Lessons from a two year old: Christmas edition

Christmas is a time when families come together. Sometimes things explode, unwanted and unexpected, like an insidious grenade of a cracker that no-one pulled; or, if you’re really unlucky, like an Eastenders Christmas special.

But sometimes, Christmas is lovely. There's the tree, twinkling in the corner; the presents, frantically acquired and hastily wrapped, often the night before; the gently steaming mulled wine simmering on the stove; the alluring aromas of the roast dinner; the catch-ups on the sofa over a nice hot cup of tea and Sky Plus.

This Christmas was one of those Christmases. Not showy, or dramatic (beyond the Eastenders Christmas special); just family, reunited, under one roof, enjoying each other's company.

One person, above all, has loved the full house and the attention of doting family members. Rohan. He has been spoiled rotten. Not just with the presents (so many presents), or the newly acquired and exciting knowledge of Santa Claus, but by the constant stream of playmates and companions, the steady outpourings of love and affection, with him at the centre of it all.

But, as in life, sometimes people come, and then, after a stretch, they have to go. Sometimes you see them again, and sometimes you don’t. And the more you love them, the harder it is to accept it when they leave.

So it was today. After a seemingly endless morning of packing and unpacking the car – what appeared to be a mammoth task of Super Tetris proportions – it was finally time for Rohan's beloved Ajima (grandma) and Azoba (granddad) and Bua (auntie) to head back home to Shrivenham.

Moments earlier, my nephew was in high spirits, running around the hall and affectionately head-butting us all like a new-born lamb as his dad shuffled past out the door with yet another suitcase or bag of Boxing Day sales shopping to try and tessellate in the back seat of the car.

“Ro,” my sister explained, “Ajima, Azoba and Bua have to go back to Shrivenham now. That's why they're packing the car. Are you going to say goodbye to them?”

He looked up at her with a slight frown, not quite comprehending the full meaning of his mum’s words.

“Are we going to Shrivenham too?” he asked.

“No, baba,” my sister said gently. “Not today. There’s no room in the car! Look, there are too many bags! There’s hardly any room for poor Ajima in the back!”

He looked from my sister to me, as if for affirmation. I could see the cogs whirring: realisation, slowly starting to dawn.

“But we can go visit Shrivenham soon,” I piped in. “And it'll be your birthday soon, too, so we'll see them again then!”

My jaunty, optimistic C-Beebies tone, however, didn't seem to be having the desired effect. He was beginning to look increasingly bewildered by this unexpected turn of events.

My sister and I shared a quick, knowing glance, very much aware of what was coming. 

He was temporarily distracted by the onslaught of goodbye hugs and kisses, but there, in the doorway, the tears started to pool in his eyes.

“But I want to come!” he said. “I want to go in the car.”

“Let’s go into the lounge and you can stand on the sofa and look out the window and wave at them,” my sister suggested, deploying a tried and tested distraction technique.

We huddled him into the lounge and he clambered onto the sofa. “But,” he said again, bottom lip wobbling, “I want to go! I want to go in the car!”

“I know, sweetheart,” my sister said, cuddling him, “but look, there's no room for your car seat and we can't go in the car without your seat, can we? And look! Daddy's not going in the car, either. He’s coming back inside.”

“Daddy's not going?”

“No. Look, there he is. Wave!”

Outside, my brother-in-law hugged his family a final time and then came back into the house. As he entered the lounge, Rohan turned to him and said, sniffling, “I want my seat.”

At that moment, as I looked at my nephew and his adorably pitiful little face, I felt a tugging sensation deep in my chest – I knew that he would probably forget all about it in a few minutes time (ah, the joys of being a child), but nevertheless, it was recognition of a feeling most of us have felt many times before and will continue to feel, from now until the end of time. The sadness of saying goodbye to people that you love.

Lesson #4: Goodbyes never get any easier.

Gender and sexuality in Skyfall

[WARNING: CONTAINS SPOILERS]

First off, let me say how much I love a good Bond film. I reckon my inner teenage boy/geek derives just as much satisfaction from all the car chases, guns, gadgets and hot women that typifies the franchise as the next bloke.

Bond is a British institution, the epitome of a particular fantasy shared by men and women alike: the globe-trotting suave spy, living life dangerously, fighting for his country, defeating various madcap villains and saving the world, whilst still finding time to slake his thirst with a vodka martini, satisfy his libido with beautiful women in luxurious locations, and drive really fast, really expensive cars.

The appeal is not hard to see, really. He’s the hero men want to be and women want the chance to be with, even if only for one night (though it must be said one of the risks of this is almost-certain death… Bond girls tend to have about as much luck on the life expectancy front as the poor red shirts in Star Trek – more on that later).

Casino Royale, Daniel Craig’s first outing as the new Bond, is probably one of my favourite films to be released in the last ten years; on the whole, critics and fans alike seem to agree that it really did breathe new life into the series, saving it from the camp ridicule of Pierce Brosnan’s last few efforts and somehow making Bond feel current and relevant again (reflected by the film’s high score of 95% on Rotten Tomatoes). Reboots are always a risky business but, beyond all expectations, it just... worked.

For me, Royale is that rare beast of a thrilling action movie (Parkour! Fist fights on top of a crane! Jumbo jets!) that also manages to pack an emotional punch (That shower scene! Bond in love! Betrayal!). It’s also a film that remains agreeably satisfying on repeat viewings.

Quantum of Solace, blighted by the writer’s strike, was a far less satisfying entry in the canon, a lean and brutal slice of instantly forgettable nothinginess: all blunt vengeance and hard to follow shaky-cam action sequences.

So I approached Skyfall with a degree of caution, keen to see if it would live up to the hype and the high standard set by Casino Royale.

I came away from the cinema feeling conflicted. On the one hand, I felt as though I had enjoyed myself. It had certainly hit all the right notes: the sexy femme fatale (a beguiling Bérénice Marlohe); the memorably unhinged villain (Javier Bardem, though with distracting blond bouffant hairdo); thrilling action sequences (biking over the rooftops of the Grand Bazaar, a derailed Tube train, explosions); fantastic locations (Istanbul, Shanghai, London and the Scottish Highlands); snappy dialogue and witty one-liners (playful exchanges between Bond and Naomie Harris’ Eve and a brilliant turn by Ben Whishaw as the new Q); vintage cars (the Aston Martin DB5, first driven fifty years ago by Sean Connery’s Bond in Goldfinger). It even had the prescribed dose of emotional wallop (M’s demise and Bond’s subsequent breakdown).

Despite all of this, I still felt unsatisfied, as though something were missing. It felt a bit like I’d just consumed an Easter Egg – beautifully packaged and full of chocolatey goodness, but ultimately hollow.

Why had I not wholly embraced this latest Bond film as I had Casino Royale? Why the reservations? Why was I not as moved by M’s death as I had been Vesper’s? Even though I love Judi Dench and think she’s made of awesome?

I’m still trying to figure it all out. But one thing I do know for sure is that there are two specific things about this film that really bothered me.

#1 The Portrayal of Women

Now, I know that taking issue with Bond for exhibiting any kind of misogyny or chauvinism is about as pointless as expecting to open up a copy of The Sun at page 3 and not be visually assaulted by a pair of giant boobs.

The incontrovertible truth is thus: Bond girls are almost always disposable eye candy, there to provide a bit of glamour and a means for 007 to get his end away before dashing off to fell the next baddie. Character development is not usually a massive consideration (which is perhaps why Eva Green’s Vesper Lynd was such a pleasant surprise).

Normally, I can just about consciously decide to take my feminist hat off and get stuck in, with the same gusto (and slight after-the-act guilt) with which I attack a McDonalds double cheeseburger, i.e. I know it’s a bit wrong but I can still enjoy it.

But I found the fate of all three female characters in this film deeply troubling.

M (Judi Dench)

“What about M?” you may cry. “She doesn’t parade around in skimpy clothing, she’s not a love interest, and she’s the boss of MI6!”

Yes, she is, and once again I would like to express how much I love Judi Dench. She pulls off haughty, matriarchal and no nonsense unlike any other, hence her perfect fit for Queen Elizabeth I in Shakespeare in Love, a cameo which, despite the shortness in length (not much more than 8 minutes’ worth of screen time) earned her a Best Supporting Actress Oscar.

I love M. She’s a badass. She’s James Bond’s boss. She effortlessly commands the respect of her peers, and that of the hero most of all. Admittedly, there is the danger of her fitting the stereotypical profile of the ball-breaking, ruthless battle-axe devoid of compassion, a sort of Deborah Meaden meets Lady Macbeth, unsexed and duly divorced from the milk of kindness.

But there are soft edges to the otherwise steely M – her fondness for Bond, for instance, as noted by Ralph Fiennes’ Mallory, or the mentions of her late husband, which hint at a homely domesticity and affection at odds with her professional persona.

It seems Bond, too, feels perhaps a little more for her than just a cool deference and professional regard – cradling her lifeless body at the end, tears streaming down his rugged manly face, he looks very much as though he has regressed to boyhood, reliving the trauma of losing his parents so many years ago.

To use another Shakespeare reference, here’s the rub: badass though she may have been across the last three films, M is, in effect, refrigerated. First, reduced to vulnerable damsel in distress, then killed off and replaced by a man. (Sigh.)

Eve (Naomie Harris)

What’s this? A woman “of colour”? Holding a gun? Out in the field on a mission with Bond? As equals? Blimey! So far, so good, eh?

The presence of Naomie Harris as Eve in this film is most welcome; she’s a sort of anti-Halle Berry – no gratuitous emerging from the sea in an orange bikini for this lady.

Nope, instead, she’s the woman who kills Bond, though thankfully he harbours no hard feelings.

Here’s what was different about this Bond girl: playful flirting with Bond, yes, but throwaway one-night-stand sex, no; beautiful and competent, yes, but skimpy outfits or aggressive femme-fatale sexuality, no.

In fact, one of her exchanges with Bond very early on in the film knowingly riffs on gender stereotypes, as she snaps off one of her wing mirrors, to Bond’s arched-eyebrowed bemusement.

Not willing to be taken for a token bad woman driver, however, she purposely ploughs into oncoming traffic, proclaiming, as the second mirror snaps off, “I wasn’t using that one, either.”

Wisely, Bond does not utter a single word.

So what becomes of our smart, sassy, gun-toting, field agent heroine?

Well, she’s not refrigerated, which is a relief, and survives to see another day, but not before deciding that being out in the field is just too much for her to handle. Her surname is finally revealed (Moneypenny) and she takes up her new desk job as secretary. (Sigh.)

I do not mean to undervalue secretaries, but really?

Sévérine (Bérénice Marlohe)

Bérénice Marlohe’s Sévérine is such a textbook vampy seductress she’s borderline caricature. As she slinks around in her sheer, backless, evening gown, complete with obligatory plunging neckline and see-through panels, all dark lipstick and smoky eyes, you feel she might as well be walking round with a big fat sign on her head with WARNING: FEMME FATALE written on it in chunky black marker pen. Even more so once she takes a lazy drag from her cigarette in between breathy, cryptic exhortations about fear in her delightful French accent (it had to be French, n’est-ce pas?).

But then the writers introduce an element of complexity to her character, laying it on like a thin film of Nutella on a slice of bread (Tiger loaf, probs, seeded, a classy bread for a classy girl).

Bond spies a tattoo on her wrist – shock, horror! – from which he deduces that she is almost certainly the victim of exploitation, sold into prostitution from an early age and now chained to a madman.

The fear she talks about in her French accent makes it clear that her current employer/pimp is a bit of a nut job, and a scary one at that. Now, she is less femme fatale, more damsel in distress (yawn), the invisible placard on her forehead changed to read: “ABUSE VICTIM. PLEASE HELP.”

Ever the gentleman, Bond obliges, but not before creeping up on her in the shower first (er…) and indulging in a spot of sexy time.

All does not end well for Sévérine, unfortunately, like so many of her predecessors. Instead, she is tied up, beaten, gagged and set up as target practice for the men, William Tell style.

If you were in any doubt of her disposability before, you are disabused now, as Bond takes his aim at the shot glass propped unceremoniously on top of her head and misses, and baddie Silva’s bullet finds its final resting place in her head.

“What do you make of that, Mr Bond?” he says, or something to that effect, to which Bond quips, “That’s a waste of good scotch.”

I think we were supposed to laugh at that witty aside. I didn’t. Abuse victim shot in the head by her abuser, followed by tasteless joke at her expense? Ick.

#2 The Portrayal of the Villain

Ah, Silva. He’s a bit like The Joker crossed with Moriarty crossed with Boris Johnson (seriously, look at his HAIR, what is going on with that??). Mad as a box of frogs (or perhaps rats), Silva is Bond gone wrong – star agent turned rogue, consumed by his desire to visit vengeance upon his former employer, M, who left him to suffer and die at the hands of some very nasty people.

But, as with most antagonists in this type of adventure story, his similarities to the hero must be offset by some noticeable differences, just so we’re all clear how evil he is.

The fact that he’s as loopy as Thorpe Park’s Colossus is one.

And the introduction of sexual ambiguity is another. Silva clearly enjoys having the one and only James Bond tied to a chair, and not just for the satisfaction of having captured M’s new favourite.

As he caresses his nemesis’ shirt lapels, slowly loosening each button with the tenderness of a lover, caressing his bullet wound (no that’s not a euphemism) and stroking his thighs, it would appear that Silva’s tastes extend further than vampy French seductresses.

But this is also a man who repeatedly calls M “Mommy”. He has serious issues.

So the whole thigh stroking, undressing malarkey, what is that? Is it just a calculated piece of theatrics, intended to psyche out his opponent? Is it genuine physical attraction? Or plain, random loopiness?

My issue with this Nutella layer of complexity, however, is quite simple: when it comes to setting up your hero and your villain, there is a fine line between ambiguity and implicit moral judgment. It’s difficult to ignore the fact that Silva’s queerness is wrapped up in a package of anarchy, deviance and villainy, and it feels as though the writers have thrown this in to his character to help distinguish him from the virile, masculine, heterosexual hero, on the side of the good and the right, who prefers his love interests to be foxy and female, thank you very much, whatever he might say (“What makes you think this is my first time?” he tells Silva).

I really dislike this kind of shorthand (e.g. nonconformity and queerness = evil). It’s lazy and it’s dangerous, because the more of it there is, the more it helps to reinforce harmful stereotypes.

*

In conclusion, I wanted to love Skyfall, I really did. But these two things, which, I dunno, may seem minor to some, niggled at me persistently like a blasted bedbug bite. 

It’s a bit like meeting someone at a party – a really good-looking, smart, sophisticated, funny, charming person who makes you think, “Eh up, you’re a bit of alright!” – and then they go and ruin it all by doing something deeply unattractive like telling a Jimmy Saville joke or eating their canapés with their mouth wide open. 

And then, all you can see, all you can hear for the rest of the night, is the incessant grinding of their teeth and the grim wet smack of their tongue.  

Yadgar Café Review

Excitingly, I had my first proper restaurant review published online yesterday on Manchester Confidential:
http://www.manchesterconfidential.co.uk/Food-and-Drink/Indian/Yadgar-Caf-Review

So I'm finally on my way to being a food columnist! :D Like Carrie Bradshaw, but more awesome.

The original review I wrote was about twice as long. I don't begrudge the cuts at all, and to be honest, I do have a propensity to ramble. But I thought it'd be nice to post the full, unabridged version here, because I can.

Also noteworthy is that they edited my original score down! Lest you think my 13.5 ungenerous... :)

*

Yadgar Café Review

Alaka Prodhan visits a Northern Quarter stalwart in search of cheap, authentic curry

One thing I’ve learned about Asian cuisine over the years is that often, the most mouth-wateringly authentic and satisfying food can be found in the most unassuming of places: simple, sometimes dingy hole in the walls, tucked away down a back alley, with dog-eared menus (if any), cheap furniture and plastic tablecloths. Not much to look at it, but packs a punch. Diamonds in the rough.

Places like this, though they may seem unappealing initially, nevertheless draw huge crowds of locals who appreciate good food, and return, day after day, year after year, for good-value, simple, honest cooking.

Yadgar Café is a bit like that. This little curry house on Thomas Street must surely be one of the Northern Quarter’s oldest establishments. Its bright yellow and pink signage with its chunky, bubble letters – cheerily unfashionable – seems almost gaudy and out of place amongst the more slick, sophisticated eateries that surround it; the newer, trendier Thomases, Tusks, and Teacups.

Yadgar Café – 71 Thomas Street

But this is one of the reasons why I love the Northern Quarter. Solid, reliable old handers like Yadgar brush shoulders with well-presented, ambitious newcomers looking to make their mark with nary a sign of suspicion or antagonism. It just all adds to the mix.

I popped in to Yadgar Café during my Friday lunchtime to try their legendary “three curries & rice”, keen to see if, after 25 years, they still “had it”.

On entering, one of the first things I noticed was the diversity of the clientele. In one corner, a grizzly middle-aged fellow in a black leather jacket attacked his curry with gusto; a few tables down, two young men in hoodies – students, probably – were chatting over their chappatis; next to them a woman in her mid-twenties set down her oversized handbag on the floor and hung up her grey, woollen coat (Zara, I reckon) on the back of her chair; and behind her, a businessman in a dark navy suit and tan brogues stroked his slightly stubbled chin whilst perusing the menu. And then there was me: a fellow south Asian looking to satisfy her curry fix.

I went up the counter and asked for the three curries and rice (£6).

“Which are your best three?” I asked.

“They’re all good,” the gentleman said with a wry smile and noncommittal shrug. He lifted the lids of the silver containers, revealing a decent range of curries spanning meat and veg: chicken karahi; lamb karahi; lamb and saag (spinach - a special, I was told); lamb keema (minced lamb); mixed veg (potatoes, carrots and peas from the looks of it); kofta (meatballs) and egg; chana (chickpeas); dahl (lentils).

After a moment’s indecision (a common affliction for me when faced with too many tasty options) I decided on the chicken karahi, lamb saag and mixed veg. To go with it, I opted for the fried pilau rice over the standard white rice. I also wanted to some lamb chops on the side, but to my dismay, I was told that they no longer serve them due to low demand. Instead, I ordered a portion of chicken tikka (£3) and one seekh kebab (50p).

I was told that there would be a five to ten minute wait on the chicken tikka and the seekh kebab as he had to cook it for me. I said that was fine and sat down at one of the round, wooden tables with my loaded plate.

Rice and three curries: fried pilau rice with mixed veg, lamb saag and chicken karahi

Next mini-dilemma: where to begin? I decided to go anti-clockwise, starting with the chicken karahi first:

Chicken karahi

I tentatively poked a piece with my fork. Chicken breast. I’m not usually a big fan of chicken breast, preferring the more tender thigh, but my fork sliced easily through it. So far, so good.

I popped it in my mouth. Whoa. Taste explosion. A burst of intense flavour, and then an immediate kick from the red and green chillies provided a rush of heat: controlled, though, and not too overpowering.

Now, despite my south Asian heritage, I’m not the best when it comes to chilli hotness, much to the continued disbelief and mockery of friends and family, but this was seriously good.

The pilau rice, meanwhile, was OK but I was a little put off by the overload of spice, as if someone went a bit crazy with the garam masala. I reflected that plain rice might have been a better match to offset the strong flavours of the curry.

I snaffled down more chicken karahi, but after about four or five mouthfuls, my nose started to run. Uh oh. I pushed through, regardless, the sheer tastiness winning out over the tingling sensation in my mouth. Thankfully there were jugs of cold tap water and upturned silver cups on every table, so I quickly took advantage.

Time to turn the wheel o’ curry and try curry number two:

Lamb saag

Lamb saag is not a particularly appetising-looking dish, looking alarmingly, as it does, like dark green pond scum, but I was not perturbed by this. Instead I was heartened to see two curries next to each other which could easily be distinguished from one another. One pet peeve I have about some Indian restaurants is when you order three or four curries and they all look (and taste) kind of the same, since it’s obvious they all share the same generic base – lazy and inauthentic.

Not so here. I prodded my lamb, as I had the chicken. Encouragingly, it flaked under my fork, falling neatly away from the bone.

Like the karahi chicken, this, too, did not disappoint. The texture and consistency was amazing, the lamb tender, and the smooth spinach melted in my mouth. My nose caught a welcome respite, too, as this curry didn’t have the heat of the last one, but still matched it in flavour.

On to the mixed veg:

Mixed veg

Potatoes, carrots and peas, nicely spiced. This one was alright but underwhelming compared to the last two. Then again, I tend to lean more heavily towards meat than veg in my personal preferences, so that might have something to do with it.

At 1.30pm there was a lull in the café, but towards 2pm a second wave of hungry lunch-breakers rolled in: postal workers in luminous vests sat down, their lanyard IDs swinging perilously close to their curry; more suits; singles and pairs.

Yadgar Café during a brief lull

My chicken tikka and seekh kebab finally arrived, with a cursory portion of side salad and mint yoghurt and chutney:

Chicken tikka and seekh kebab

I tried the chicken tikka first. It certainly looked promising, but it was a bit dry. Disappointing. Also, something in the marinade threw off the balance of the flavours but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. Clove, perhaps, or star anise.

The seekh kebab, though, was excellent. Very tender and delicious without having to recourse to mouth-burning chillies (another of my pet peeves when it comes to seekh kebabs – they do not need to be hot to be flavoursome and this proved my point perfectly). I could easily have eaten another one.

By this point I was really slowing up. I think if I had more space in my stomach, or if I were sharing with a friend, I would have gone for a chappati to go with the kebabs. That might have helped counter the dryness of the chicken too. Next time.

All in all, my Indian feast for one (which could have easily been for two) cost me £9.50. I left with a doggy bag, a slightly runny nose, and a satisfied smile on my face. The mixed veg and chicken tikka were only disappointing in comparison to the other superior, authentic dishes on offer. For those on the go looking for relatively cheap, filling curry that tastes homemade, you’d do well to try this long-standing hole in the wall. Yadgar Café definitely still has it.

Follow Alaka on Twitter @EchoingBronze

ALL SCORED CONFIDENTIAL REVIEWS ARE IMPARTIAL. 

Yadgar Café, 71 Thomas Street, Manchester, M4 1ES.

Rating: 15/20

Food: 8/10
Service: 4/5
Ambience: 3/5

Lessons from a two year old

So if you don't already know, I am currently living in Gatley with my sister, her husband and their little boy (my nephew), Rohan.

Rohan is 2 years old and 10 months. I am aware that I may be biased, but given that I have very little affection for children in general (it more usually tends towards fear/loathing), and suffer from the condition I like to call "Baby Fear", even I have to admit that he is pretty cute, as kids go.

If you don't believe me, feast your eyes on this:

His eyelashes put Revlon mascara to shame

Cute, eh? :)

Having been away for almost a year and missed out on some major milestones of his development, the kind that seem to tot up at an alarming rate at this age, it's actually quite nice to be around on a more everyday basis and see these changes as they happen in real time.

Amidst carrying out auntie duties, I've also found that living with a 2 year old can give you an interesting new perspective on life. Because, let's face it, we're at very different stages of our lives, Rohan and me. I'm 26 years old, jobless, penniless, living at home, facing an ongoing quarter-life crisis of not knowing what to do – what I want to do, what I should be doing – and spending each day battling the urge to just slob about in my Cookie Monster onesie eating bowls of Cookie Crisp and faffing about on the Internets all day. And Rohan. Well, Rohan has to battle the everyday trauma of not being allowed to watch more than 2 episodes of Abney and Teal before bedtime. Seems pretty trivial to me, but I know it's no laughing matter for him.

But you know what, at least he knows what he wants. He wants to sit in his Buzz Lightyear chair, and watch loads of Abney and Teal, because that's what he loves and that's what he wants to do. And he will stop at nothing to try and get it. Seriously, if you've seen the determination and range of tactics he uses on my sister everyday come 6/6.30pm you would be impressed.

You see? Determination, tenacity and creativity. Good lessons.

Lately though, one of the struggles he and my sister have both been facing together is a big hurdle in his child development: toilet training. This is an ongoing, and arduous process, and one which Rohan is not finding easy. But on the flipside, he is a mini prodigy when it comes to communication. My inner academic nerd and my English Literature heart sing at his love of words, his love of stories, his ever-burgeoning vocabulary, his swiftness at picking up new phrases and grammatical structures, and how much he loves to learn. He already knows all the letters of the alphabet and can count up to 30. Amazing! So that made me realise Lesson #1:

Lesson #1: You can't always be good at everything... and that's OK.  

The main thing is that he's learning. And he'll get there – in his own time.

I've also observed that when you have to jump over a hurdle of such magnitude as using a grown up toilet and swapping the snug safety net of your nappy for teeny Thomas/Spiderman underpants, you have to do it in stages!

For example, at the moment, Rohan is finding doing "shushu" (a wee) is a lot easier to manage than "hagu" (a poo). For some reason, letting go of his wee in the potty is a lot less momentous than doing a poo. I've seen him give himself constipation out of crippling, psychological fear of pooing out of his nappy. I've seen him hopping about on one leg, face scrunched up in intense pain, in a total quandary, because he desperately needs to go but is terrified of his sudden, enforced, nappyless existence. "I want my Pull-Ups!" he cries. So he takes off his undies, puts his Pull-Ups on, and lets go. This taught me another valuable lesson:

Lesson #2: Change is scary. And sometimes, wallowing in your own shit is preferable to the alternative because it's more comfortable and it's what you're used to

But that does not mean that you shouldn't throw your own nappy out of the window, and be free. So this made me think: What's your nappy? What shit are you wallowing in?

Clearly, for Rohan, overcoming his psychological poo barrier will take some time, and sometimes it's not good to force it (hence distressing constipation fear complex). But he is making excellent progress on the wee front. In fact, just this morning this is what I heard coming from the bathroom:

Rohan: "Mummy! Mummy! I did it!"
Sis: "You did it? Let's see?"
Rohan: "I did it!"
Sis: "Wow, you did! And it's all in the bowl, too! Well done!"
Rohan: "I'm not scared of the toilet anymore! I'm not scared of the toilet anymore! I'm echellent."
Sis: "Yes, you are excellent."

Bless. He sounded SO chuffed, and well he should be. But you don't go from wet nappies to perfect toilet technique straightaway. Just the other week, the poor chap let one go on the floor of Coop whilst out shopping with Daddy. And the other day, the wee went half in the loo and half on the toilet seat. Probably an angling issue. Now, if Rohan spent all his time thinking about these missteps and misfires and weighed himself down with feelings of shame, or guilt, or despair, he would never get anywhere. In fact he'd probably go off the idea of toilets altogether and lead a sad, hermit life with only his nappy for company. Which brings me nicely to Lesson #3:

Lesson #3: Don't be afraid to get wee on the bowl. 

Mistakes happen. But that's how you learn.

I think this is a great lesson for me, especially, because I understand Rohan's performance anxiety. Sometimes I get so scared of failing that I don't even try, and that's probably the biggest mistake of them all.

They say “Jump”, you say “How High?”

On Saturday, I was lucky enough to be present at the last night of athletics at the Paralympics Games. After a summer spent glued to my TV and laptop, dipping in and out of the UEFA European Football Championships, Wimbledon, then the Olympics and Paralympics, I was pretty excited to be in the thick of it: 80,000 people all around me, shouting, whistling, clapping, flag waving, Mexican waving – all of us, looking forward to an evening of sporting spectacle.

There was definitely a hint of disappointment at the lack of British interest – with every new event that flashed up on the big screen, our eyes scoured the competitors list for those three magical letters, but instead met the likes of RUS, AUS, CHN, BRA, MEX, TUN…. But it didn’t matter. We came in the spirit of the Games: to celebrate and enjoy sporting excellence. Whichever nation, whichever category, whether on foot, or blades, or wheels; whether sitting, standing, jumping or leaping, we just wanted to see something extraordinary. And most of all, we really wanted the athletes to do well.

A brilliant example of this, for me, was the Men’s High Jump – F46 final, which happened to be the event closest to where I was sitting in the stadium. Now, I don’t recall the last time I ever watched the high jump. I’m not sure I ever have. In fact, the closest I’ve come in recent years to being a spectator of men launching themselves over poles was in Vang Vieng earlier this year, where the men in question were extremely drunk, and the pole was on fire… so hardly a spectacle of sporting excellence.

I don’t know how many of the people around me happened to be high jump enthusiasts or aficionados; I suspect that, like me, they had hitherto taken little interest in it. But that didn’t matter. Regardless of what may have been happening in other parts of the arena, my section of the stands were quick to display our loyalty to what we felt was ‘our’ event. Given our proximity to the action, I think a lot of us felt it was, firstly, only polite to give the competitors as much of our attention as possible, and secondly, our duty to egg them on. And so, with every competitor who limbered up and took his place to start his running jump, we showed our support. As they stood there, some shifting their weight from side to side, others with hands resolutely on hips, silently surveying the pole in front of them, we put our hands together – slowly at first, a sort of gentle nudge, a "Go ON, son!", then gradually building, picking up pace once they started their approach, evolving into a frenzied multitude of claps, an approximation of the kind of actual applause we desperately wanted to give them once they cleared that bar, as if with our hands alone we could will them to victory. It didn't always work, of course. Sometimes, our claps were woefully mistimed – in our eagerness, we peaked before the poor man had even started moving, almost comically out of step with his own efforts, which could only have been off-putting. And sometimes, he just didn't quite make it – a stray foot grazed the bar and brought it toppling down, and a collective gasp or groan rippled across the stands.

But as more and more bars toppled, and more competitors dropped out of the running, something became clear. We seemed to be making a difference. The athletes could hear us down there, and they began to show us their appreciation. One man in particular, Maciej Lepiato from Poland, seemed to relish the attention. Every jump he made seemed effortless, cleared with inches to spare. Soon, when he stepped up to take his next jump, he turned to us first and raised his hands above his head, bringing them together. The gesture was clear – a request. It said: “Now”. And willingly, we obeyed. Through my binoculars I could see him nodding his head, jumping up and down on the spot, perhaps having a few words with himself to get himself going, as we began our thunderous crescendo. Then, he propelled himself once more towards the bar, and over it, to rapturous applause. 

That night, Maciej Lepiato not only jumped his way to gold, and to the title of Paralympic champion, he also broke the world record, and we cheered ourselves hoarse watching him do it. Even the commentators noticed. “Just listen to that,” they said, with a warm, incredulous laugh, as the cheers spread from one end to the rest of the stadium, “I don’t think any of these athletes have ever done a high jump in front of 80,000 people.”

There were many special moments that night. Just being there in the heart of the Olympic Park, on the last night of sport of what has been one of the best Olympic and Paralympic games ever, was pretty incredible. And then, inside the stadium, so many records and personal bests were surpassed and remade, with the entire evening’s displays of athleticism, talent and skill coming to a fitting end as Oscar Pistorius stormed to victory in the Men’s 400m – T44 Final. But I think cheering on Maciej Lepiato to victory was my favourite, because I felt like, in some small way, I had contributed to his success.

Part of me thinks that’s silly, but then you only have to look at how many athletes have thanked the crowds for their overwhelming support and acknowledged the part that’s had to play in their own personal success to think otherwise. When you have 80,000 people cheering you on and willing you to succeed, how can that possibly not have an effect?

One of the reasons sport is so addictive is because you have big themes writ large. I think truly successful people succeed because they have a certain level of innate talent, but even if they don’t, they make up for that through sheer commitment, dedication and hard work. But they also need self-belief.  They have to push through countless false starts and failures and setbacks and just keep going. They succeed where countless others simply gave up. (Just look at Andy Murray!) And the abiding lesson I think I’m going to take from these Games is that, when you have all of that, AND the belief of others, there’s no limit to what you can achieve.

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