Life as an oversized clothes peg was tough.

Most people didn’t realise how much of a curse gigantism could be.

But now, to be branded like a common criminal.

To be numbered like a farm animal.

It was the final indignity.

​

For instance I probably wouldn’t write ‘I avoid clichés like the plague’ (oops I just did).

But I might write ‘I avoid clichés like   daddy trying to get out of cutting the grass by saying his chilblains are playing up’.

One of my favourite pieces of writing is Orwell’s monumental essay ‘Politics and the English Language’.

In it he argues that you should avoid using any phrase you are used to seeing in print.

And while this is impossible to follow prescriptively, it’s a wonderful aspiration.

Use of tired terminology demonstrates lazy thinking on the part of the author and encourages it in the reader. 

But there’s a problem with clichés.

They can turn out to be true and sometimes wise.

For example the commonly remarked fact the aging process in your children appears to the parent to be in a state of perpetual acceleration.

So consider the following paragraph to be a pleasing lapse.

They grow up so quick! Where do the years go? It seems just yesterday he was a tiny wee baby! He’s shooting up!

Phew! Glad to have got that off my chest (hey, that’s another cliché, you’ve ruined yourself).

All of this is my rather long-winded (another!) way of introducing this great video my wonderful wife has put together of our great wee man, proving yet again she’s a thousand times more talented than me.

Hope you enjoy it xxxx

1 My belief that I’m knowledgeable at things I clearly know nothing about.

‘I am a bit of an expert at building children’s playhouses.’

2 My refusal to accept blame when things go wrong.

‘It’s no good, these plans for this playhouse are nonsense.’

3 My method for fixing electronic devices.

‘Try switching it off and on again.’

4 My terrible sense of direction.

‘Yes, the fact that there was a strip of grass in the middle of the road should have alerted me that I’d gone the wrong way.’

5 My DIY prowess.

‘Well just move the chair over there, no one will ever see it.’

6 My beard only grows in certain parts of my face.

‘No, it’s not meant to be a goatee!’

7 My child likes to bounce on my stomach.

‘Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Shall we watch some..Ow! Ow! Ow!

8 My stubborn refusal to listen to mummy’s advice.

‘Give over, I’ve been reversing cars for years. Shush, I’m nowhere near the wall….aw shite!

9 I smuggle things into the shopping trolley.

‘I forgot the milk, and the bread. No I didn’t get the potatoes either. But look, I got a 12 pack of Monster Munch.’

10 My refusal to acknowledge the size of my belly.

‘For the last time I’m not putting on weight. Here give me a hand up, will you?’

The text arrived in my phone at one minute past 11.

‘Reminder: Blood donation session in Hillsborough today.’

I quickly redrew my plans. Well, to be fair, I didn’t have any plans before. But now I did.

I’ve been giving blood for the best part of a quarter of a century. That sounds like quite a noble statement but the truth is that within that time there have been long periods, stretches of years, when I didn’t bother.

It’s not that I’ve done it a lot, rather, I haven’t done it nearly enough. I deserve no compliments for it.

I know that I don’t do enough for charities. I know that I usually I fall well below my own standards in terms of being generous and helping others. I’ve always been selfish in my core.

Giving blood is the one thing I do which I can truly say is not for my own benefit. When I get to the end of my life I know there will be people whose health is better, possibly even people who are only alive, because I did this tiny thing.

Plus I’ve got O Negative type blood. For the uninitiated that’s the only blood type which can be given to any person in an emergency. It’s the type of blood which is used when there is no time to ask questions. Less than 7% of the population have O Negative blood.

To me to have it and to have gone long periods of time without donating it, well, it’s frankly unforgivable.

But to get to the stage of giving blood I first have to go through the processes. Form filling, iron test, checking for medications, etc.

It almost seems like being able to give blood is a vindication of a boring lifestyle.

Have you travelled to any exotic countries?

Er…..no.

Have you had multiple sexual partners?

Er…..no.

Have you taken drugs?

Er……no.

Well what the heck have you done?

An unexpected complication has arisen. I tell the attendant that I’m just back from holiday in Italy and her brow furrows. She asks me how long ago? I’ve trouble remembering what I had for breakfast this morning, never mind the date I returned from holiday.

I consult my phone and we work out that it was 28 days ago. Her brow furrows deeper. They can’t take me if I was in Italy within…..28 days. She tells me there could be a risk of West Nile virus. She asks me how I’m feeling. The truth is until this very moment I was feeling wonderful.

She goes off to consult the senior nurse. Immediately I’m Googling West Nile virus and within 30 seconds have convinced myself I have it. Google can be dangerous this way. I once convinced myself I had Housemaid’s Knee by doing too many searches. I start to recover my poise.

The attendant returns and tells me all is fine. I’m taken straight through to a bed.

A kindly attendant called Maurice takes over my care. He prepares my arm until a senior nurse inserts the needle into my left arm. Most people are a bit queasy about this but I’ve always enjoyed watching the bit where the needle goes in and the thick blood rushes urgently through the tube.

We try to make conversation but it’s a challenge. I’m not good at smalltalk in any situation but quite what the social rules are for chatting to a man who has a two inch needle stuck into your arm are beyond me. I end up asking really inane questions and making daft observations.

‘So, how’s business? Well I’m sure it will pick up a bit later on.’

There is a time issue here. If the blood is removed from the arm in less than 15 minutes then the platelets can be removed and used to help leukaemia patients. The red blood cells are stored separately for transfusion. Beyond 15 minutes and this process can’t be done.

Luckily my blood is flowing readily today and we’re comfortably within that time. He dresses my arm and I sit up. Painless and stress free as ever.

I go to get a biscuit and a cup of juice with the other donators. This is the point where I usually put on my best scowl, scaring people away from talking to me.

But I’ve kinda been on a journey the past couple of weeks so I decide to try something new; being nice. I meet a lovely family, Amy who has just qualified as a geography teacher and her mum Julie. Amy tells me about her career plans and they listen with interest as I tell how I crashed mine.

Others join in the conversation, talking about the need for more people to come forward. We all have wee plasters on our arms. It feels good, as if we are all part of something together.

I’m in a good mood as I leave. I’m on my way to pick up my son, mummy is on her way home too, I’ve given blood and I’m certain I don’t have West Nile virus. What more could you want from a day?

It’s that little bit of time I look forward to all day.

Those couple of golden hours as the sun sets. My son is settled in bed, I cuddle up with my wife on the sofa. We open a bottle of wine and check out the latest offering from Netflix. We’re both pleasingly tired.

I love doing all the daddy things but they sharpen the mood for that little bit of nighttime respite. Swapping our stories of the day, the adventures, the struggles. There’s a special sort of intimacy in the muffled laughter.

I’ve found that elusive comfy spot on the sofa. Life is good.

And then it begins.

First a jangly noise like mischievous fingers running through a wind-chime, like promises being sprinkled. And then the voice.

‘What colour is a goldfish?’

It’s immediately familiar. Not welcome. A voice from long ago, something I’d tried to bury deep in my mind. I haven’t heard it in….God, it must be more than a year. Again.

‘What colour is a goldfish?’

The voice is high pitched but strangely mechanical, almost sinister in its jollity. I’m not fooled. A third time.

‘What colour is a goldfish?’

I crack first. Of course. I shift from my comfy spot.

‘It’s that feckin’ wand! I thought we threw it out long ago?’

Maybe two years back we bought our son the Holly Wand. It seemed reasonable at the time. He was going through a Ben and Holly phase. How were we to know?

Now after months of silence it has awoken, like a hedgehog from hibernation. I suppose I always knew it would. I pause the TV and begin to search. I have to find it, to engage the old foe once again.

My wife gives me one of her thin smiles, as if to say ‘Your eccentricities were adorable for the first seven or eight years but now….’

I’m going through the toy boxes, but it’s not there. The voice again, taunting me.

‘What colour is a goldfish?’

I’m now flat on my face, manoeuvring myself under the sofa like a crab. I know I’ve already lost the war but I keep going. Eventually I locate it in the darkest corner, unknown to the hoover.

I struggle back out, covered in dust. There’s a cobweb in my hair. I hold it up in triumph. A purple staff with a star-shaped head, a kaleidoscope of glowing colours and buttons. That mocking smile and the eyes which follow you everywhere.

The batteries in all of my son’s other toys seem to run out with disappointing regularity. Sometimes it seems that I’ve scarcely screwed the cap back onto a toy when it needs replaced again. My life is a procession of episodes where my son is holding a toy up to me, his little face crossed with sorrow, and I’m searching for my screwdriver.

But not the wand. No, the batteries in it seem determined to run forever. I know they want to outlast me, to be there when I’m in a hospital bed struggling with my last breaths, still asking me about the bloody goldfish.

I have a vague furry memory of trying to remove the batteries at some point. Did I actually succeed? I decide its best not to think that way.

There are a couple of scratches at the edge of the wand, perhaps caused by me banging it off a table.

My wife wants to bring us back to the place we were.

‘Well done honey, the wee man will be delighted you’ve found his wand.’

But I know it’s not over. I wait. This time the wand cracks.

‘What colour is a goldfish?’

I press the button which seems most to resemble gold. There’s a moment of silence, pregnant with tension.

Then.

‘Oh, that’s not right, I’m sure you’ll get it next time.’

Arrghhhhh!

My wife puts her hand on my shoulder. She is reassuringly calm.

‘Come on honey, leave the wand in the kitchen and let’s get back to the programme.’

I obey but it’s not quite the same. I can’t hold my concentration. The comfy spot on the sofa has disappeared. I can still hear it talking to me. I know that when it starts there is no place in the house where you can’t hear the wand. There is no hiding place.

I’m subdued for the rest of the evening and eventually we give up and go to bed. I lie on top of the covers. Eventually I drift off into a troubled sleep.

I awake with a jolt and a sense that something is not right. I don’t know what time it is but I know from the depth of the dark that we’re right in the heart of the night. We’re all at our most vulnerable now. I’m a little afraid.

I wait. Then.

‘What colour is a goldfish?’

I sit upright. The night is cool but I’m sweating.

I check my wife and son. Both asleep, peaceful and serene. For a moment I think perhaps I’m the only one who hears the voice, maybe it’s in my head? Don’t go there.

‘What colour is a goldfish?’

I know sleep is a hopeless quest now. The time has come. The reckoning is upon me.

I go down the stairs, my feet heavy, I don’t even think of the lights. I’m at my most primitive.

I enter the kitchen. It’s on the table, glowing. Throbbing with menace. It’s only in the dark that you can see its full terrible, magnificent glory. Lit up like a fireworks display, a beautiful, malevolent force.

I lift it. Is the smile a little wider? Have the corners of the mouth curled just a bit?

‘What colour is a goldfish?’

I hit the golden button before it has even finished the question.

‘Oh, that’s not right. I’m sure you’ll get it next time.’

I hit every button on the wand. I’m happy to concede that a goldfish is purple, green, anything, just let it be over. But it’s always the same.

‘Oh, that’s not right. I’m sure you’ll get it next time.’

I sink to my knees, holding the wand in front of me like a sacred cross. Its power is absolute. I might be crying.

‘What colour is a goldfish?’

The last thread of civilisation snaps. I start to roar.

‘It’s gold! It’s gold! Can’t you feckin’ see that it’s gold? The feckin’ clue’s in the name.’

The glowing stops. Everything is dark. Quiet. I can hear my own breathing, deep and panicked at first, before it starts to slow. For a moment I dare to hope. Then.

‘Oh, that’s not right. I’m sure you’ll get it next time.’

I go back to bed. I feel strangely ecstatic. Perhaps once you’ve danced with the devil then there’s nothing else to be afraid of.

I start to laugh, stuffing the duvet into my mouth so as not to disturb my wife.

Finally I understand, it’s clear at last what the wand is telling me. Question everything that you think you know, banish all certainties. What colour is a goldfish? I ain’t got a feckin’ clue.

Rex had certainly learnt his lesson.

Come and work as a living statue, they had said.

Make a bit of money in your spare time, they had said.

Make new friends and meet lots of girls, they had said.

Work right in the heart of the city, they had said.

It was hardly his dream job but at least he would have a bit of a laugh.

But now he’d had to admit he’d been young and naive.

As the wind brushed his cheeks he made a vow to himself.

‘Never again will I sign anything without reading the small print.’