Paddling Fool

As soon as the temperature breasts above fifteen degrees my children begin to demand that 'the paddling pool be brought out'.
I had managed to put them off for a couple of weeks but last bank holiday weekend I ran out of excuses and beat a path to the back of my cobweb filled shed in search of the thing.

Every year I purchase a new paddling pool and every year the kids somehow puncture it within a couple of days.Barbie has such sharp fingers these days or perhaps my sons Samurai sword wielding Lego men are the culprits.

I manage to unearth the paddling pool but then cannot locate the electric pump. This is essential unless you have two or three hours of spare time which you don't mind spending with your mouth clamped to the questionably hygienic valves of the paddling pool. Gasping and drooling in equal measure whilst your children demand to know (to the nearest second) when the paddling pool will be ready.

I look everywhere for the pump. I always leave it on the same shelf but it's not there. I look on all the other shelves, in all the cupboards. In the end (in desperation) I remove every item in the shed and lay it all in the garden.

No pump.

My wife wanders over and leisurely informs me that she moved the pump into the house last year and it is still in a cupboard.

I swear quietly under my breath so she can't hear me. I put everything back in the shed and go and get the pump. After an hour or so trying to locate it in the sheds musty corners, I now resemble some sort of sweaty, dust and cobweb covered maniac.

I manage to fill the thing with water, boil multiple kettles so that the temperature does not immediately strip the skin from ones legs upon entry and finally release my children to frolic.

That was about two weeks ago. My children frolicked for about two hours and then returned to the house complaining of cold and proceeded to make every available seat and surface damp.
The next day the weather turned cold and blowy again but the paddling pool remained.

It just sits there now, slowly filling with muddy rain water and glowering at me from the bottom of the garden.
'Come and empty me and put me away' it seems to mock, ' you know that it will take frikking ages and that as soon as you have done it, the sun will come out and you will have to go through all the rigmarole of getting me out again'.

I have decided that I will just leave it out there for the moment, at least it gives me an excuse not to mow the lawn (and will kill a big patch of grass making it look awful when I eventually have to move it).
Don't even get me started on the frikking lawn!

Weak Chin

My wife insisted last night that my beard is making me look old beyond my years & demanded that I take swift action.
Dutifully I went up to the bathroom and gave it an almost terminal trimming.
I felt quite sad to see it go. I have been cultivating a bushier than usual 'Stroker' over the winter months as it gives me something to do with my fingers when I'm not doodling and (I thought) makes me look cool. I quite enjoy grooming it into interesting horns and shapes with the shower gel during my morning ablutions. Not to mention the simple joy of stroking it slowly whilst people at work talk to me (second only to slightly raising one eyebrow).
But ... sacrifices must be made for the ones we love so there is nothing for it but to give this face sheep a shearing.
I looked at the (more grey than brown) ball of little hairs that I had collected in the middle of a magazine centre spread with a sense of loss. Perhaps I could secretly stash the beard hair in a matchbox somewhere and take it out to look at every now and then to remind me of the beard that once was? I am actually really bad for stuff like this. I kept my old dreadlocks in a plastic bag at my parents house for years after I cut them off and I already have an old pill bottle with all my children's milk teeth in.
No, it's a slightly creepy and disgusting idea. I swallowed my sense of loss and chucked the estranged beard hair into the bathroom bin.

But looking at my face in the mirror with my new 'compact beard', I couldn't help but feel that my chin looked wrong. Without it's mighty cone of manly hair, my chin looks weak and tiny. My face looks badly designed. Like when you play around too much with the character creation menu in a video game and end up with a hero who looks as if their face was sat on when they were a child.

I have to walk around and live my life with this chin...oh God...what am I going to do?
I console myself with the old adage that ' the difference between a bad haircut and a good haircut is about three days' and decide to try and avoid contact with people until it has grown out a bit.
I can probably get away with talking behind my hand and wearing really high polo neck shirts for a while.