Sometimes the obvious is just staring you in the slightly terrifying face. Partick Thistle’s new mascot, Kingsley, was unveiled this week, and the general reaction has been on the evil clown side of horror. Some claim it resembles a Dementor from Harry Potter. Some say it’s more like the love child of Lisa Simpson and a Chuckie doll.
I beg to differ. I feel poor Kingsley is misunderstood and see a whole other range of emotions. I see worry, I see fear, I see panic. When you add in the auspicious timing, it becomes obvious that Kingsley’s expression is inspired by a woefully familiar sight at this time of year.
He’s a parent at the start of the summer holidays.
Six weeks. Six long weeks of entertaining the kids, organising child supervision and spending the equivalent of a fortnight in the Bahamas on a day trip to the cinema.
I’m lucky to work from home. It gives flexibility, even if I’m usually still at my laptop at 4 a.m. However, in the summer holidays, managing the work/life ratio requires the kind of juggling expertise usually demonstrated by large-footed, red-nosed chaps called Coco and Krusty.
In the primary school years, I’d make grand plans to keep my boys busy. I’d organise bike rides, footie in the garden, painting and cosy afternoons reading and doing craft-like stuff I remember from Blue Peter circa 1977.
Invariably, rubbish weather, an imminent book deadline and a baking-obsessed son would result in days spent typing a romcom with one hand, while tent-building, watching Pixar DVDs, and supervising the creation of so many cupcakes I’d have to thrust strawberry-sprinkled fairy sponges into the hands of innocent passersby.
Now, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, I’ve realised that I miss the old days.
My boys have grown into teens who are usually too busy to lie in bed until teatime. So far, so good. On the downside, I now appear to be in a Twilight Zone episode called Mum’ll Take Me.
We live in an area that has little public transport, so their summer days consist of the following:
Wake up, go to gym to work out.
How are you getting there? Mum’ll take me.
Arrange to meet pals to play basketball in the afternoon.
How are you getting there? Mum’ll take me.
Over to a friend’s house for dinner?
No problem, Mum’ll take me.
More basketball training in the evening?
Mum’ll take me.
Then, just for a little bit of variety…
Friends coming here afterwards, then need to get home?
Mum’ll take them.
Every now and then, I get clingy and throw in a curve ball. ‘I’ll come to the gym with you today, son. You know, so we can spend time together.’
At which point son faints. Quick visit to pharmacist for smelling salts?
Mum’ll take him.
This summer, in a typical masterstroke of inferior time management, I’m chasing a book deadline yet again, so I’ll spend most of my days sitting in car parks outside sport centres, gyms and eating establishments, banging out another chapter of romantic comedy while waiting for my sons to reappear.
Their schedule? Fun, fitness, friends. Mine? Drive. Work. Drive. Work. Drive. Work.
So, parents of primary kids, enjoy it while you can. Savour the footie in the garden. Enjoy the tent-building. And all those cupcakes? If you see a burd sitting in a car park typing a novel on her laptop, she’d really appreciate the ones with the strawberry sprinkles.