A Definite Theme

I have today off work as well, to enrol Daughter into college. Said Daughter wakes me up by telephoning from wherever she’s spent the night to ask me to collect her papers for her paper round for her. This is to kid the shop into thinking she’s not actually going to be late doing them. It’s a good ploy, I’m impressed, so on those grounds I feel duty bound to assist in this act of deception and to be fair she turns up only just after I’ve collected them.

The college enrolment goes smoothly, for me anyway. For Daughter I think having to have three photo sessions for three different passes in such a short space of time, without a full makeover session with hairspray, brushes, hair dryer, make-up kit etc, in between each one, must have been traumatic. I can only hazard a wild guess at this; never actually having been a sixteen year old girl. I was once a sixteen year old boy, but sixteen year old boys don’t bother with any of that and don’t actually notice whether sixteen year old girls do either. At that age the only thing us boys were bothered about was that the girls were (a) female, which was a fairly easy criteria to fill and (b) under a certain unspecified body weight, which was a figure we all knew but was never documented or mentioned, we just knew what it was. If we were picky we might consider (c) the state of their acne and (d) how few clothes they were wearing, before we moved on to ‘specifics’... ah, those were the days.

Anyhow I thought all her photos were really good. A particularly nice touch was the wet look on the third photo, after we got caught in a rain storm, but I’m not sure she agreed.

All in all though a successful day and as I drop her off at the local shop she even leaves me her socks in the car, nicely matured after spending the day on her feet. Cheers. Daughter’s dirty socks are a reoccurring theme in our house, you have to remove them off the settee before you sit down to watch TV, off the computer chair before you read your email and off the kitchen table before you eat your tea. The one place you never find them is in the dirty washing basket, unless you've put them there yourself of course. MD prefers to bury them in the garden, an approach I can't argue with.

Oh dear, I’ve mentioned too much Daughter today, she’ll kill me, I best move on.

She can’t complain really, she rustled me for the money for an NUS card. Then L rustled me for a CD (although she has paid me back) - Passion Pit, the teenager behind the desk in Fopp was impressed with my selection (taking into account my age I guess). She was also miffed that she didn’t get to go to Leeds/Reading to see them live because she was working. Ha, I played my trump card and told her we were at Leeds, just to rub it in. Although it was the wrong day for the Passion Pit.



Squash tonight because our tennis aspirations have been drowned under all the rain we’ve had, until at least next summer. It’s a good game actually, I lose of course but I’m 3-1 down and close to making it 3-2 when we are called off court, which is shame. Then my now opponent tells me he’s forgotten his money, so I pay for the court AND the drinks afterwards. There's a definite theme going on today. I went to the bank this morning but I’m skint again now.