Bottles and box sets

Saturday the 12th of January 2013 was a big day for me. There was nothing particularly exciting about it. No events. No occasions. In fact, I didn’t even leave the house. The only reason it was vaguely ‘big’ in any way was solely down to the fact I was being left in charge of my own child for the first time.
Ka was going out on the town with her girlfriends and leaving me in charge.
I was flying solo. Going it alone. Nappies, clothing, bottles, medication, entertainment, it was all down to me. Not only was Ka dragging herself away from Sophie for the first time, she was going out and drinking for the first time in approximately eight months. Vicki, Yvonne and the rest of the girls from her room in the ELU nursery (I can’t remember if it’s the Caterpillar room, the Butterfly room or the Pushmi-Pullyu room) were heading into Glasgow for the day and taking Ka out of the house with them.
“On you go!” I insisted. “It’ll be good for you!”
The words had left my mouth before I’d even seriously contemplated the consequences of my verbalizations.
As it happens, it was a bit of a walk in the park. Sophie, who was just approaching the eight week mark of existence on this miserable little rock, was great company. After Ka left with Amy and Kirsty, Sophie ate her lunch quite happily and then lay back in her deck chair to relax and take in the sights.
No, it’s not really a deck chair, but that’s what I call it. It’s like a soft padded slope on a wooden frame, not unlike a deck chair, but probably usually called some along the lines of a ‘baby rocker’. It had been Claire’s little one, Olivia’s, when she had been wee, and Claire had popped round and donated it a few weeks ago.
Sophie had been getting a little irritable in her jungle seat what with the dangling parrots, butterflies and monkey music and had not been settling. Her frustrated boxing would start within around ten minutes of sitting, but in Olivia’s deck chair, she seems far happier. Sophie will gurgle away quite happily on it until she either gets vaguely frustrated for a few minutes, has another quick boxing match with an invisible opponent and then falls asleep or, even better, simply falls asleep without the boxing match. It’s great for watching the room too. Sophie just kicks back in it and surveys her surroundings, finding constant interest in mirrors, windows and blank white spaces of wall. Sophie often prefers to watch the walls rather than the tv with it’s moving images and light.
So whilst Sophie lounged and relaxed after her latest intake of milk, I lounged and relaxed on the couch and watched a few episodes of the rather wonderful Breaking Bad.
Colin and Jillian bought me the first three series of the American, award winning, drama series for my Christmas and I’ve been watching it whenever I get the chance.
Just in case you’re not aware it’s all centred around a struggling high school chemistry teacher named Walter White played by Bryan Cranston, the Dad from Malcolm in the Middle, who, after being diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer turns to a life of crime in order to ensure his families financial well being after he leaves his mortal coil. White is aided in his drug making efforts by a former student and known local bum Jesse who, with his contacts to the shady underworld, helps his former teacher make his money.

It’s brilliant, dark, funny, intelligent and well acted, particularly by the two main characters (who have some great chemistry…) and great for a Saturday afternoon’s entertainment.
In fact, throughout the day, in between breaks for feeding, changing nappies, bathtime and general baby chit chat, I managed to finish the first season of Breaking Bad off, something it would have been impossible to manage had Ka been in the house.
As it happens, Ka has now not only lost interest in the series but banned me from watching the 18/15 rated drama whilst Sophie is in the living room, which makes watching the box sets remaining seasons even more difficult. I now have to wait on a completely empty house before I can watch it, which will be virtually impossible as I can’t see Sophie heading out into town with her pals for cocktails anytime soon.
Ka probably has a point though. The last episode Ka watched with me involved someone being melted in a bathtub with hydrofluoric acid…
Anyway, before the Breaking Bad ban, I sat that Saturday night and finished season 1 whilst drinking lots of coke and gobbling mini toblerones. Just a flavour of my wild life, and my Saturday nights, getting all the more electrifyingly crazy as time goes on.
Ka eventually called informing me of her missed train and her intentions on the next, so I then bathed baby Sophie and ordered dinner for the night, a take away from the local Indian restaurant (not for Sophie, obviously). Moments before the dinner turned up, Ka tumbled through the door, surprisingly only moderately drunk, and we settled down on the couch to a bhuna whilst Sophie snored away upstairs, her snores growling out of the small baby monitor plugged in at the end of the couch. The light dial goes from blue lights to red on the small monitor, depending on the volume of the child being picked up at the other end, a larger, white, glowing dome presently situated at the side of the moses basket. A great wee device for keeping an ear on Sophie whilst she’s parked in a different room. Just maybe not so great when she’s having one of her louder half hours and you’re trying to get through season 2.

On the bill

Last weekend I was a ladybird for the night. Ka and myself were picked up by Vicki, taxi driven by her dad, and transported into town for a work’s night out. The Ladybird room were going to the Stand Comedy Club after a bite to eat in the newly refurbished Strata cocktail bar and restaurant in Glasgow’s Queen Street. Vicki’s Dad, a friendly liverpudlian with a rather nice convertible Astra of some sort, dropped us off in sunny George Square where we met Gillian who had been hanging around street corners for around half an hour, waiting on us turning up. From there we walked down Queen Street, through the shoppers heading for their trains, buses or cars home and headed towards number 45, past what used to be the Rock Garden bar, the fat face shop and the weird shop with all the gothic necklaces, beads, pipes and bongs in the window.
The last time Ka and myself had passed the Strata bar it had been all shut up, the windows all coated with a messy layer of whitewash. At the time I’d assumed that it had fallen as another victim of this all consuming recession so I was rather surprised to hear that Strata was to be the Ladybird room’s meeting place to kick start the night.

I swung the door open for the three ladies, feeling a little uncomfortable in Amy’s place. Amy, one of the current Ladybirds, had been unable to attend, so Ka and Vicki immediately thought of me to take her place. A kind act of charity considering I’d been moaning at Ka for the past few weeks after discovering the Ladybirds’ plans to visit Glasgow’s West End Comedy Club. I’d been annoying Ka for years to go along with me and check the place out one night and due to reasons unknown, especially to myself, I’d never got around to it. It was even mooted as a possible location for a birthday night out, but again, that never happened (violins please!). So, hearing my woes Vicki agreed with Ka that it would be a good idea to allow myself to accompany them in Amy’s place.
A husband at the work night out.
Not every man’s idea for a night out but it wasn’t so bad as I wasn’t to be the only bloke. We were meeting David, the Ladybird room’s teacher, who had just finished for his summer break the week before and had been, as it turned out, on the sauce since his last day on the Wednesday. In fact, as Vicki, Gillian and Ka led myself upstairs to the tabled area in the lively, rather swanky, new look Strata, we found David sitting back, behind a table, smiling contentedly as he sipped from a colourful daiquiri, his first tipple following the night before.
So the girls started with a cocktail, Ka going non alcoholic, of course, and I settled with a pint whilst we ordered up our meals. The gathered workers started gabbing about work, which I happily found myself fully capable of following many insightful conversations at home with the Mrs. As surprising as it may seem to Ka, I do actually pay attention to the many wonderful, varied tales and goings on produced by the Early Learning Unit. Conversations then went on to David’s night outs since finishing for the summer, his latest puke, the dropping of his iPod from a second floor window, the John Barrowman gig of the previous week attended by Ka and myself and the one song of Tori Amos’ that we all actually remember (Cornflake Girl). A spectacularly cheap bill was then paid, just after David revealed that his choice of Strata for the night was no spur of the moment decision. All meals were half price for the month. This was the first time I’d met David properly and I liked the way he was thinking. Vicki I’d met on various, previous occasions, mostly when I’d been picking Ka up from nights out and Gillian I’d met before but hadn’t really got to know until sitting at dinner with her that night in Strata.
As time was getting on, and David and Vicki fretted about not wanting to end up in the front rows in the Stand, we decided to make a move and after gulping down another pint I followed the Ladybird’s downstairs and back out into the sunny, dry evening to grab a black cab bound for Woodlands Road.
As the cab pulled up David, and some of the others, panicked. A massive queue had already formed, snaking from the small, cellar like entrance of the comedy club. We may have lost our chance for a quiet, secluded, seated position at the back of the room, out of sight from the comedians and out of harms way. We followed the steadily moving queue through the small playground of the old secondary school, down the steps and into the cellar where we were greeted by a colourful, cosy atmosphere surrounded by posters advertising all kinds of crazy acts and comedians, some recognisable, some promising and others just plain bonkers. We already had our tickets sorted so simply handed them over and made our way through the double doors to the main room.
A large open bar filled the left corner of the dimly lit room, whilst the stage stood to the right, a small, raised platform around the centre of the wall upon which a single microphone stood tall, waiting. Facing chairs surrounded the small stage with a multitude of small, round, candlelit tables, most of which were still empty, surprisingly enough, considering the amount of people that had been moving through the entrance doors before us.
The girls picked our seats around a small table at the back of the crowd of tightly packed tables. A safe table, plenty of distance between us and the front of the audience, so we were not slagged off by whomever was to take the stage. Another plus point, the others pointed out, was that this table was also near the toilets. Unsure why this was relevant I was beginning to wonder who I was out with, the Ladybirds or the Old dears?
During the first hour the kitty was made and more drinks were ordered as the ticket holders piled in through the doors behind us, the latecomers struggling for seats. Some of the latecomers consisted of women, dressed for their night out, but obviously also late for their night out. These women hung around suggestively, giving lots of huffs, puffs and vocal complaints about the lack of seats whenever I happened to turn around. Eventually I ended up receiving many an evil look as it slowly sunk in that I wasn’t giving my seat up for anyone, no matter how glamorous they considered themselves or how often they flicked their hair or fiddled with their bra straps.
Eventually the excitable, but not unfunny, compere hit the stage, almost immediately picking out faces from the front rows, only gently slagging them off, and obviously sussing out who was with who for the comedians that were to follow. An entertaining Scots guy was first up, followed by a weird Irish guy that based his routine on Bible stories, a second irish guy was next, and the funniest of the night, followed by a Canadian.
You’d think that as the night went on, and the more drinks that were consumed, the laughs would get louder. The fourth act proved this wrong. Unfortunately myself and the gathered crowd had either drank too much and missed the Canadian’s funny points or just got bored. You’ll notice, of course, that I cannot now remember any of the featured comedians names which could well contribute to the theory of ‘I just drank too much’ and after another few rounds in Oran Mor’s brasserie bar and a slow, oddly stomach churning taxi journey home, I fulfilled that theory with the wrong end of my body down my bathroom’s toilet seat.
Personally I blame Strata’s cut price food myself.