Me and My Girls

Stunning good looks; charm; talent; ambition - words that all spring to mind when looking at this photo taken at a wedding reception in Musselburgh last night.

And daughters Laura and Michaela don't look too bad either...

Father's Day

I know my daughters love me really....

Life is Precious

'So we create safe rooms and we dance our patterns and we talk to our monsters'. This is a quote from the excellent blog of my very good friend Peggy from 'down under' (visit her blog, it really is an excellent read)

I thought of these words this morning as I surveyed my bruised and battered body having spent Saturday evening in the company of my three brats grandchildren, Jack, Hannah and Ava.Their mother, Laura, was busy making tea in the kitchen while her offspring set about their Papa with gusto. I've grown accustomed to Jack and Hannah treating me like a human climbing frame but now baby Ava - two months away from her first birthday - has learnt quickly from her brother and sister. As I lay on the floor of the children's bedroom being subjected to tanks, jeeps and police cars being driven over me, I was suddenly aware of heavy breathing and someone drooling over me. Baby Ava had made her way from the living room and decided to crawl over her beleaguered Papa in order to grab a toy in the corner of the room. She can crawl at a fair pace of knots and I'm certain she will be walking before her birthday in a few weeks.

With less than a year until I hit the half century, it occurred to me that time passes more quickly the older you get. I've started work on a football article marking the 25th anniversary of Hearts infamous loss to Dundee, a result that cost them a rare league championship in 1986 and I commented on how my wife was expecting our first child at that time. It seems like it was only yesterday I was changing Laura's nappies and having her crawl over me but now her own children are doing so and I wonder just how so many years have gone by so quickly.

The traumatic events of Dundee in May 1986 have never left me but neither has the ecstasy of the events of just two weeks later when Laura was born. Seeing the birth of a child is one of the most wondrous life events there is. Seeing them grow up is part of every day life but something one should never take for granted. Now Laura might read this and think 'Dad's gone off on one again' but she and her sister Michaela remain as precious to me as the day they were born and as precious as my grandchildren are to me now. We Scots can find such things difficult to say but, recalling the events of a quarter of a century ago, my sentiments are sincere. Some things are worth saying.

Such as if only Dundee hadn't brought on Albert Kidd as a substitute that day in 1986...

Danger in Dalkeith...

As a responsible blogger, I feel I have a duty to warn my reader of the dangers that may lurk should they ever find themselves on the streets of Dalkeith, Midlothian. If you see the girls in the photo above, you should heed my warning not to approach them - unless you are armed with a vodka and coke.

They are highly dangerous and are known to prey on simple, older people for money - their father, for example who, it must be said, is one of the most charming men one could ever wish to meet. The girl on the left is known to have a flash car while the girl on the right has a flash tattoo...

You have been warned...

The Facebook Phenomenon

I spent the afternoon of Easter Sunday in the company of my family. What I had done to deserve this, I'm not sure, but I've been assured the bruises and swelling will clear in a day or two...

Afterwards, daughter Laura confirmed me as a 'friend' on the social networking website Facebook. My other daughter, Michaela, already has me as a 'friend'. I'm not sure whether to be pleased or desperately saddened by this.

Facebook has become a world wide phenomenon. It can also be quite addictive. When I use the term 'social networking', it can in many ways be described as anti-social networking. The other day Michaela sent me a message on Facebook, to which I responded fairly quickly. You may ask what is wrong with this - the fact we were in the same house at the same time should answer that question.

There's something about the idea of Facebook and its ilk (Bebo and MySpace being other like sites) that doesn't sit right with me (and I'm not talking about these ill-fitting trousers I'm wearing...) Jeannie Bloggs posts that's she's making chicken casserole for supper. Whoop de doo. Then Fred Smith posts that 'he likes this' with a thumbs up sign. Now the whole world knows what Jeannie is having for supper and can comment if they wish (providing, of course, they're 'friends' of Jeannie...) Fred is suitably impressed to tell the world he's very happy at this turn of events...

As I type this I have received a message from Laura which says 'she has listed me as her Dad'. To confirm this 'family request' I have to follow the link on the message. Hmm. What if I don't confirm this 'family request'? Does this mean I'm no longer father to my elder daughter? Has Facebook taken over the world to the extent I have to confirm my relationship with my family members on the site?

Of course, by joining Facebook I'm well aware I am contributing to this sad, almost geeky state of affairs. Laura and Michaela wouldn't hesitate to tell you they think I'm the world's biggest geek in any case. As I say, Facebook can become addictive and there are those who go on the site several times a day, every day. On the plus side, I have made contact with some people I haven't heard from in years - although some of them won't make 'real' contact by phone or email, they'll continue to do so via Facebook. Which makes me think, are they real friends or are they just keen to impress the world with how many people they know?

Perhaps I'm being cynical. Which is unlike me, I know. However, when I was a small child in the late 1960s, I used to have an imaginary friend. Now more than forty years later, I'm on Facebook -and I have more than sixty of them...

A Father Remembered

Early in March 1997 I arranged to take my daughters Laura and Michaela through to Paisley to see their beloved Papa. I phoned him the Saturday before to confirm the arrangements; the usual routine, we would take the train through from Edinburgh and he would pick us up from Paisley Gilmour Street station. My father and I were practical kind of fellas so we didn’t usually bother with confirming the day before what was going to happen - we just did it.

So it was that I took the girls through on a Saturday afternoon. They were both excited as they loved seeing their Papa - he usually let them away with things I didn’t, such was the role of the doting grandparent as I would subconsciously demonstrate years later. And dote on them he did. By this time - early 1997 - my father was sadly on his own again. He had split from his third wife and had recently moved into a council flat in Paisley. He remained friends with the woman I used to call Mrs Smith III but he was back to living on his own once more. It was almost as if he preferred it that way. Our visit that Saturday was to be our first to his new flat in a not exactly upmarket area of Paisley.

We got off the train in Paisley around 2.00pm. Unusually, there was no sign of my father. He was many things but he was always a man of his word - when he said he would be somewhere he usually was. 1997 were the days before mobile telephones were in such widespread use so I headed for the nearest call box (ask your parents, younger readers) in an attempt to phone him at home. No reply. Well, he must be on his way I thought to myself, although it certainly wasn’t like him to be late. After waiting at Gilmour Street station for half an hour - although with an increasingly bored Laura and Michaela it seemed like two hours - there was still no sign of him. By now, my anxiety had increased. This was so unlike him. I had his new address so I decided to jump on a bus and head round to see him.

Eventually, we got there only to find there was no reply. There was silence, no sign of life - as it turned out literally so. My wife Pat had been working that day until early afternoon but I called her from Paisley asking if my father had been in touch. He hadn’t been. He had previously mentioned about going away for a weekend with Mrs Smith III in an attempt to patch up their relationship so I asked Pat to phone her. I called Pat a few minutes later - she confirmed there had been no answer from Mrs Smith III’s home either. That was it, I assumed. The old blighter had gone away for the weekend with his estranged wife and had forgotten about us! Although something didn’t sit right about it. It was most unlike him, normally the most organised of people. We headed back to Dalkeith, somewhat irritated over our wasted journey. My irritation increased over the weekend as repeated phone calls to Mrs Smith III’s house weren’t being answered. That had to explain everything - she was obviously away for the weekend as well - with my absent-minded and absent father.

It wasn’t until three days later on the Tuesday evening when I returned home from work that the bombshell dropped. The telephone rang. It was Mrs Smith III. Had I seen my father? she asked. My heart sank. She explained she had been away for a few days - but not with my father. She had been to see her daughter in Ireland. Now I feared the worst. I have two half brothers who at that time lived in Cumbernauld with my father’s second wife - their mother. Mrs Smith III said she would contact them and phone me back. I anxiously paced the room, my heart pounding. I just knew this was bad news. Half an hour later, the phone rang again. It wasn’t Mrs Smith III. It was my Uncle Jack - my father’s brother-in-law - phoning from Aberdeen.

The police had broken into my father’s flat in Paisley and found his body slumped in a chair. He had been dead for several days - certainly he had been lying there the day I had gone to see him with the girls. The newspaper lying on his lap indicated he had died the day after I had spoken to him on the phone the week before. His heart simply could take no more and stopped. Mercifully, he had not suffered any pain when he died although I didn’t find that particularly comforting at the time.

Devastation overcame me. I had become closer to my father than at any other time in my life and now he was gone. Gone before I had the chance to tell him how I really felt about him. Gone before I could thank him for helping me make a life for myself in Edinburgh. Heart-breakingly, gone before he could see Laura and Michaela grow up and develop into two wonderful people of whom my father would have been so proud - and before Laura had produced two equally wonderful children of her own, Jack and Hannah. How my father would have doted on those two wee scamps…

His death was the one of the worst episodes of my life. Like most people who lose a loved one, I miss him terribly, even today, thirteen years on. I went into automatic pilot mode for the funeral and the immediate aftermath. I didn’t grieve properly until some time after and on my own. In my mind I wanted to go somewhere no one could find me. It’s a trait that remains with me to this day and is now evident in my daughters, particularly Michaela who has had her own tragedy to deal with in the past year.

Every year since 1997, on the eleventh day of March, I take time to remember my father and reflect on his passing. This year will be no different…

Father, Dear Father

I have a suspicion a few parents will relate to this. Particularly fathers. Particularly those fathers who have daughters.

Being a creature of habit, I paid a visit to my mother in her sheltered housing complex in Edinburgh's south side on Tuesday evening. Before I left the office to head there, I received a text message from my younger daughter Michaela.

Hiya Dad

Now this immediately raised my suspicions. Said daughter lives with one of her pals whose husband is fighting in Afghanistan. Michaela is there to give her some moral support (as if things weren't bad enough for the poor girl...) To cut a long story shorter, Michaela usually sends me a text message if she wants something. Usually money.

Are you going to Granny's tonight? I can pick you up after work.

My discomfort increased. She is going to see her Granny? And offering to pick me up? I was tempted to text back 'How much money do you want?' but I thought better of it and replied I would just see her round there. Which I did. And she gave me a lift home afterwards.

On the way back I sat in the passenger seat of her rather flash gold coloured MG sports car and waited for the bad news. There had to be bad news. There's no such thing as a free lunch with Michaela and I waited for the pitiful Daaad, can I borrow some money? request. But, to my surprise it didn't happen. She dropped me off, waved cheerio and was on her way. The last time she sent me a text message was a few weeks ago when she asked me to be the guarantor for said MG sports car. Naturally, being too soft for my own good, I agreed. I waited for her to tell me she wasn't going to be able to keep up the payments. But the words didn't come.

Today, I received another text message from Michaela.

Hiya Dad. What's that gig you want to go to next month?

I had mentioned my desire to see the fabulous ska band The Beat in Edinburgh next month. Darling daughter has now confirmed - with her third text message to me in two days - she has bought tickets for me for my birthday at the end of this month.

Touched as I am by my daughter's apparent concern for me and by her wish to get me something I actually want for a birthday present, my over-riding concern is one of anxiety. When your children reach adulthood you let them go and fend for themselves. The other side of that particular coin is they are determined to demonstrate they don't need you and, as is the case with Michaela and her older sister Laura, you can hear nothing from them for days. My running gag is that I only hear from my girls when they want something. Michaela is being nice to her poor, harassed, financially strained father and apparently looking for nothing in return.

Or will the phone ring tomorrow and I'll be greeted with the words 'Hello Mr Smith. I understand you agreed to be the guarantor for Michaela Smith...'

Read All About It

A commission set up to tackle literacy problems in Scottish schools has found almost one in five Scots has difficulty with reading and writing. The commission made 11 key recommendations aimed at addressing the problem of poor literacy skills.

It said tackling problems caused by deprivation was crucial. Judith Gillespie, chairwoman of the commission and development manager of the Scottish Parent Teacher Council, said: "There needs to be a zero-tolerance approach to tackling poor literacy and it's time that this problem was effectively addressed. At the heart of the commission's findings was the need to address the problems caused by social and economic disadvantage at an early age. This should be a key feature in the development of any literacy strategy."

From the BBC News Website

The above story comes as no surprise. I'm proud of my two daughters and what they've achieved in life but it has to be said their spelling leaves a lot to be desired. Many people blame - somewhat ironically - technology for the alarming drop in standards of literacy. Michaela sent me a text the other week telling me she had 'flue' - only she could buck the trend of text language by expanding words unnecessarily rather than abbreviate them. However many youngsters are so accustomed to text protocol that they find it difficult to write in English.

When Laura and Michaela were at primary school they used to get glowing reports from the teachers. However, it was always a bone of contention come parents evening when I got to see some of their work and I would ask why their spelling was so awful. The school party line was consistent if nothing else - it didn't matter how they spelt things as long as they were writing things down. Something I didn't agree with at the time but my pleas were ignored.

I shudder when I read reports like the one above and read about a 'zero-tolerance' approach. I wish the experts would leave the cliched spin and buck passing and just get on with tackling the problem. They could start by teaching primary school children how to spell. As for blaming deprivation - this seems to me to be disguised as lazy parents who can't be arsed to sit with their children and read them stories because 'I'm a Big Brother Celebrity Strictly Dancing in the Jungle Get Me Out of Here' is on the goggle box.

Try that as a starting point for the 'literacy strategy'....

Family Matters

It's been a difficult week for the Auld Reekie Ranter. A sudden, totally unexpected death is shocking at any time; when it happens to someone who recently celebrated his 21st birthday and whose passing has left my daughter Michaela heart-broken it sends shock waves through the body, numbing it with disbelief and leaving one feeling almost completely helpless. Nothing I can say or do to try and help my daughter will bring back the person she loved with all her heart. The funeral is this Wednesday and I would not wish to be anywhere else than by my daughter's side that day; but at the same time I would rather be somewhere else rather than witness the pain and anguish she will go through.

With such dark clouds overhead, there is a wee glimpse of sunshine today with my grandson Jack's fourth birthday. It's hard to believe four years have gone by since he came into my life. The wee scamp has given me so much joy, so much love, so much fun. Today I will head to his party, armed with a multitude of loud and irritating presents which my daughter Laura will likely greet with horror, and give the wee man a huge hug.

Happy birthday Jack the Lad. Save some cake for your emotionally brittle Papa.

It's Not Fair

My children, bless 'em, are never slow to point out what they call my advancing years - well to use their words 'auld yin'. So I added to their amusement when I headed to Glasgow last night for the Lily Allen gig (yes, children - gig) Lily was superb as she belted out songs from her latest album 'It's Not Me - It's You' as well as a couple of earlier hits that made her famous. But given the demographics of the audience at the O2 Academy last night - another sign of the political correctness of society these days in that it's no longer the Carling Academy - Laura and Michaela may well snigger at the near certainty I was the only grandfather there.

My feeling out of place started when I arrived to join the queue to get in to the venue. As the line of fans snaked round the corner of the adjacent street there were a handful of people handing out leaflets advertising forthcoming gigs in Glasgow.

For some reason they didn't feel any requirement give one to me. As the queue of fans entered the venue we were met by a line of brusque and burly venue officials. Now I didn't expect to be asked to show proof that I was over 18 years of age - that would be stretching things too far - but I appeared to be the only person who wasn't searched as we made our way through the entrance. I clearly don't look to be a threat to anyone.

The gig was brilliant. Lily Allen is a wonderful talent and I like her attitude to life. One misguided chap had the temerity to heckle her and she duly chewed him up and spat him out - much to the delight of the thronging masses.

My daughter Michaela very kindly offered to drive through to Glasgow and pick me up after the gig had ended. I showed my considerable gratitude by printing out a map of the venue with full postal address details including post code in order that she could utilise her satellite navigation system. Unfortunately she didn't bother with the map or the post code - and ended up sitting in a deserted car park at Glasgow's SECC...Mobile phones can be useful things sometimes so I phoned her to advise I would walk back into the centre of Glasgow and meet her outside Central Station. While waiting for her I was approached by a woman of the night who wondered if I was interested in 'doing some business'. After feeling my age somewhat at the O2 Academy I wasn't entirely ungrateful but I declined her offer...

Eventually Michaela picked me up. At least I think it was Michaela as it may well have been Lewis Hamilton given the fact that forty minutes later we were back in Dalkeith. Darling daughter seemed to think the M8 was, in fact, Brands Hatch...

But it was a good night. I like to think I can still show my daughters that, despite heading towards 50, I'm not totally out of touch with today's music.

I'm off now for a couple of paracetamol. After three hours standing last night, my back is killing me...

A Father's Plea

Apparently today is National Non-Smoking Day. I know for sure that today is 11 March. Twelve years ago this very day my father was taken from me suddenly and quite unexpectedly. Our family has a history of heart disease. My father's father died from a heart attack in his mid forties. My father fell to a similar fate on this day in 1997 alone in his flat in Paisley. He was found slumped in his armchair with a newspaper on his lap. His death, at just 58 years, stunned me. That he didn't suffer was merciful. However the shock of hearing he had died will live with me forever.

A couple of years earlier, I remember him telling me he had been to the doctor. He hadn't been feeling well, had a painful shoulder and was feeling breathless quite easily. He told me the doc scribbled something down on a prescription pad and pushed across the desk to him. It wasn't a prescription for medication. It read simply 'Stop Smoking'

Both my daughters smoke. despite my protestations. Laura, my eldest, remembers her Papa well and his funeral was the first such occasion she had been to. She was just eleven then. Michaela, my younger daughter, was just seven when my father died and we thought she was just a bit too young to be exposed to such emotional trauma. But they both remember their Papa and, of course, they will never forget him.

I have nothing against people who choose to smoke tobacco and, indeed, I feel they have been persecuted somewhat in today's politically correct, nanny state. I tried the odd cigarette many years ago but didn't enjoy it. My daughters know I'm immensely proud of them. But I wish they would seriously consider the damage smoking can cause to their health. There's every chance that my father may still be alive today if he hadn't smoked. And he would have lived to see his grand-daughters grow up to be two fine young women - and he would have doted on Jack and Hannah, my grandchildren.

The above photograph was the last one taken of my father and my girls. A few weeks later he was dead. If Laura and Michaela want to do something in honour of the memory of their Papa they can do one thing.

Give up smoking, girls. Please.

You Never Stop Worrying

My youngest daughter Michaela is heading off to London on Friday for a 'girls weekend'. She's staying with a friend tonight so I caught her before she left for work this morning.

'Now, darling - you look after yourself down there. Take extra care - there are a lot of dodgy people in the world today'

Her reply was typical for someone who has already achieved a lot in life for being aged just 19. 'For God's sake, Dad - I'm not a kid any more'

And don't I know it...

But that's the responsibility of being a parent, as Michaela herself may know a few years from now. You never stop worrying about your children.

My mother is 72, God bless her, and she still frets about me making a 20 minute bus journey from her house - 40 minutes when hapless Midlothian Council spring up hundreds of temporary traffic lights in Dalkeith for no apparent reason. I tell her that, now I've reached the age of 47, have two grown-up children and two toddling grandchildren, that I'm reasonably capable of crossing the road unaided. Although, admittedly, this can be dependant on whether I head for a pint on the way home...

My other daughter, Laura, also causes me no end of concern. Are you coping with the brats - sorry, loveable kiddies - are you managing to pay the bills, are you eating properly, are you sleeping okay...?? Questions which are usually treated with contempt by my tempestuous 22 year old.

As parents we are supposed to prepare our children for life. As parents it is also hard to accept that our way is not the only way.We just have to love our children and grandchildren, warts and all. You love them and are always concerned about them -but it's part of caring.

So while I hope Michaela has a wonderful weekend in the old smoke - and I'm sure she will - there's a little part of me that will be delighted to see her back in Auld Reekie safe and sound on Sunday night. Okay - a big part of me.

Families, eh? Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em....

The Joy of Text (Part 94)

The news that Ryanair is leading the way in developing a system where passengers can use their mobile telephones while travelling at 35,000 feet fills me - and, I suspect many others - with despair. As someone who chooses to use public transport, I choose to plug in my headphones and escape to the sounds of my IPod whenever mobile phones inevitably go off on buses and trains. Now, the one place where you can escape the curse of modern technology will soon be ringing - literally - to the sound of irritating ring tones and loud and quite often gormless conversations that intrude on one's privacy. I can see it now, as soon as the flight to a week in the sun hits the required altitude after take-off and the flashing 'you can unfasten your seatbelt' sign beeps, not only will there be the usual rush to the loo of those who have consumed more alcohol than it necessary in the airport departure lounge but dozens of ringtones will burst into action.

'Hullo? Hi, it's me. Aye, I'm on the plane' I should really put these words in block capitals as, in text speak, this means shouting. As many people tend to do whilst using their mobiles.

How did we cope all these years ago without mobile phones and the internet? I thought about this the other night whilst texting a very good friend. Being a man, texting about two topics at the same time meant I became disorientated at one point and completely misinterpreted a couple of text messages. At one point I thought I had offended my friend to the point where she was never going talk to me again, a frightening prospect. Thankfully she soon put me right and then asked the bleeding obvious - 'Why didn't you just call me?' She was quite right, of course. That's what phones were invented for - the art of conversing, an art which - in this age of internet, text, social networks, messaging services - seems to be dying.

My daughters will probably not get the point of this rant. At times it seems like I communicate with Laura only via her Bebo page and Michaela through texting. Michaela even text me from the bathroom a wee while ago asking me to put the kettle on. In an age where many mobile phone companies offer unlimited texts it seems many people prefer to press a few buttons on a keypad rather than make the effort to engage in face to face conversation.

I realise, dear reader, the irony of me putting my feelings into a blog. But I was going to visit my elder daughter later today and phoned to confirm she would be in. But she has her voicemail switched on...

Remembering

Today, my father would have celebrated (or rather he would have tried to hide the fact) his 70th birthday. He would have - had he not been taken away suddenly nearly twelve years ago from those who loved him.

Everyone goes through the trauma of losing someone they love at some point in their life. When that person dies suddenly - in my father's case it was a heart attack - the shock of what has happened can numb those left behind. I went into automatic pilot when my father's body was discovered in the flat he lived in Paisley in March 1997. So much to do, so many people to tell, the funeral to organise, personal matters to see to. My father ran his own small business so that also had to be attended to. Clearing his answerphone at his office damn near broke me in two.

But while you never 'get over' such tragedy you do learn, in time, to cope with it. When I look at my two grandchildren Jack and Hannah climbing all over me and causing general chaos as young children do, I know that my father would have been as proud as punch of them. He doted on my two daughters, Laura and Michaela (the above photograph shows him and Laura when she was three years old) and it is one of my life's regrets that he died several years before his great-grandchildren came along.

So today I shall raise a glass to my old man and say 'cheers' to his memory. I'll have a wee natter with him in private when no one else is around. He always was a good listener...

The Mice Used to Jump in the Traps...

A Nigerian religious leader with 86 wives has accepted an Islamic decree ordering him to divorce all but four of them, local authorities say. A spokesman for the emir of Bida told the BBC that Mohammadu Bello Abubakar, 84, agreed on Saturday to comply with the decree.

From the BBC News website.

I have to say I have a degree of sympathy for Mohammadu Bello. I mean, at 84, he's probably had a hard life. Now, in his twilight years, he nips out for a game of dominoes with his pals and is a wee bit late back. So he gets 'What time do you call this?' not once but 86 times.

He has 170 children. 170! I find it tough with just two and sometimes struggle to understand my daughters (like the majority of the female species I don't think I'll ever understand them)

But the worse part of this is the fact he has 172 mothers-in-law. Just think what the late, lamented Les Dawson could have done with that...

The Language Of...???

As a fortysomething who sometimes feels his best years are setting like the sun on the horizon with the darkness of old age about to take their place, I occasionally feel my grandad status more acutely.

A younger colleague of mine in the office was chatting excitedly yesterday about going on holiday with her young family. 'So,' I casually remarked, 'You'll be feeling demob happy?' She looked at me with vacant eyes. 'What's that then?' she asked with an expression which suggested the old man's off on one again.

I tried to explain the term demob harks back to the second world war and the decade immediately after when young men and women served their country during conflict and in the post-war years did their national service in the armed forces. Having done their duty, they were demobbed back into 'civvy street', hence were demob happy.

Of course even I am too young to have been subjected to this - my fellow blogger and Jambo Adullamite will probably be able to tell you more, having served his country in both world wars - but the term was still widely used when I first began working thirty years ago. Many of my colleagues 'on the buses' in the late 1970s - pre First Bus when the company actually ran services to published timetables - were approaching retirement age and had served their time in the army. They often referred to going on holiday as being demob happy.

I really ought to make more of an effort to modernise my use of language but I find it increasingly difficult in this age of internet and mobile phone technology and the cursed 'text' speak. Daughter Michaela sent me a text message the other night saying she would give me a lift home - 'Al be over in fifteen minutes'. Quite who Al is I'm not sure but I can confirm my younger daughter has not acquired the services of chauffeur and indeed turned up on her Jack Jones (sorry, younger readers - on her own)

A minor source of irritation in a life I find increasingly irritating is the use of 'lol' not only in text speak but on internet messageboards. I know it stands for 'laugh out loud' but I always liken it to a stand up comic who is about as funny as a trip to the dentist and laughs at his own gags. I struggle with the whole concept. Another fellow Jambo sent me a text recently which seemed to allude to the fact he would see me on the motorway between Edinburgh and Glasgow. But what he actually meant by 'c u ltr M8' was that he would renew his acquaintance with me at a future date.

My elder daughter, the shy and retiring Laura, communicates with her father not so much by phone but through the pages of 'Bebo', the social - or you might say anti-social web site. She occasionally 'sends the love' although this is spelt 'luv' presumably because the energy she saves by typing three letters instead of four can be put to much better use...

I manfully try and accept all this on the premise of if you can't beat them, join them - lol. So until the next incoherent rant, I'll say TTFN.

The Latest in a Long Line...

On my way to work this morning, I walked through Cameron Toll Shopping Centre as I have started doing recently. Usually I'm wandering through there about 8.00am and it's quite eerie to see the majority of shops still closed (Sainsbury's excepted) and the footsteps of a handful of people passing through echoing around the hall. But as I passed through today the Centre was busier than usual. There was a large queue of people outside the O2 shop. The reason became apparant as I read the BBC News website at lunch time - today saw the launch of the latest IPhone.

Apparently this latest update which is cheaper, faster and has something called 3G is only available on the O2 network. Whatever its attraction it was enough to have people queuing all over the country to be among the first to have it. Now, this is perhaps a symbol of me being middle-aged but I find myself asking - why? Not why buy the new IPhone which I don't doubt is a wonderful gadget. But why queue overnight as some people did? Why did one fella in London feel the need to buy his place at the front of the queue at the O2 shop in London's Regent Street off ebay?

Is today the only day the new IPhone is on sale? Is that it? If you didn't get one today was that your one and only chance? Or are the new phones, as I suspect, on sale again tomorrow? I've always found the idea of people queuing outside shops waiting for the sales to begin mildly amusing. But there's a logic behind this. Once the sale stock has gone, that's it - shops can revert to ripping people off again. And the big sales are usually the day after Christmas when many of us would do anything to get out the house. But I'm a bit baffled by the urge of some people to be among the first to get a new gadget that will probably be commonplace in a a few months (January sales anyone?)

Despite what my two daughters think, I'm not totally out of touch with technology. I have a laptop, a mobile and even an IPod Touch which I was given as a present last Christmas (I've even downloaded tracks on to it - hark at me) But I was totally unaware of this new IPhone which apparently is a phone, web broswer, music player, instant messenger, makes you a cup of tea in the morning, irons your shirts, drives you to work and does your work for you once you're in the office.

Okay, I may have made much of that last bit up. Or if it's true I'm away to look out my sleeping bag and make a midnight trip to Cameron Toll...