“I don’t like it.

Why don’t you like it?

I don’t like it.”

It’s a simple enough conversation, played out with a two year old, who doesn’t quite have the language development to articulate what she really wants to say.

Yet they are four words I try my hardest to stop Lauren from actually saying.

Sure there will be things that she won’t like, but it should never be the default position – as it often is with kids – with unimaginative adults; for me.

I was/am terrible at proclaiming my dislike for something. Look, textures, colour, squeamish sensation it leaves – all come before taste in deciding if I will try something. If I think I’ve once had something similar before, it means that I’ll discount everything else from that family of food groups – for life.

But when was the last time I actually tried the things I dislike – and how hampered are my choices based on distant, historical experiences that may or may not have actually been based in reality – or a preconceived view?

Prawns, mussels, sweet German wine, whisky, algebra, Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version of War of the Worlds – just some of the things that instantly spring to mind. I can’t remember trying them in the last 10 years – so how do I know that I do not like them now?

OK – so the last thing on that list of dislikes didn’t instantly spring to mind, but it is the basis for writing that typically, longwinded intro. I saw a tweet the other week from Jo Borg stating that she was listening to the War of the Worlds album. If you’re not familiar with it, the album is a musical adaptation of H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds. Its cast includes Richard Burton, Phil Lynott and David Essex. It is a Prog Rock album.

A Prog Rock album. Hmm.

The reason for the dislike is simple. It was one of those albums that my dad owned. The sort of album that he would play and play and play. Over and over again. He did the same with Tracey Chapman and Dire Strait’s ‘Brothers in Arms’. He still does it with Paul Simon’s ‘Gracelands’. It’s as though he is trying to beat you in to submission, but in reality he does nothing but drive a wedge between you – and the object of desire he is trying to school you in.

He played War of the Worlds in the house. He played it in the car. He drove that wedge; that Prog Rock-laced tale of destruction – between me and Jeff Wayne.

Thanks to Spotify I now have the chance to revisit my youth. To go back and try the albums I thought I once hated – the artists I showed no real interest in – to see if the passing years and varying changes in taste have altered my view on their work.

In the case of the War of the Worlds, the answer is a resounding – not really. Ha!

Actually it is a massive no, but then there are parts of the album that did make me appreciate, or at least view it in a slightly different way. I loved the Burton narrative that runs all the way through it. It makes me want to seek out more of his films, his spoken word work – poetry, prose – that sort of thing. I found that the Parson is played by Thin Lizzy’s Phil Lynott. He seems to have a strange, almost annoying American accent in it – but he still comes through with a great singing voice.

It made me think about reading the book.

The most important revision was of the musicianship on the album. Most of it is overblown, near nauseating nonsense, but then there’s work on there – bass, keys, percussion – that flirts with a more late 70s disco/funk sound. You’ll find this on the track “The Artilleryman and the Fighting Machine”. All I could think when listening to that track was “how good could this be with a Moroder/Cowley/Kervorkian remix?” How good indeed!

I disliked the lead track “Forever Autumn” in my childhood, and that attitude has not changed. As the vocals kick in I found myself squirming in my bus seat – desperate to fast forward, but refusing; testing this new – can I learn to like it – theory for as long as possible. Albums, in the main, live and die by the quality of their lead tracks. This always kills it for me.

So it didn’t work. But this is not the end of this experiment. Onwards and upwards – or should that read downwards, in to the sea – for fish, most kinds of fish, are something I will readily admit to disliking without trying – without ever going back to.

But then, how do I really know if this view is true?

Why not try your very own War of the Worlds experiment today. Find an album, a food group – anything you can immediately claim to dislike, and see if that view still rings true.

How could I have know when I woke up this morning, that I would spend most of my lunch hour stood across the other side of a post office counter looking at myself?

That my usual actions – those of a forgetful, last minute as always type of present buyer would bring me directly in to contact with my own moment of serendipity?

As I slowly inched towards the counter, I noticed the cashier’s name badge read Chris. Nothing strange in that I thought, not even if the cashier wasn’t male. Where it took a turn for the unexpected was from the point I placed my parcel on the counter.

“That’s me” the other Chris said.

I followed the line of her sight to the address section of the parcel. There, in my finest scrawl was my Dad’s name and address. I looked back up, noticing the “Chris” on her name badge once more.

“Me too” I said.

We both smiled. She explained that her name was Christine King; I replied that mine was Chris King – though we both already knew that.

She licked the back of my stamp – no euphemisms, just an overly attentive service. I paid, we smiled again, and that was it.

If this was a Hollywood movie, I might have gone back to the post office at closing time – pretending to be going somewhere whilst accidentally bumping in to the other Chris. We’d laugh, we’d call each other Chris in that mock surprised manner, then we’d go for a drink and recount the details of our past that had led to this life changing moment; our kismet.

But this is Leeds; not Hollywood. I’m a happily married father, and to be honest – all I cared about from that point was where I was going to get my lunch.

But then, as I went to find food; something took a hold of my imagination – whirling my thoughts around a concept of this being more than just a coincidence – more than just a brief moment in time.

There’s always that plausible moment when you meet someone with the same surname, that you joke you may be some distant relation, brought together to realign the family tree – but not me. I owe my name, not just to my parents – but to the advancements of the German army in both world wars.

See – our family name was originally Kaiser. It might have been perfectly acceptable to have been a Kaiser in England in 1913 – but after 1914, not so. The difficulties experienced through such a surname in one Great War were not going to carry over in to 1939 and through the official means – the Kaisers became the Kings.

So if we couldn’t have been related, why else where we stood across from each other at that very moment?

Did numbers play a part in it all? Was it the one wife I’d left London for to spend my life with in Leeds – the city where I met the other Chris? The two failed A’ Levels that curtailed my chances of that decent career in the city? Or the four knee operations that I bemoan have directed my life in my darkest moments of pain? It could even be the dozen or so roles I’ve had – that on face value look a mismatch of jobs I wanted or jobs I had to take, but were really stepping stones towards where I am now – none of which were chosen, all destined for.

So maybe it is all down to a higher power? I often “romantically” recall the fact that I only got together with Amy in a field in Glastonbury because something stopped me trying to sell my ticket that year. Was it the guiding hand of something only faith can explain – err, no. It was a mate advising me that I couldn’t sell my ticket as you needed photographic ID with name and date of birth on to pass through security.

My imagination even tried to take it this moment on further; trying to convince me that I would have had a different lunch were it not for that chance meeting – that I had immeasurably changed another person’s life, just because of my name – that I could have gone to any cashier thanks to the new, bonkers ticketing system the post office uses, but fate even intervened in that.

The reality is that nothing more than a coincidence was at play here. Two Chris Kings met over a Father’s day present. She was there to do her job; I was there because I forgot to buy something online and wanted a cheaper postage option.

But did anything good come of it?

Shortly after we exchanged our last smile, I noticed she went back to the post bags and moved my gift from the standard first class to one marked up special. Now there’s every chance she had initially put it in the wrong bag, but wouldn’t it be nice to think that she did something helpful just to make sure my gift gets there in good time for Father’s day – I’ll only know when I phone my Dad on Sunday.

But then I do know, for certain, that one thing changed from all of this. When I started the day I had intended to write a completely different blog post. That of course has been shelved until after this one. I may never write the original piece – the mood I was in, the mood I continued to be in throughout the morning, changed almost in an instant after my chance meeting. I knew I had to write about it; had to share it with at least one other person.

Possibly even another Chris King who may read this blog*

(*Though I imagine that there is nothing romantic about that, more so someone who simply put their own name in to Google and stumbled across this site)

As I sit here listening to Daphne “Change” (great track by the way, you’ll love it – or at least I will try to encourage you to love it), it’s starting to occur to me that change is somewhat dominating our lives at the moment.

We watch a cartoon called Humf, where the main character this morning proclaimed his sheer delight at the fact he could change his mind on the things he likes. Obviously the lyrics of the record I’m listening to are all about people changing their minds – I even opted for a beer from the fridge, when I had initially gone to the kitchen for a glass of wine before I started to write this.

But then those examples of change are nothing compared to what you are going through right now.

Every day it is as though something happens to flip your whole world upside down – making you do something completely different to how you start the day each morning.

Looking at them in their simplest form, it usually involves an adult telling you that we need to do something that goes against what you actually like doing. Encouraging you to grow up, without actually asking you if that is what you want to do.

In the last week you have moved up a class at nursery. This will undoubtedly mean a change of scenery, key worker, possibly even a change of classmates – though you will know most of them. It will mean leaving behind your familiar play room, the key worker who has always been there to encourage you over the last year; even those friends who haven’t quite reached the age where they can move up.

We as parents have lied to you for the first time (I think?). We’ve taken your dummy away from you – because we feel that at two, you shouldn’t be so reliant on something comforting to get you to sleep. We did this by collecting all your old dummies up and putting them in a bag. Mum then hung them on the outside of the front door. We told you that if they were gone by the time you both went to check – that other babies wanted and needed them more than you. In reality your Mum simply went out, took them out of the bag and threw them away. I don’t doubt that it will be the only time we ever use such a tactic, but it’s still something new to us; a change to the way we parent.

You’ve recently moved from a cot to a bed. This has been a massive change, as it enables you to exert some control over how you go to bed. Previously we’d give you a bottle, a dummy, put you in your cot and you’d be contained – seems a better word than trapped – until you really wanted to get up in the morning. Now you just get out of bed, open your door and let us know exactly how you feel about being stuck in your room. If it’s still night time, then we have to come and sit on your floor and wait for you to be ready – this change affects us all.

On top of all of that, we are also in the process of potty training you. This change will mean we no longer have to change you – a double change then. You will soon be able to go to toilet just as big girls do – being a big girl is important to you. It’s a difficult process. You don’t always go where you should – often behind the curtains – but your command of when you want to go is improving.

This may seem like a lot for you to be going through at one stage, but then it’s clear to me that this is just the start. We’ve night time bottles to get rid of; new likes and dislikes that will emerge. There’s another class at nursery; then there are new schools for you to go to. The biggest change I fear will come from the changes to your body. I think I might need a book to teach me how to explain everything to you properly – that, or hide behind your Mum.

The thing we most want you to understand as you grow older is that whatever changes do happen, you do not approach them on your own. Mum and I have both been through a lot of change – school, work, where we live and who we have in our lives. Just talk to us, open up to us – we are here to reassure you that nothing is set in stone. If you don’t like something – you have the power to change it; just as we have. We wouldn’t know each other had we not changed something – so plenty of good does come from new beginnings. It’s not all about lost dummies and wet carpets.

You even forced us to change.

Before you there was one life; after you were born, a completely different one. Yes we still do a lot of the same things we did before you were born, but very little matters as much as you. You were a change worth embracing, and we are grateful that you gave us the opportunity to change.

But with all of this talk of change, be sure in the knowledge that our love for you will never alter; no matter what arguments we may have, how you may feel you are being punished or even when we are being “unfair”. Our love will remain our one true constant to you.

That feeling will never change.

I was once told that through sport, I lived a double life.

I disagreed. My view was that what I did was no different to how others involved in amateur sport lived their lives. I had a decent job, a part-time hobby and a dedication to the sport I played.

But then if I introduced myself to anyone new. Told them what I did. How I made my living; where I would be on a Friday night – what I would then be doing on a Saturday morning – a lack of understanding would permeate through the rest of our conversation. They simply refused to believe me.

The job meant working at different European sites. The hobby was as an events reviewer for DJ Magazine. The sport – Lawn Bowls. See, the first two aspects were fine – it was when I tried to present the case for the third – the most important aspect of the three that all belief exited the conversation – and doubt; near mocking was all we had left. It was as though the two components of my life simply could not exist together.

There are a host of truths that bowlers often claim as myth, which I have always been more than happy to cover in those introductions. The primary truth thrown at us is that the game is played only by old people – who only have bowls and Werther’s Originals to occupy their days. The next claim is that the game is boring to watch. That nothing happens and that it can’t really be a sport if all you are doing is rolling a ball along the ground. The final view is that it looks old fashioned – that no sport should ever expect you to wear grey trousers or a tie.

The problem those of us actively involved in the game have is that we can try our hardest to dismiss those points as misguided – yet deep down we accept that there is more than a hint of truth to them.

More people over 50 will play the game than those under 50. I played in a team of 16 last night, with only one bowler younger than me – with the majority of the remaining 14 close on 25 years older than me. They may well be past their “sell by date” in terms of career development or other sports, but it doesn’t mean that they no longer have that sporting fire in their bellies – no longer enjoy a competitive environment; boiled sweets optional.

The game is often boring to watch. It’s not an action sport (though is rolling different to throwing?). Things only tend to get really exciting when the noise levels rise, or when a player has run out of ideas, and all that is left for them to do is send a bowl up as fast as they can in the desperate hope that something might happen. It is therefore left to the players to make the game exciting. They will run down the green after bowls – shout their team mate’s efforts closer to the jack – often high fiving, just like cricketers do, when the end result goes in their favour.

The hardest one to counter is always going to be the old-fashioned look of the game. I am honoured to have been selected to play for Yorkshire this coming Saturday. Yet there’s no getting away from the fact that with my selection, comes instructions on how I must present myself – blazer, white shirt, county tie and grey trousers upon arrival. Then white county shirt, white trousers and white shoes during the game – from school boy to cabin boy in one quick change around.

Now like many I work in an environment where a dress code is more of an informal agreement. I wear a shirt and trousers with the coloured shoe of choice. I don’t have to wear a suit jacket. I don’t have to wear a tie. It’s not that they are optional, just not expected. When we try to sell the game to friends who have a similar working dress code, and a steadfast dislike of formal attire born from school uniforms, it’s near impossible to get beyond this point.

But get beyond it we must – for bowls is in trouble and we need your help.

Some of you may have seen the sporting news feature on bowls on BBC Breakfast last weekend with Natalie Melmore (pictured above), a 21 year old, female Commonwealth Games gold medal holder encouraging youngsters to take up the game.

I can’t remember what reason I give for taking up the game these days: That my dad joined a club at the end of his garden (which is true). That my knee went at 16 and four operations later, it is the only sport I can play (I carried on playing cricket till I was in my late 20s so not strictly true). That I had access to a sly pint away from home under 18, and access to cheap booze at my home club past 18 (true, but I now play for a club with no bar).

Whatever the real reason, one thing is for sure is that once I did take bowls up, at no point did I think this game is not for me. More so, there were times when it completely dominated my life. I would be sat in meetings in Paris, clock watching until I could get a plane back to play in a game of fours. Or sat in an after party in Bristol at six in the morning, politely having to hurry through an interview with a couple of really engaging DJs for fear I’d miss the train back to London to play in a club game.

And I’m not alone in that respect. As with any sport, if you have pretence of actually being any good at bowls – you have to accept that it will, for a short period each year, completely take over your life. With so many competitions – all thoughts of a social life, family life; normal life – are often put on hold. When I first met Amy I would regularly enter every competition going. Since moving up north, getting married and Lauren’s arrival – I have grown to appreciate that I can’t bowl half as much as I used to, though I do stretch the boundaries of what is acceptable with comments like: “well, if we lose tonight we won’t have to play this competition again” – knowing full well that I am going to go out there and do everything I can to win.

Like the image presented by the BBC, I believe that bowls is a sport for all. If the third round of the FA Cup gives the media the opportunity to roll out the hackneyed “everyday man” feature, then bowls has its FA Cup style team stories with every game we play. I may have stuck out like a sore thumb working as a nightclub reviewer, but there are postmen, bankers, MPs, IT experts, civil servants and company directors in our midst. Admittedly a number of clubs have their history ingrained in a blue collar, political or military backgrounds, but there’s every chance you will be sharing a car to a game with a captain of industry as you will a student. The game will accommodate you, in many forms, no matter what sector of society you come from.

The other beauty of the game is that it is accessible for those with a differing range of sporting backgrounds. I’ve played with those at the start of their sporting careers, those coming towards the end – or those who shied away from any kind of physical activity at school. It’s true that a lack of competitiveness will only get you so far but there is always a place for that type of grounded personality within our clubs.

If however, like me you are at the other end of the spectrum – where you have to sit in your car for 10 minutes, alone, with only your dark thoughts – trying to compose yourself after another loss; another competition exit – then failing miserably to appear upbeat when you walk through the door – then come on in.

For if there is one image of bowls that is false – it is the quiet, sedate, near death state that non-bowlers have grown to accept. On Saturday when playing for Yorkshire I will undoubtedly run up the green after a bowl. I will spend most of the game bellowing my thoughts out across the greens for the other 95 bowlers to hear. I will laugh, I will engage in kidology, and with the opponents I know – will spend a fair bit of time in winding each other up. For I know full well that when I play a bad bowl, shout for a team mates bowl to do more – look up to the heavens and ask where it has all gone wrong – there will be someone at the other end of the green ready with a few choice words to cut me down in my tracks.

I no longer live a double life.

I’m of an age (36) – of the fitness levels that a new acquaintance will accept that I play bowls. They will acknowledge that as a father, office worker and now bowls correspondent for the Yorkshire Evening Post – I will need a “hobby” to get me out of the house.

Yet there is a new generation, a younger generation – like Natalie Melmore – that need our support, need us older heads to encourage our friends to come along and try the game. For if every bowler introduced one of their friends to the game, we’d not be in a mess – we won’t be worried about falling participant levels, declining competition standards or clubs closing. We’d be healthy, prosperous and who knows – we might even be taken seriously as a sport.

My challenge today was to write a piece that would be read by those who have no interest in reading about bowls.

My challenge now is to try and convert one of those readers in to a participant – one of my mates in to becoming as passionate about the game as I am.

If you would like to find out more about the game, please do get in touch – or follow the links below to the Bowls England and BBC websites:

Home of Bowls England

BBC feature with Natalie Melmore

Bowls Australia – truly leading the way in convincing the world that bowls is a sport

My column in the Yorkshire Evening Post

… Eat bubbles!

A simple statement – said by you to Hooch our dog, as she chased around the garden after a bee. A bee so engorged by a feast of nectar from our neighbour’s garden, that it could barely lift itself above and beyond the snapping jaws of the chasing hound.

There is clearly context to this episode – for Hooch likes to eat, or at least pop bubbles as they float around the house – blown either by you or the machine that gives amusement to you both. They can’t taste nice. We did buy bacon flavour bubble liquid, though I’m not sure if that’s advisable for either of you.

So as Hooch tried in vain to capture, and then eat the partially flying blur of fuzz and buzz – your advice drew laughter from both devoted parents – laughter that only comes from slapstick comedy, or perfectly timed – often misguided comments that children make. No, dogs shouldn’t eat Bees – but bubbles? If man cannot live on bread alone, what good is soap as a dietary supplement to a dog?

But such events often pose a dilemma to me. With the advancement of technology and applications on mobile phones – I could have captured your words digitally, hosted them on twitter or facebook (I do wonder if this is like a history lesson for you?) and then put a couple of lines up telling my friends how funny you are; how perfectly adorable everything you do is.

I didn’t. I don’t.

Admittedly there are times when you are very funny (though not intentionally – the notion of a two year old telling gags and having material is a bit farfetched, even for a parent who thinks the world of their child). You are adorable. But then there are also times when you scream, cry, slump to the floor, tell me you don’t like me – slapping, scratching or occasionally biting as you do so. But then you are two. You can’t yet articulate your mood or all of your wants, so occasionally – through tiredness and frustration – the stuff we don’t want to capture on film, to host online, dominates what you do:

“Ha ha – Lauren just told me she hated me whilst hitting me. Kids say and do the funniest things” – it doesn’t have quite the same impact.

But then sharing should be a continuous thing. We can’t expect people to simply lap up the great bits about you and pretend there are no trying aspects to your growth – your ever changing development. If you are to believe what some say of my childhood – I was angelic – a near genius in terry towelling (reusable, material nappies). That can’t all be true – the nappies yes, but there must have been some – hmm, I word this cautiously as nothing about you is negative, though there are details of sleepless nights, tears, a reluctance to wear your own nappies we will share – in public, in front of you; as all parents should.

I share by letting others read this blog post. It is a means by which they can grow to understand more about you, and I guess in some ways, more about me – especially people that don’t, nor will ever really have the chance to meet or truly get to know us. That’s what the internet enables readers to do. This is their window in to our life. They don’t have to peer through it for too long; though if they find something that resonates – the bond between parent and child – then I hope they get some pleasure from our one sided conversations.

Though there is a part of me that is hesitant in sharing too much. The overriding reason is because I want to keep you, your actions, your best bits, all to myself. I’m conscious that if I flood the world with your photos and comments – that it starts to feel repetitive, and simply becomes a means to an end. People are no longer sharing an action they are merely reading the words on a screen. Friends might actually end up bored with that side of our interaction. As though a personality becomes almost one dimensional once you become a parent. I still want the world to know I am the same “exciting” man I was before you arrived – even if, internally, you dominate my thoughts like nothing else on earth. For I could set up a whole blog devoted to just these letters – but where is the variety in that; for anyone involved – writer and reader alike.

I also don’t want to feel like I am pushing you on to anyone – for there is time enough for you to do that yourself.

As with all parents, I am naturally inclined to think that there’s something special about you. I am convinced that you need no aid in a promotional sense. That, even though you can be shy and retiring, there is a glint in your eye that warns of something magical readying itself to burst out. That you are a natural entertainer – that you can captivate, enthral – command a room without prop or prompt. That you will rise to something far greater than your Mum and I could ever achieve.

That your star has been in ascendancy from the day you were born.

But then that is just a dad talking.

That glint may remain unexposed. May sit comfortably in your eye; happy to let other idiots – like me – try to hog the limelight. For who knows what you will do – what you will want to do. All we can do is be there to support you, be there to encourage you and do everything we can to help you achieve your dreams.

For in the same way you guided Hooch on the most appropriate floating objects for a dog to eat, we to will try to provide the same level of reassuring guidance throughout your life.

Don’t eat bees – eat a well balanced, nutritious diet.

The intention of the letters up to this stage has been a way of introducing you to us, to your world – to try to explain how you came to be with us.

The intention of this letter is to try to offer you some guidance, to explain to you the importance of family – and to explain why family means so much more than just us, your parents.

I’ve never been great with my extended family. There is no negative reason for this, it is purely because I am lazy – I tend to get in touch with people when I need to, rather than just to keep a steady flow of communication going with them.

Family members are different. It appears that even if you think they are OK, or that you know what is going on in their lives – that it’s still a good idea to check directly with them. To keep up a level of dialogue even if it is far removed from your usual way of dealing with people. This is something I’m not always great at. For I will send an occasionally text, a social media contact or a phone call – but they do tend to be before/after we are due to see each other – there really should be more.

My advice is that you shouldn’t be lazy where family are concerned – better to be genuinely interested. Your Mum tells me that it makes life easier.

You have a great family. Beyond us – on your Mum’s side you have Grandparents who have substituted a working life, for a retirement that involves looking after you for two days a week. On my side, although it was often a negative thing at school to have parents who were no longer together – for the grandchildren this means double the love, double the support – hey, let’s be serious about this – double the presents. Admittedly you see Nonna more – but that’s purely a distance thing

We both have brothers and sisters – which mean that you have uncles and aunties. Alfie is Aunty Polly’s little boy – who is a cousin to you. Our cousins are your cousins – though this gets complicated as you are a removed cousin – or is it second cousin? Or even first cousin twice removed? I’ve no idea – the easy thing within our family is that we rarely refer to family members by their family title – so my Uncle Pete is always just ‘Gurney’ and my cousin Simon is simply to be known as one of the untrue Kings. Does that make sense?

It can get even more confusing if people who are our friends refer to themselves as aunties or uncles. Imagine me as a young boy, being brought up knowing a friend of my Dad as Uncle Ernie. Not only was he not a relative, there was no link through marriage – nor did we even have the same skin colour. I never gave it a second thought until I was old enough to fully understand the relationship – purely friendship. But it did teach me the importance of friendships, and how these friends really are just an extended part of your family.

I do make more of an effort by not having to try with friends (err, I know what I mean) – again, this is not from a negative perspective – more because, as you will find out, the older you get the more you relate to people with similar interests to yours. I clearly love my Mum but I choose to live with your Mum because of our likes, our wants and what makes us happy. It’s the same with my brother – who I care a great deal about and want only the best for him – yet he doesn’t drink alcohol (I’m not sure I know how to explain this) and plays videogames for enjoyment (he is very big in a virtual world – and Denmark). Sometimes it’s difficult to know where to start when trying to strike up a conversation. In the end it falls to base level grunting, and me far too often poking fun in his general direction. Not because I want to upset or embarrass him – but because I am often helpless and need to talk to him about something.

Where I struggle with my brother, with a mate I can just call him up – see if he wants to go down the pub and spend a night drinking, reminiscing or simply regurgitating what we read in the sports pages earlier that day. It’s easier because we don’t have to try – we can spend a night in each other’s company and find nothing out that we didn’t already know before we got to the pub, yet it was enough to keep things bubbling along. The opposite often applies with family, where we need to divulge the infinite details of our lives within the first thirty seconds of walking through the front door – something I’m never truly comfortable with.

The key then is to strike a balance. To understand that your family are just genuinely interested to know how you are, what you are up to – to which you should reply as open as you choose to be, but at least engage with them. Seek them out yourself – check they are OK – drop them the odd email, text or whatever fangled communication devices you will use when you grow older. Don’t keep them at arm’s length, but let them in as much as you do your friends – for even though you will see your friends more than your family, there’s still a bond worth working on – even if it is to ensure you meet up for dinner just once a year. Where you will reply to the same questions, eat the same food and wonder why you don’t do this more often (that will be because I’m too lazy to sort anything out).

You are lucky in that you have a family where, the odd argument aside, is pretty much happy and intact – and very grateful that you are part of their lives. Don’t be like your Dad. Don’t be a miserable, uncomfortable, standoffish person – embrace your family as you no doubt will your friends. For even if they serve a different purpose, they will be there for you whenever you need them – even if you may never really need to call upon their help.

Better to know the offer is there, that they know you feel the same – than to grunt something about being OK before ignoring them all in favour of the football results on your mobile phone.

Here endeth the lesson.

Dear Lauren,

Fear is a strange sensation that comes in many forms. It can be a unifying bond between us, as you look to me for comfort and protection. You are usually the root cause of my fear, whilst your fears come and go; change and return without good reason.

There are times when you have no fear at all – like when you run to the top of a flight of stairs, or tap dance on tables. Then there are times when Hooch runs towards you and you cower, expecting her to knock you over – only looking out from behind your hands when she has long since passed. On the very next pass you will throw your arms out to catch her – almost as if you have forgotten the previous five minutes; or is it because you are confident that nothing will happen?

You shy away from new – people, places, situations – is that fear, or is it because you are not as open as you could be? If it is the latter, then you really are your father’s daughter.

There are still many things you have yet to experience a positive or negative outcome from – and, given half a chance, you will run out the front door and in to the middle of the road without consideration for what might happen.

You climb, you love to climb – on tables, chairs, on your high chair – there is absolutely no fear as you leap and clamber, with what looks like a tentative grip at all times. This is where my fear kicks in – fear you will fall, fear you will hurt yourself; fear you will lose that free spirited nature of yours should you crash back down to earth.

You attack our cupboards, washing machine and fridge – anything heavy that might close sharply on you without good notice. Rooting around; putting your hands in to tight, darkened places without a care for what might be there – like a dog’s mouth; lucky then that I’m the only one of the family that Hooch is rough with.

There will be a time where everything you currently fear, will no longer prove to be of harm to you. It’s simply down to your size – and how big the world currently looks. The more you grow, the steadier you become on your feet – the less there is to fear; until you become a parent that is.

For my fears are, in the main, currently linked to wanting to be the best father I can be to you.

The true fear there is that I fail in my task.

I fear there may be a time when I’m not there for you when you need me; not there for the whole family when I need to protect you. I fear being utterly helpless when you are not well and unable to communicate what ails you – to watch you cry, to not know how to help – crushes me in a way I’d not experienced before you.

I fear I may become far too over protective. Not letting you roam or explore your surrounding environment – boys, drink, nightlife, clothes – in the hope that you don’t make the same mistakes I did. Trying to keep you as a young child, my precious daughter, rather than letting you become a girl, then a woman – with your own ideas and agendas.

I fear I will let you down by not giving you the right guidance, not being involved in the aspects of your life that will become to mean so much to you. Or no doubt worse still, be the sort of father that is constantly involved in your life; always trying to get you to do things, pushing you on – not letting you just be the person you want to be. I don’t mean living my life vicariously through you, just wanting you to do something with your life. Something you will be proud to look back upon.

I fear I may expect too much from my bright, wondrous star.

My biggest fear is that there will be times when you are unhappy and there will be nothing I can do to change the way you feel. Even the thought tears me up inside.

Most of my fears are misplaced, irrational and unlikely to pan out. Hooch may knock you over, you may fall off of a table or you may not like a new school – but you will come through it all. I may sit up all night when you first go out. I may be wary when you first bring a boy home, or stay out overnight with people I don’t really know – but that doesn’t mean that I have to permanently live in fear that something will happen to you.

We both get jumpy, we both have times when fear takes a grip – yet we both know we are only a cuddle away from the fear passing; from our happiness returning.

Forget Everything And Remember… that I will always be there for you.

Lyrics: Ian Brown – F.E.A.R.

Image: The Scream by Edvard Munch

Dear Lauren

You may never read this. Given the fact that you can’t read and that by the time you can, this blog may no longer exist.

However your Mum asked me to write something to you when you were born, as a keepsake of who we are, and how you’ve changed our lives.

Admittedly I’m a mere 21 months behind schedule with this, but that’s nothing for me. I am an open procrastinator. One of the finest you will find. Actually, that’s a lie. Give me a deadline, tighter the better and I will produce the goods to an exemplary standard. Give me an open brief, a jaunty wave of the hand and tell me to go off and do something – and chances are I will go off and do something entirely different.

I also have to admit that it’s taken me 21 months just to get to the point where I can sit down and actually write something to you. I thought I had to mark the event of your birth with something so profound, that you would return to read it yearly; to remind yourself of how special you are. Every time I thought about what I should write, the pressure to encapsulate our thoughts, in to words, was far too intimidating a task. How can I put in to words how much you mean to us? Nothing I write can convey those feelings, nor do you or us justice.

Then it struck me. Why one letter? Why not make it a fairly regular thing – and rather than being profound, why not use it as a means to map your life, sometimes through our dreams, our goals, and our actions – though selfishly, as the author our may become my at times.

21 months is a long time. Happy, fulfilling and always rewarding; but ever changing – you change daily, and even though adults may feel as though their lives stop evolving past a certain point, we change almost daily as well. Our expressions change, our expectations change, our love grows and our ability to be surprised, to be astounded is magnified by everything you do.

You’ve moved from being a babe in arms, to crawling, to walking and now to knowing what you want. Telling us about things you like – constructing sentences so that we understand. You use cunning and guile to attract our attention – you have a clever knack of throwing a dummy behind beds so that we have to get up, have to interact rather than lay in bed. You are very much an independent spirit in a body that can’t always do what you want it to; though that doesn’t always stop you trying.

We are a happy family. We always have been. You just make it easier.

It’s not all been plain sailing. We had some issues over sleeping – you didn’t want to when we really did. I even felt a bit uncomfortable changing you at times as well – let alone having a bath with you. For some reason I was worried what people might think if they found me on my own changing you. It was daft and wholly irrational of me. Thankfully your mum was very understanding and did a lot of the changing at the start and as quickly as the unease came on, it went away; though I’ve always been a shower man so it’s partly understandable. Living with you is a learning curve and I shouldn’t over analyse my fears or the fears other people may have. I should just embrace the time we have together – not in a morbid, it may not last sense – but in a live and enjoy our lives, our family sense.

As much as we have welcomed you in to our lives, we also have to stop and remind ourselves that we did both have a very good, happy, active life before you came along. Life is all about you, but it doesn’t always have to involve you – does that make sense? Occasionally we need to pull the ripcord, let your grandparents look after you at a time when we are not at work, and devote a bit of our attention to each other.

I need to take your Mum out more than I do. As you grow older, you won’t be surprised that your Dad manages to sneak a few hours in down the pub from time to time. At the same time, I’ve been selfish and I’ve not been good enough at ensuring your Mum also gets out of the house – either with me, with friends and even on her own. We used to go to pubs, to clubs, to the cinema or concerts. Life doesn’t stop when you have a baby, but occasionally the desire to sleep; to rest or to just curl up in front of the television overtakes any want to go out partying to the early hours of the morning. You are now far more assured, far more comfortable with being around others that the odd night out a month for your parents would be good for us all; especially the grandparents who dote on you. Everyone dotes on you.

In thinking about your Mum, if you do want some advice going forward – to keep her happy, do your washing, tidy the house, write her a letter or buy a small bunch of flowers. With your Mum it’s not the thought that counts, it is the action – but the required action is so small, so effortless that we and I include myself in that, should do something to make her happy every day. It’s not hard – and it is worth it.

We’re off to Italy soon. Italy is a big part of our lives – it was where we got married, it is where you went on your first holiday – it is where we would go time and time again; and we do. It is somewhere, where we would eventually like to live. I’d like to live there now. It’s usually at this point where I say that we can’t because Nonna lives in Leeds, we don’t speak the language fluently enough or have enough money to go out there without a job. Or that it would be hard for me to convince an Italian company to employ your Dad over a local who is fluent in language and local customs.

I tend to use a lot of excuses not to do the things I really want to. It’s a defence mechanism. Better to find a reason why you can’t do something than start and fail at it. Sometimes I do this at work, often refusing to put myself forward for better, more demanding roles as I fear failure at the interview stage. Which is that daft, irrational side to me once more – as I’m paid to work on projects that are open to failure, open to rejection, and it is my job to ensure that the solutions are there to overcome those hurdles. How is it easy for me to overcome the excuses of others on a daily basis, yet throw up my own on a personal level? It has to stop.

So this year, with your help – as I do talk to you about these things – I need to put myself in a better position to realise any career aspirations I have, or to open up the opportunity to live and work in Italy. I can put myself in a position to get a job with more responsibilities (thankfully I have an excellent boss that is giving me the skills and experience to make this happen). We will learn the language. We will find jobs, Nonna can move out once we’re settled and you will learn new and wonderful things. It doesn’t have to happen this year, or next year, or even this decade. It may never happen, which is fine. But it shouldn’t be my excuses that stop us, if we really want it to happen.

Writing to you has been cathartic. My biggest want is to write more. To write more, with passion, about the things I love – so to write about you, for you, is a lot easier than I thought it would be. Your Mum always says I should write more. Maybe she’s right. Maybe she has always been right – for me, for you, on everything. If ever you need someone to look up to, to learn from, to use as an example – you will find no better person than your Mum.

You are, and you will be your own person; there is no doubt about that. But there’s no harm in asking us for help, for guidance, to be there for you and to show you the way. We’ve made the mistakes that you undoubtedly will. We’ve come through them, and I’m sure you will come through them. Strength lies not only within, but within the family as well.

We are a happy family. We always will be.

Love Dad

xxx