My wee buddy is turning into something of a practical joker.

Recently he wanted a whoopee cushion which he made me sit on again and again until it burst (rumours that I stuck a knife in it cannot be proven and my lawyers are watching).

He is also partial to his squirty camera which leads to hours of hilarity as I get splashed repeatedly in the face.

Of course there were a few logistical problems to be overcome first.

Initially he kept blocking the squirty hole with his finger and then got upset when the water didn’t come out.

Once I got him calmed down and overcame that hurdle he was tripped up by the camera button which was too stiff for him to push down.

I tried to help him but it was quite awkward with me pushing onto his finger.

In the end he asked me to do it myself. 

Thus the scene is I’m on my knees in the kitchen holding a toy camera and squirting myself again and again in the face.

Oh, how he laughed.

Hey, even Superman has to get mummy to wash his clothes sometimes 

The father stirs as he is roughly shaken in the bed. A moment of panic before he sees the boy there.
‘Uh? Are you alright son? Jesus, what time is it?’
‘I’m thirsty daddy.’
‘What? Oh right. There’s a cup at the side of your bed.’
‘It’s all done. I’m thirsty daddy.’
‘Right hang on.’
He hauls himself upright away from the warmth, his eyes still more closed than open. As he trudges down the stairs in the dark he clatters his big toe on the corner of the bannister.
‘Jesus wept!’
He limps into the kitchen, finds the closest vessel and turns on the tap. He turns it too far and the water comes out in an angry rush and splashes his hand. He doesn’t even bother to dry himself before he climbs the stairs again. The boy is standing in the dark, small, alone and miserable. The father ruffles his son’s hair.
‘Here you are son.’
‘I don’t want water daddy, I want juice.’
‘Can you not just take water this time?’
The boy’s lower lip starts to tremble. His dad softens.
‘Hang on son, just a second.’
He descends the stairs a second time. He finds a bottle of cordial and adds a dash to the cup, the thicker purple liquid invading the water like an oil spill in the ocean. He retraces his steps. The boy is weeping silently in the dark.
‘Here you are son. Some juice.’
‘I don’t like blackcurrant juice daddy, I want orange.’
‘What? You love blackcurrant? You said it was your favourite yesterday.’
The boy’s sobs deepen.
‘I’m thirsty daddy.’
The father looks around, as if seeking intervention.
‘Right hang on son, I’ll get it for you.’
He descends the stairs a third time. This time he has to turn the lights on in the kitchen as he hurls the blackcurrant juice down the sink and searches in a low cupboard for the orange. A bottle of sauce falls onto the floor, spilling its contents. He roughly wipes it up with some kitchen roll, muttering under his breath.
As he climbs the stairs he knows from experience he won’t be able to sleep again tonight. He enters the bedroom with the orange juice. For a moment he can’t see his son. Then he does.
The boy is asleep in his father’s spot in the bed, nestled into the warmth of mummy’s back. The boy has a contented smile on his face.

For Bernadette it was the one day of the year in which she could really let her hair down.

She led a simple life. No socialising and she hardly ever touched alcohol.

The life suited her although there was always that nagging voice in the back of her head, asking what might have been.

Perhaps this was why she was looking forward so much to her birthday this year.

She knew what she wanted. A smartphone. All her friends had them.

Texting , social media, video calls, all the exotic possibilities made her blush slightly.

She had been dropping heavy hints for months now about wanting a phone.

Finally the day arrived. The present was the right shape and size.

She could barely control her shaking hands and thought her heart may burst out of her chest.

She ripped frantically at the wrapping paper, pulling it off in strips until…..

….’Aw no, not another fecking cross!’

Mabel and Hamish had heard all the stories.

Everybody in the village knew the stories.

They were something children whispered in playgrounds or parents told the young at night to stop them being naughty.

They had both suffered sleepless nights as kids over the supposed fate of those who had ignored the warnings.

Some said the bold were turned to stone on the spot. Others that they became part of the forest and were never seen again.

But they were just children’s stories, myths and legends, old wives’ tale. Superstitious nonsense, Hamish had said. Something you told tourists to try and get their money.

Some of the men in the tavern still repeated the warnings, nursing their glasses of whiskey tenderly, like a young mother holding her first born.

There was one man with a white beard, the oldest in the village, who seldom spoke. Some days he might have too much to drink and whispered a story of his youth, about a friend who had disappeared.

But the younger men who stood on the corners laughed at him and threw stones. It was a harder world now.

Mabel and Hamish were part of the new world. Young and in love. They seemed to have everything in common.

It started as a dare. Some friends suggested it one night after a few too many drinks. Nobody had tried it in years.

Hamish was interested. He saw it as a way to prove himself. He was tired of people laughing at his unusual hat.

Mabel wasn’t so sure, the childhood stories were still locked somewhere in her mind.

But he was always able to talk her round. God, she would have followed him anywhere. She loved that hat.

On the night the dare was to be carried out their friends had tried to talk them out of it. Nobody would think any less of them if they backed out now.

But Hamish was determined. He pulled Mabel close and kissed her.

‘After tonight my love we’ll be legends. Nobody will ever laugh at my hat again.’

Not far away drinkers were huddled round a fire in the tavern, telling old stories.

In the corner sipping on whiskey with his head down was an old man with a white beard.

Suddenly a shiver ran through his thin body, like an unwelcome old memory coming back to the surface. For a moment he seemed in pain.

He pulled his coat tighter around his neck and seemed to shrink back into his own body.

He started to mumble. Barely audible at first, then slightly louder.

His body rocked back and forward as he repeated the words again and again.

Soon some of the other drinkers noticed his discomfort.

‘Hey, the old man’s talking’, one said.

‘Ignore him, he’s drunk,’ another replied.

But some in the tavern saw the chance for sport.

‘Come on old man,’ another called out. ‘Speak up.’

The old man looked up for the first time. There was nothing in his eyes, as if they had died years ago. His body continued to rock.

‘I tried to tell them,’ he began. ‘I tried to tell them. Never touch the wheelbarrows at Hillsborough Orange Hall.’

Hey folks, just wanted to say hello and give a wee update on things.

At some point mid-afternoon today the number of people who have read The Morning Run passed 1,000.

Either that or there is just one person out there who likes it so much to have read it 1,000 times.

The fact that 1,000 people have taken the time to read something so very personal to me is hugely humbling and frankly, a bit difficult to believe.

What started as a traumatic and distressing experience for me has morphed into something undeniably powerful and positive.

Since we launched What’s A Daddy For 10 days ago more than 2,500 people have read my blogs more than 6,500 times.

But these are just numbers. What’s much more important is the people behind those statistics.

What I had never expected when we began this journey was how many beautiful people would reach out to me.

I have been deluged with people contacting me to offer their support, empathy and similar experiences.

Many more have told me how some of my funny stories have put a smile on their face or helped them get through a tough day.

I have tried to respond individually to every single person who has messaged me. If there are any who I have overlooked then I’m truly sorry.

I’m not great in social situations and find it difficult to build relations with new people so to have connected with so many of you has been inspiring.

Yes it’s nice to see the statistics but the stories of the people behind the statistics is the reason I do this now.

We all have stories to tell and writing is the most powerful medium for reaching into the soul of someone you didn’t know existed until that moment.

I’m taking a little break for a day or two from blogging. Frankly I’m worn out after 55 blogs in just over a week. That’s a lot of sharing.

More importantly it’s my wonderful wife’s birthday weekend and she’s been more than patient as I’ve tried to build this blog up. She deserves my full attention now. Love you Debs ❤️

I’ll be back in a couple of days. As always there’ll be lots of laughs and maybe a tear or two along the way.

Keep sending me your messages and  stories and I’ll keep churning out the tales.

As Bryan Adams put it ‘Can’t stop this thing we started!’