the circle tapping everybody on the head and softly saying ‘duck’, until he gets to me when he wallops me painfully on the back of the skull and screams ‘goose!’

I stare vacantly at him. Eventually Jo explains that I’m supposed to chase him. I half-heartedly comply.

Then I sit down again. Boy 2 calls me a ‘dimwit’. Jo tells him that’s not nice and asks him to apologise. He glowers at me. Jo smiles.

Boy 3 then walks around the circle tapping everyone on the head and quietly saying ‘duck’. When he reaches me he whacks me painfully and bellows ‘goose!’ right into my ear. I chase him around but it’s not clear what I’m meant to do if I catch him. I assume tripping him up is forbidden.

Jo persists with the game for a while but eventually abandons it when it becomes clear the children are simply using it as an excuse to whack me on the head. One of my ears is ringing slightly.

Boy 1 asks her if we’re getting a bag of sweets this week. Jo smiles.

Then she gathers us in a circle and asks us to guess what’s in her bag. Boy 2 suggests that it might be poo. Jo smiles. It’s not poo, it’s a toy rattlesnake called Rex.

She lets us all touch Rex, as if it were a real snake. Boy 3 asks if he can see Rex’s guts. Jo smiles. When boy 2 is holding Rex he says that a frog once pissed on his mummy’s hand. When Jo expresses scepticism Boy 2 tells her that his mummy then licked the pee. Boy 1 tells her that his mummy eats dog poo. Jo smiles.

She starts to tell a story about Rex. It involves him not being very good at dancing (no arms and legs you see). I’ve got empathy and nod sadly but Jo seems to have lost the rest of the room. Boy 3 is lying stretched out on the floor making farting noises.

Boy 1 has moved behind Jo and has picked up her phone. He is pressing keys manically. I decide I’d better warn Jo and she jumps upright in alarm. She tells boy 1 that he’s not allowed to be invasive. He sits down and gives me a wretched look which seems to suggest he’ll get me later.

Boy 1 asks if we’re getting a bag of sweets this week. Jo smiles.

It’s time to act out a short sketch now. I happily volunteer to be a dancing penguin. It just feels right. But everybody else wants to be a snake. She asks boy 3 to be a swan. He roars back ‘I hate bloody swans!’ Jo decides he can be a snake.

While we’re acting out the sketch boy 1 is rifling through Jo’s handbag. I decide to let it go this time. I do an admirable solo number as a tap-dancing penguin but it can’t save the sinking ship.

Boy 2 is supposed to be a bear. He’s lying flat under the table, apparently asleep. When Jo asks him why he’s not dancing he says the bear is dead. Our sketch concludes. Jo smiles.

It’s time for colouring in. Fittingly a picture of a snake. I try bravely but boy 3 tells me my picture looks like poopy pants. I’m a little hurt but I can sort of see where he’s coming from.

Jo takes the sweets from her bag and starts to distribute them. But it’s individual sweets rather than packets this week and boys 1,2 and 3 protest angrily. I’m carried along by the raw emotion and have to stop myself from yelling ‘I only came for the fecking sweets!’

Jo gives boys 1,2 and 3 another sweet but the tension in the room is unmistakeable. Jo smiles weakly.

Then it’s time to gather our belongings. Jo is handing a schoolbag to boy 2 when it becomes clear he is about to sneeze. Jo tries to warn him but before the words come his head jerks forward violently and a huge sneeze erupts right in her face. There are bits of snot in her hair and on her eyelashes.

I can see Jo fighting for composure. Trying to choose the right words.

‘Your mummy wouldn’t be very happy with you doing that’, she eventually says, wiping little specks of green from her face.

‘My mummy told me to do it!’ boy 2 fires back without missing a beat.

Jo tries to smile. She can’t quite manage it.

The class is over. Parents are outside in the corridor, waiting to pick up their children. For a moment I look enquiringly up and down before I remember I’m supposed to be the parent.

I see Jo as I’m walking with my son to the car.

‘See you next week,’ I say brightly.

Jo smiles.

There are certain subjects which inevitably stir strong reactions in people.

Immigration, traffic wardens, Donald Trump’s foreign policy.

Children sleeping in their parents’ bed.

This last one was brought to my notice recently when I saw a comment from a woman I don’t know on Twitter. She told how she had been left upset by the negative reaction after revealing on social media how her three-year-old daughter slept in her bed. She was now wondering if she was a bad mother, like so many people were telling her.

Leaving aside the obvious point about online trolling, I was struck by the strength of the backlash against such a seemingly innocent practice.

I generally avoid Twitter debates and I usually try not to burden people with my advice but I sent a message to this mother telling her to pay no attention to what people who have never met her child think. I suggested she knew her child best and told her to enjoy every moment of it.

A few minutes later my phone flashed a little message that she had liked my reply.

But, as often is the case, it’s easier when you are talking about other peoples’ issues than your own. This is a post which I’ve put off writing for some time. And a subject that I’ve often waltzed around.

But now it’s time to grab the aardvark by the protruding nasal implement.

My four-year-old boy sleeps in our bed.

I’ve usually struggled to be quite so direct when talking with other parents about his sleeping arrangements for exactly the same reason that bothered the mother on Twitter. The questions over my parenting judgement. Concern that someone will think I’m causing my child harm.

I met a father recently who told me he had fitted a lock to his bedroom door to keep the children out. This seemed absurdly extreme yet I just nodded and smiled along as if it was normal practice.

In our house we’ve always operated an open door policy.

My son has his own room with his own little bed which he loves. He often plays in there. Several times we’ve tried strategies to get him to spend the night in his room, with varying degrees of success. But in the end he always seems to find his way back to where he is most comfortable, snuggled in the warmth between mummy and me.

He’s obviously ok with it. I’ve probably spent more time thinking about this than any other parenting subject but I always come back to the same conclusion. I’m ok with it too.

Just to get a few things straight. I’m not advocating very young children co-sleeping, the dangers of that are well known. Similarly if our boy is still sleeping with us when he’s 14 then I think it would be time to call in help.

But he’s four. He likes to do it. We like having him there. Does that make it OK to co-sleep? What’s the consensus?

As a test I Googled the phrase ‘children co-sleeping’.

The first page of results throws up the following: ‘9 ways co-sleeping affects your child’s personality’, ‘The dangers of sleeping with an older child’, ‘Why the benefits of sharing a bed with your children outweigh the risks’, ‘Five benefits to co-sleeping past infancy’ and ‘Your kids’ bad sleep habits caused by co-sleeping’.

The first one I read suggested co-sleeping causes anxiety in children. The second said children who co-sleep have less anxiety.

Are you finding this helpful?

Like most things in life there’s plenty of supposed evidence and research to confirm your own particular bias, whatever it may be.

Like most occasions in life I’m forced to ignore all the contradictory advice and use personal experience to mould my own thoughts and opinions.

There are plenty of evenings when I’ve wished our boy was in his own room, anywhere other than in our bed. When he wakes you up for the sixth time in a night looking for a drink, or when his feet push me out towards the furthest, coldest edge of the mattress. When he yanks the duvet away.

On the other hand there are the cuddles, the warmth of him against me. Watching his little chest move up and down. Wondering what’s happening in his dreams. Holding his soft hand.

And the moment when he wakes up in the morning and gives you that sleepy smile.

But it’s not really about me. It’s about what’s best for him.

Usually the simplest question is the right one. Does it give him the best night’s sleep?

Sometimes I watch him in the night, he’s asleep but reaches his arm out to touch mummy or me, just to make sure we’re still there. There’s obviously a comfort in that for him.

He sleeps well in our bed. His mind is settled. When I see him lying beside us he always seems happy.

But does the practice have an impact on his personality?

Yes, he can be overly-sensitive, a bit clingy, sometimes afraid of new things. But I’m not sure I understand how forcing him into a room on his own at night would alter that. Not through any method that I like anyway.

On the other hand he’s emotionally open, full of affection and certain of the love of his parents. Just like many children who don’t co-sleep.

So I suppose you just have to go with your gut. Your parental instinct of knowing what’s best for your own kid. Because you’re the only one who really understands them.

My suspicion is that putting him into his own room at this stage would lead to more nights of broken sleep for all of us. More incidents of waking in the dark and calling out for help. More tears. More fear.

Most things which I’ve tried to impose on my son in his short life haven’t worked. I’ve learnt that it’s usually best to let him get there at his own pace. I’ve got confidence that more often than not he’ll find the right way.

And I think it will be that way with sleeping too. There’ll come a point, probably not too far off in the future, where he’ll decide it’s simply cooler to be in his own room.

Until then I’m going to enjoy every single cuddle.

I received a text message from my son’s school today.

It warned about a man ‘acting suspiciously’ in the public toilets.

It took me a few minutes to register exactly what was happening.

First there was a jolt over the fact I’d got a text message (a rare enough occurrence).

Then there was the surprise that I was receiving a text from the school (I had no idea this was how they imparted information).

This then led to a moment of concern and indignation where I thought this was a personal rather than a generic message. For a terrible illogical moment I thought the text was about me, rather than for me.

But then the shilling descended. It was a warning to all parents to be vigilant due to a report of suspicious behaviour.

I was unsure exactly how to react to this. Of course a parent’s natural concern for the safety of their child trumps all other considerations.

But I also found myself curious for more information.

Acting suspiciously seemed to be such a vague phrase as to be almost meaningless.

And of course the thought occurs that this might be an overreaction, fuelled by illogical fears which magnify a risk greater than it ever needs to be.

I genuinely don’t know.

I have to trust the judgement of the school which decided this was serious enough to raise the alarm.

I suppose if there’s any concern at all then parents have the right to be informed. And a school seems to be the best channel to pass on information to a large number of parents.

The last line of the message said ‘Please be vigilant’. I’m not sure I know any other way. 

I met a dear old friend for coffee this morning.

I hadn’t had a proper chat with this person in more than a decade. It’s shocking how lax we can be at keeping alive the communications which are important to us.

But proper friendships never age and soon our conversation had gathered its own momentum, a mixture of blowing the dust off old stories and sharing new photographs of kids and grandkids. There was no struggle to find the right words.

What was equally interesting was where we met today. A delightful little coffee and gift shop in the centre of Glengormley.

I worked in this same building almost two decades ago when it was the offices of the Newtownabbey Times newspaper.

I sat there and sipped a black coffee in the very same corner where my desk had once been placed. Back when I was a younger man, determined to leave an impression in the sand.

It was a lovely morning, but edged with just a tiny bit of sadness. All the things that have happened in those years. Have I become the man that I hoped I would be?

It was impossible not to think about the power of change. How the world spins just a little bit faster than most of us are comfortable with.

Every newspaper office I worked in during my career has now gone. The Ballymoney Times closed its office in the Co Antrim town years back. So did the Carrick Times. And the Newtownabbey Times.

These papers still exist but without any physical base in the town which they report about.

Even the Belfast Telegraph vacated its magnificent city centre office where I worked for more than 15 years in favour of a smaller base out at Clarendon Dock.

It’s easy to say that these events tells us something about the declining power and influence of newspapers, and undoubtedly that’s true. But what’s really different is the way we communicate now.

Sometimes when I’m training young journalists I tell them how I used to carry a pocketful of loose change everywhere when I was starting out, in case I stumbled upon a scoop and had to phone it in. Invariably they laugh, as if I’m a character in a Monty Python sketch telling tall tales from the far distant past.

But that’s how it was. And not that very long ago. I remember sitting in this very same spot of the Newtownabbey Times office when I heard the news about the September 11 attacks in New York.

The next morning we learnt that a Ballyclare man had been in one of the towers but survived. There was no internet in the office then. No social media. So I started where I always did in those days, with the phone book.

I went through every person who had the same surname in the directory until I stumbled across his mum. She gave me his number in New York and agreed to supply a photograph if we could call at the house. It was deadline day so I sent our photographer speeding down the road to pick it up while I called the US.

Luckily, despite the time difference, the local man answered. I suppose he didn’t sleep too well that night. Within an hour of starting the search I had finished the interview and written it up, the photograph had been collected and we were putting the package together to appear on the front page of that week’s paper.

It’s a form of journalism that might seem very primitive to many in the business today. But we learnt to be resourceful, persistent and crafty.

But soon the communications revolution was to change the profession profoundly. The same inherent personal skills were necessary but the outlets were radically altered. Like all changes, some things were positive, but there were also casualties. Budgets and staffing levels were slashed in many news organisations. Proper journalism was replaced in too many places by the insidious nature of the cut and paste industry. Curiosity seemed to have been squeezed out.

The truth is my son, like every other child of his generation, will probably never hold a newspaper in his hands the way I do. He’ll never sit down with a sandwich and just lose himself in the features or comment sections, enjoying the rub of the dry paper between his fingers, wiping the grimy grey ink off his hands.

But journalism will survive, perhaps better than before. Information has to find its channel.

And now, in the deepest irony of all, I’ve become the world’s least likely blogger. The man who still listens to the news on a battered old wireless which has the frequency for Radio Luxembourg marked on the dial (if you’re under 50 ask your parents).

But it has allowed me to feel the power of connection again and in a more direct way than I’ve experienced in the past. Analytics tell me I’ve got followers from Vietnam, South Africa, Sudan, United Arab Emirates, Chile and Peru.

I’ve met new people, some who I now regard as very good friends even though I’ve never met them in person and probably never will. My virtual friends.

I’ve also reconnected with many old friends, relationships which I’d unforgivably neglected over the years. My new old friends.

And this takes me back to my now tepid coffee with this voice from the past in the building which used to be my office. Where I learnt the trade.

My friend and I drink up and step outside. It’s raining now, a warm light spray which is pleasant and refreshing. We walk to her car and wish each other well. We embrace, holding it for a moment to make up for lost time.

She says she hopes we can meet again soon. I do too.

Nothing ever stands still and only a fool tries to live their life backwards. But in a virtual world of communications it is more important than ever that we still make the little effort to sit down together and talk.

When I was a young child education finished when the school bell rang.

You sprinted out of the building, said goodbye to your chums and then spent the rest of the day coming up with useless ways to amuse yourself. Climbing trees so you could chuck stones at your brother down below, flinging cow dung into his face, pushing each other into nettles. They were happy times.

But society has taken a firmer grip since then. Education is a much broader concept. We’re continually being told that the most important learning takes place in the home. What is begun in school with the teacher should be continued by the parents.

And opportunities are everywhere now. The number of extra-curricular activities available to children today is, frankly, mind-boggling. In our little boy’s short life so far he’s already taken classes in swimming, tennis, yoga, taxidermy, rugby, football, music, morris dancing, goat staring, yodelling, goose counting and collecting navel fluff (I’ve made some of these up, but you get the idea).

The village centre next to his school offers a seemingly never-ending variety of activities. I know some mummies with several children who seem to run themselves almost to exhaustion hauling different members of the family from one class to the next.

There’s an obsession with making sure the kids don’t miss out on anything. Give them every chance. They might be a ballet genius. A piano virtuoso. A Wimbledon champion.

And I’m utterly hopeless at it all. Left to me the only class my poor boy would ever have partaken in is Sofa slouching: From beginners to advanced. Learn from an expert with over 40 years of experience.

Joining classes was never my thing. It meant meeting new people, learning new skills. Habits I spent most of my life trying to avoid.

Thankfully mummy is a bit more proactive. And so it is that after school we’re in the village centre for drama class.

The lovely instructor Jo gets all of the children to sit in a circle. Six children in the room. And me.

Regular readers will know my boy is very shy and sensitive. But despite this we have high hopes for drama because it seems to suit the personality we know he has, it’s all about creativity and imagination.

It’s just that he doesn’t want to do it alone. He wants to do it sitting on my knee.

I don’t want to give the impression that he’s being dragged along to something he doesn’t want to partake in. That we’re pushy parents trying to force him into awkward corners. I ask him a couple of times if he’s having fun and he always nods. I’ve seen my boy at classes which he doesn’t enjoy. He lets you know soon enough. It never ends well.

He definitely wants to do this. He’s just not ready to do it on his own yet.

And that’s just fine.

So while Jo is introducing the class I inevitably think about my own acting experiences. There aren’t any.

Well, except for a class production of the assassination scene from Julius Caesar when I played the crowd. It was a non-speaking role. However, my brooding intensity was much admired, although scandalously overlooked during awards season.

Jo starts us off by getting us to do a bit of superhero dancing. It’s a decent warm-up. We run around in circles with a straight arm protruding humming the Superman theme song. The inhibitions are quickly shed.

Some of these children are very vocal. I suppose this is to be expected in a drama class. They start to babble excitedly to the instructor. She deals with them patiently. My wee man is a little intimidated by the noise and buries his head in my chest. I tell him he doesn’t have to stay but he insists he wants to.

Monkeys is to be the theme of this week’s class. Jo wants us to act out the parts of lots of different simians.

But there’s a problem. I’m just not feeling it. I can’t quite seem to get into character. I ask Jo what my motivation is. She answers me in the same placid, unruffled tone she uses with the kids.

We run around the room doing impressions of gorillas, chimpanzees, orangutans. My son laughs at how animated I’ve become. But all of my monkey impressions are much the same. I’m worried about the apparent limitations in my range.

While I’m running around cupping my arms and shouting ‘ooh ooh ooh’ I notice that a number of adults are gathered outside and staring in the window. But it’s too late for dignity. I give them a moronic look, scratch my head and mimic eating a banana.

I used to be a respected professional, you know.

Next Jo tells us a story. It’s about lots of different types of monkeys in a zoo. It’s a preamble to us all acting out the parts in a little sketch.

My son and I are chosen to play the gorillas (a step up from being the crowd in Julius Caesar I suppose). This necessitates us both beating our chests and roaring a lot. I’ve got an advantage in that this is how I usually behave when I’m about the house.

Jo gives us a couple of lines. When it’s our turn I bellow them. My son whispers them. Nobody else can hear him, but I do and that’s enough. I know he’s having a good time.

The class finishes with some colouring in, which I imagine is a method of calming the children down after all the monkey mayhem.

Jo gives the kids a bag of sweets and then we’re off. As we’re driving home my son asks me if mummy will be home from work yet. We’ve had a lovely day but I can see him slowing down a little now. The day catching up with him.

I tell him that mummy will be home soon. When we enter the house he disappears straight upstairs. Soon he returns carrying a pair of mummy’s pyjamas. He is holding them against his face. It seems a bit odd.

‘What are you doing bud?’ I softly inquire.

‘It’s so I can feel mummy right here until she comes home.’

Children, just like great actors, have that uncanny ability to speak straight to your heart.

I got a parking ticket today.

My offence was that I had parked in the same spot by the side of the street for more than an hour.

As the photo above shows the warden ticketed me for not moving my car after 1 hour and 12 minutes.

In truth I was actually parked in that spot for a little bit longer than that.

I was taking my son to an after-school drama class.

The class lasts for an hour. The car-park at the community centre was full.

So I parked on the street. There were several empty spaces. I forgot to move it in time.

There were still several empty spaces when I picked my car up.

I try not to personalise issues like this. I’ve seen the red-coated wardens often patrolling the village.

Their harassed eyes and expressions betray the pressure they are under to collect more fines.

They have to make a living like everyone else. Just part of the bigger system.

And they are certainly active in Hillsborough where I live. In the first six months of this year 275 parking fines were handed out in the village.

In the same six month period there were 12 towns in Northern Ireland in which not a single parking fine was handed out. 

They are Ahoghill, Armagh, Ballykelly, Castlewellan, Cullybackey, Dromore (Co Tyrone), Gilford, Kesh, Newtownstewart, Portballintrae, Richhill and Tandragee.

I’m not familiar with the regulations in these towns. Perhaps they are different. Perhaps the people are simply much better at obeying the traffic regulations.

The neighbouring town of Dromore, which is significantly larger than Hillsborough, received 15 tickets in the six month period.

I know I’ve only got myself to blame. I know I stayed over the time. I was all to aware the red coats were just desperate to pounce.

But I can’t help but feel annoyed at the sheer inanity of it. Who benefits from it? Has trade in the village been improved? Am I supposed to have learnt some sort of lesson?

Or is it simply hitting a soft target so another £90 fine can be collected?

Can this really be the priority?

I note that the ticket has the logo of the Department of Infrastructure on it.

So in any normal society I would thus know exactly where I could direct my unhappiness.

But not here. Not where there is no functioning government. Where our utterly useless, contemptible excuse for a political ruling class get paid a full wage as a reward for abject pitiful failure.

Where decisions on our lives are being made by unaccountable, faceless civil servants.

Where the health and education systems are being driven to paralysis, used as pawns in a wider political game.

But it’s ok. Because no matter how defective the system is the parking tickets will still be collected.

Of course I’ll pay my fine. I’ve never deliberately tried to break any law or regulation in my life.

I’ll pay it just like I pay every other household bill. On time and in full. I’ve always tried to work within the system.

Yes I’ll pay it. But I’ll be just that little bit more bitter towards the system for it.