Wow. We have raised a child to the age of 18. Years, nogal.
It seems incredible. It’s taken both forever and no time at all.
Would we do it all over again? Well, we will have done in about 2½ years time.
But let’s leave it at that, shall we? Job(s) done.
Happy birthday to the Boy Wonder.
It’s been a week and a half.
Not chronologically. Nothing changed there. But this week has been a mission. One in which I eventually succeeded, but at what cost?
Lol. I’ll live.
But, with next week and weekend (more on that later) looking rather busy/hectic/exciting, I’m taking it easy for this next couple of days.
Please forgive me if I extend that to blogging as well.
Careful now.
The day, that is.
With Mrs 6000 waking at 4am for a trip to Johannesbeagle, last night’s slumbers were restless at best. No-one sleeps well when they have to be up that early. And therefore, by extension, no-one who is sleeping next to someone who has to be up that early sleeps well either.
But there was still life to live here and plenty to be done. School happened. Jobs happened. Some jobs took much longer than they should have done, the blame for this being equally shared between them being a little more difficult than was anticipated, and it being “today me” that was doing them.
But then they did get done and everyone got to their extra mural stuff on time, and everyone got picked up from their extra mural stuff on time.
And that even if I popped up to the top floor of the car park near to where the Boy Wonder was coaching the Dodgeball juniors, just because Cape Town looked lovely this evening.
Especially if you overlook the foreground.
Parent Teacher meetings, the bane of any student’s life, were done via the magic of Google Meet, from hotel lobbies and school car parks, and were both good and great.
And we all made it home safely.
There was dinner: basic, but delicious.
There is a rather nice Bordeaux Blend.
There is some UCL football.
But more than any of these things, there is a bed.
Today is all about football. I played 5-a-side this morning, during which I was compared to both Ibrahimovic and del Piero. Sadly, it was Keith Ibrahimovic, a plumber from Aylesbury, and Jennifer del Piero, a postgraduate history student from Boston. Still: it’s a start.
And just now, I’m going to put on my big boy pants and brace watching United at Wolves. Such is the injury crisis at Bramall Lane, I think Keith and Jennifer are both on the bench.
But if today is all about football. And it is – I just said that – yesterday was all about horse.
An early start in the grey, drizzly conditions out at Hout Bay for Little Miss 6000 to take half a ton of well-muscled ex-racehorse around the course at a show there:
And then quickly home for a shower and a change before heading out to Kenilworth Racecourse to watch Mrs 6000’s favourite horse come second in a very, very competitive field.
It was an amazing result.
A great day out then, although the weather was distinctly un-February-like: cold, wet, grey. But once you’re wet once, you’re wet. And the fun takes away the cold.
Sort of.
Sean Dyche makes a good point:
It’s true. Kids are very impressionable. When I were a lad, whenever we saw anything different or exciting in the football over the weekend, there would be loads of us trying it out in the playground on Monday morning. I wonder how many kids were “moving the ball” (and the foam) before taking their free kicks, after Ivan Toney did it, and after it was praised so roundly by all the pundits?
As we remarked at the time, moving the ball might have been seen as being “a bit clever”. But as soon as he moved the foam as well, well, it was clear that he knew he was cheating.
Sure, it’s not the biggest thing in the world, but it is symptomatic of the way that some bits of football are going. And the well-paid, “celebrity” pundits sitting in the cosy, warm studios are – for some weird reason – encouraging it.
So why not start with the small stuff and actually note that Toney was deliberately breaking the rules, rather than admiring his actions? Just say that it was wrong. You don’t have to want him to be banned for 8 months: he can do that himself.
Also, I quite enjoyed this quote because he’s basically taken three whole paragraphs to just say “Fuck you, Michael Owen”.
It’s something I regularly find very easy to condense into just those four words.
Oh, and also, one more thing: I put this graphic up on our football team Whatsapp group this morning and no fewer than six people agreed with it. All of them dads. We’re bringing up our kids right. Forza.