Euphemistically speaking

"You met a guy in a pub and he put his cheese-grater in your hand and asked you to play with it?" my son says, as I'm telling him about my recent trip to Yorkshire for a science lecture. 

"That's some kind of gay euphemism, right?"

"Wrong," I tell him. "I've never been gay. You're the living proof, as is your brother. I was married to your mum for years. Centuries in subjective time."

"There you are then," he says. "Sounds like an experience that could turn a guy gay."

"You can't get turned gay," I say. "Though I did hear your mum hung out with butch babes after we split. Maybe I turned her."

"So what does 'play the cheese-grater' mean then?" he says. "I like colourful euphemisms, by the way. Chastise the lizard. Ice the Mexican melon. Punish the pelican."

"Me too," I say. "What do those mean?"

"No idea," he says. "I just made them up."

"So after this lecture, we're headed back to Ian's house," I say, returning to my story. "And we stop at a little pub, perched alone among windblown trees, high up in the Yorkshire dales. The sky is black except for a few faint stars in the south."

"I don't like the sound of this," my son says. "It's one of those haunted house stories where everyone dies at the end, isn't it? That's what 'play the cheese-grater' means? I hate those stories."

"No, it's not," I say. "Don't worry."

He eyes me suspiciously. "You used to tell me stories like that when I was young."

"Not me - I sang you jolly, happy songs, like Frosty the Snowman and Busy Doing Nothing," I say, breaking into the first verse of the latter: "I have to watch the river to see that it doesn't stop. Then stick around the rosebuds, so they'll know when to pop."

"Keep it down," he says. "Go on with your story then. But if it ends with 'When the lights come on again we see that everyone in the pub has played the cheese-grater', I'm walking."

"Trust me," I say. "So we push open the heavy door and the pub is almost gloomier inside than out. A smoky smell from somewhere wrinkles my nostrils. We pick our way towards the bar, past murmuring shapes at old wooden tables, order two pints of Black Sheep beer then find a seat not far from the stage."

"Everyone is alive still?" he says.

"Course they are," I say.

"Just checking. Then what?"

"The band appears - two grizzled guys on guitars, a tall chick on keyboard and a funky-looking fella carrying a tambourine and wearing a fedora. They kick off with House of the Rising Sun and they're good, so I'm drumming the table-top along with them. After a couple of Stones numbers the guy in the hat comes over and gives me his tambourine. 

"I've never held one before but it's not hard to hit the beat with. Then he hands me this cheese-grater thing as well."

"What's it look like?" he says.

"Rough steel cylinder you scrape with the bendy tines of a big fork," I say.

"You're talking about a metal guiro," he tells me. "It's a percussion instrument used in merengue music. The fork's called a scraper."

"Is that right?" I say. "Well I get the hang of it pretty quick. First I hit it on the beat and scrape the eighths, then I reverse that and throw in some syncopation. At the end of the song the guy takes his hat off, sticks it on my head, gives me a big smile and says something that sounds like, 'Ee lad tha's a grumly fettock fergler.'

"I tell him it's a braw, bricht moonlicht nicht, then shake his hand. Suddenly it goes dark and loud screams rend the night. When the lights come on again we see that everyone in the pub has played the cheese-grater."

My son shakes his head in disgust and stands up to leave. "I'm sorry," I say to his departing back. "I couldn't help myself. Sit down again please and we'll talk about art." 

"Why don't you just go chuff your scroggy wassocks?" he says, but he sits back down.

"Nice Yorkshire euphemism," I say. "Now what's your thoughts on the Reith Lectures being delivered this year by a hairy potter in a dress?"

What parents can learn about technology from teachers

Welcome to the October 2013 Carnival of Natural Parenting: Kids and Technology
This post was written for inclusion in the monthly Carnival of Natural Parenting hosted by Code Name: Mama and Hobo Mama. This month our participants have written about their families' policies on screen time.
***

Media hype around kids and technology often focuses on the dangers. Positive aspects don't get nearly as much publicity. But computers are now used in schools around the world to motivate youngsters, help them learn and give everyone access to opportunities once available only to the few.

One way for parents to get a handle on all this activity is to understand the different ways technology is used educationally. These can be grouped into four broad headings:

• Research
• Collaboration
• Presentations/blogs
• Games

Research. This is easy to understand but harder to do well. When you ask the internet a question all it often returns is a hundred people with the same question getting dumb answers: "I don't know but have you tried reading a book/asking an expert/phoning a friend?"

So-called humor abounds online. Using my smartphone I recently searched the Internet, when my car broke down, for the location of an elusive towing point at the back of my sister's small auto. The top response, in both Google and Yahoo, was, "What would you tow? A Barbie toy trailer?"

The other problem with children using the Internet for research is unsavoury websites. Schools use filters to block these and parents can set up their own filters on a family computer. Google's safe search can be password protected. But we can't constantly monitor our kids' Internet access on their mobile phones. Talking to them about the dangers and earning each other's trust is the long-term answer. 

Learn more:

• Goodwill Community Foundation. "These modules show you how to effectively find information online and evaluate its quality." 
• Google. How you can protect your family online 
• Education Scotland. Information and Critical Literacy 

Collaboration. A good classroom is no longer a quiet classroom. Teachers now know that learning can be most effective when learners discuss, question, analyse and solve problems together. A wide variety of technology tools support this modern style of learning and teaching

Most children enjoy working together, particularly if each member of a team has a particular role that plays to their strengths in a shared project. Kids with practical skills get a chance to shine not often afforded by a conventional classroom. Everyone acquires the vital adult skills of teamworking at an early age. 

But one aspect of cooperative learning that has taken time to appreciate is that a minority of children badly want to work alone. Kids on the autistic spectrum, in particular, can get stressed if forced to work collaboratively, even in the supportive atmosphere this type of learning tries to foster. If children feel strongly about working alone they should not be forced to work collaboratively.

Learn more:

• Education Scotland. Learning together: collaborative learning 
• University of Queensland. Wikis and Collaborative Learning 
• Getting Smart. Six Google Docs features to support collaborative writing 

Presentations/blogs. A key lesson educational technology has taught us is that children are intensely motivated by the prospect of a real audience for their work. Teachers new to technology constantly comment on the performance of pupils not normally expected to be high achievers.

But it is not only a matter of motivation. Creating presentations and writing blogs also promotes learning. “I use presentation software called Keynote," a 15-year-old recently told me when I visited her school.

"It’s like writing paragraphs, but you also put pictures in to show the meaning and make it colorful. I use it even when I’m just studying, because it helps me learn. The colors and pictures stick in my brain. It helps you learn much faster.”

Learn more:

• Edublogs. "The world's most popular education blogging service." 
• Ewan McIntosh. Blogging improves young people's confidence in their writing and reading 
• Educational Technology and Mobile Learning. 20 free tools to create awesome presentations and slideshows 

Games. Maria Montessori was perhaps the first person to say that "Play Is the work of the child". But computer games nowadays are often blamed for promoting violence. There is a more positive side that gets far less publicity.

Motivated by the ideas of US teacher and writer Mark Prensky, research studies around the world have been exploring the educational value of computer games. One of the most practical of these initiatives is based in Scotland and led by teacher and lecturer Derek Robertson. "The pupils that we work with, test or interview talk enthusiastically about learning through games," he says.

"Reluctant writers talk about being inspired to write because of the worlds of the games and the images that they find themselves immersed in. Children identified as having lesser ability in math are observed to be more confident and able in mental math. Teachers talk about children buying in to learning through games because it is something from their world." 

Learn more:

• Derek Robertson. Occasional thoughts and ideas about the place and purpose of technologies in learning 
• Edutopia. Game based learning 
• Mark Prensky. What Kids Learn That’s Positive From Playing Video Games 

***
Visit Code Name: Mama and Hobo Mama to find out how you can participate in the next Carnival of Natural Parenting!
Please take time to read the submissions by the other carnival participants (list will be updated throughout the day on October 8):

• Has Technology Taken Away Childhood? — Jennifer at Hybrid Rasta Mama worries that technology is intruding on the basic premise of childhood - active play in all forms! Join her as she takes a brief look at how play has changed as technology becomes more integrated into the daily lives of our children.
• Fostering a Healthy Relationship with Technology — Jenn at Adventures Down Under describes her children's love of screen time and how her family implements their philosophy and policies on technology.
• Kids Chores for Tech Privileges — Crunchy Con Mommy shares how tying chore completion to iPad privileges worked in her house to limit screen time and inspire voluntary room cleaning!
• Screens — Without the benefit of her own experience, sustainablemum explains her family's use of technology in their home.
• Screen Time - The Battle of Ideologies — Laura from Laura's Blog explains why she is a mom who prioritizes outdoor natural play for her kids but also lets them have ample screen time.
• The Day My iPhone Died — Revolution Momma at Raising a Revolution questions the role technology plays in her life when she is devastated after losing her phone's picture collection from her daughter's first year.
• Finding our Technological Balance — Meegs at A New Day talks about how she finds balance between wanting her daughter to enjoy all the amazing technology available to her, without it overwhelming the natural parenting she's striving for.
• Raising kids who love TV — Lauren at Hobo Mama sometimes fears what children who love screentime will grow up to be … until she realizes they'll be just like her.
• No Limits on Screen Time? Is that Natural? — Susan at Together Walking shares misconceptions and benefits of having no limits on technology and screen time in their home.
• Screen Time — Jorje of Momma Jorje shares what is currently working (and what hasn't) regarding screen time in her household.
• Positive Use of Technology with Kids — Deb Chitwood at Living Montessori Now tells about her family's experiences with early technology, shares helpful resources from around the blogosphere, and speculates on what she'd do as a parent with young children today.
• why i will never quit you, TV — How Emma of Your Fonder Heart came to terms with the fact that screen time is happening, and what balance looks like between real and virtual life for both her toddler AND herself.
• Technology Speaks — Janet at Our Little Acorn finds many uses for technology - including giving her child a voice.
• 5 Ways to Extend Children's Screen Time into Creative Learning Opportunities — Looking for a way to balance screen time with other fun learning experiences? Dionna at Code Name: Mama shares 5 fun ways to take your child's love of favorite shows or video games and turn them into creative educational activities.
• What parents can learn about technology from teachers — Douglas Blane at Friendly Encounters discusses how technology in schools enhances children's learning, and where to find out more.
• 5 Tips for a Peaceful Home — Megan of the Boho Mama and author at Natural Parents Network shares her favorite 5 tips for creating a peaceful home environment.
• Technology and Natural Learning — Kerry at City Kids Homeschooling writes about the importance of technology as a tool for natural, self-directed learning.
• Babies and Technology — Jana Falls shares how her family has coped, changed their use of, relied on, and stopped using various forms of technology since their little man arrived on the scene
• Kids and Technology — Rosemary at Rosmarinus Officinalis talks about the benefits of using technology with her preschooler, and includes a few of their favorite resources.
• Using Technology to Your Advantage: Helping Children Find Balance — At Living Peacefully with Children, Mandy discusses how technology can be used or abused and gives a few tips to help children learn balance.

Barely controlled chaos

Having successfully completed the portfolio preparation course, and been offered a coveted undergraduate place at Glasgow School of Art, my dyslexic son, whose reward for 12 years of schooling was three Standard Grades, a swimming certificate and a bad attitude to adults, has been asked to deliver a presentation to the new intake of fresh-faced, aspiring artists.

It's a massive leap beyond anything he's ever done. But he seems cool with it. "I know what I'm going to say," he tells me, in the kitchen of his Garnethill flat, as he rustles us up some pasta and quick-fried sprouting seeds.

"In the morning you make a list of things to get done during the day. You mostly ignore it. But it's there to stop you floating off and writing wee poems on banana skins."

"What kind of idiot would do that?" I say, having a fair idea of the answer.

"I was completely lost one day," he says. "Hadn't a clue what to do next. So when I'd written on the bananas I got yellow tape and stuck it all over my face. Then I went home."

He looks out the window at the steep banking, overgrown with grass, that passes for a garden in these parts. "I've had better days," he says.

"Worse too, I'd imagine," I say.

"Oh yeah," he says. "It's ups and downs as an artist. You have to like the rollercoaster."

Grabbing the frying pan, he decants a heap of still-sizzling seeds onto my small pile of penne pasta. "This is a great way to get good food fast," he says. "Bit of olive oil, dash of soy sauce, salt and pepper, fry for a few minutes. Fantastic."

"So what else are you going to tell the new intake?" I ask. "You want my help, by the way? I've been doing presentations forever."

"Nah, I've got it covered," he says. "If you're doing art, I'm going to tell them, you get lost all the time. How you deal with it is the thing.

"Some students in our class kept asking what they should do next. But that's not what the tutors are there for. Their job is to create an atmosphere of barely controlled chaos. And give you paint."

As I masticate his mung beans and pasta, and savour the surprisingly satisfying mélange of curly, crunchy, soft and squishy, I ponder this core message he's planning to convey. I'm not sure "barely controlled chaos" will go down well with the Art School staff.

But my experience is engineering, so I know about people, politics, deadlines and delivering. I know nothing about the art world. He does. Or seems to now. 

"Will they be happy with you saying that?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says. "They told me I'd got it, when I was doing the course. They said I was one of the key students, a benchmark."

He tosses this off casually. But to someone who got plenty of pain at school and very little pleasure, that has to feel good.

As I listen to him speak with some authority, I realise it also feels good to a dad who attended untold meetings of teachers, psychologists and school management, none of whom had a good word to say about the lad for 12 long years.

"Nice that, intit?" he says, nodding to my emptying plate.

"Lovely," I say. "Must try making it myself. So you were a benchmark?"

"Yeah," he says. "The tutors would quite often say, 'Take a look at what Dougie is doing'. Or rather 'Duggie', because they're English and can't say 'Dougie'."

"Did that annoy you?" I ask.

"Nah," he says. "I answer to anything - Doug, Doog, Duggie, Dougie, Dingly, Dongly. It creates confusion. I like confusion."

"Me too," I say. "A benchmark? Well, well. That sounds great. Is it something to do with you being a long, flat piece of wood?"

He laughs. "That'll be it," he says, picking up my empty plate and dumping it in the sink.

"Just call me 'Duggie the plank.'"

White room

"So I'm superfluous?" I say to my son as he's giving me coffee and a custard slice in the front room of his flat, overlooking Great Western Road.

"I was going to go for 'obsolete'," he tells me.

"Even worse," I say. "Either way you don't need my help?"

"Why would I?" he asks.

"I'm better at filling in forms than you."

"Not by much," he says, which is true. But you get used to trying to help your kids. The knowledge that they're as capable as you, maybe more so, takes ten years to penetrate, in my experience.

"Not to change the subject, but about this room," I say.

"What about it?" he says.

"'Silver horses ran down moonbeams in your dark eyes,'" I say.

"I know," he says. "Except the sun shines here all the time. This is my studio. So I want it white and I want it minimalist. Lots of light, no distractions."

"Well that's what you got. But spend much time in here, you'll go snow-blind. Also you need chairs. My bum hurts already from sitting on the floorboards."

"You're too skinny," he says. "The human arse is supposed to be fleshy. It wants padding. You ain't got none. Eat more cakes and you'll be comfier."

"Trouble with that is you can't tell the calories where to collect," I say. "Suppose I stuff myself with custard slices for a month and the fat goes to the wrong place, like my head."

"Nobody would notice," he says. "There is something you can help me with, come to think of it."

"Yeah?" I say.

"Yeah," he says. "Personal statement for Art College. It's about who I am, what I've done, why I'm doing what I'm doing, and what I want to do in future."

  

"You any thoughts?" I say.

"Millions," he says. "But not sure how to write them so they make any sense."

"You talk, I write, you edit," I suggest.

"Fair enough," he says. "Well, I've always done art stuff. But if I was painting I used to try to make paintings."

"Pfff," I say. "How dumb was that?"

"It was," he says. "I'd get pissed off because they'd never turn out right."

 "So what's the alternative?" I say.

"Process," he says. "It's the big thing I've learned. Art is about the process not the product." 

"Sounds vague and meaningless to me," I say.

"It's not," he says. "It's perfectly clear. It's about having ideas, developing them, generating ideas from those ideas, linking back to other people's stuff. That's the process." 

"But surely you got to produce something or what's the point?" I say. 

You do," he says. "Lots of stuff. You just don't make that your main aim. You don't force it to happen."

He sips his coffee and looks out the window, towards Chinatown beyond the red flats. "I was talking to Stu Kidd about this," he says. "He's a musician so he got it right away. Said some of the tunes on his latest album with The Wellgreen had been dicking about his head for years."

"An album is a product," I say. 

"Course it is," he says. "But if he'd produced it when he first got the ideas, it wouldn't have been as good. I guess it's about stocking your brain with stuff and letting it percolate and form connections, then come out in its own good time."

"My point exactly," I say. "There's stuff in my head been percolating for decades. You should use it more."

"I was going to go for centuries, chief. It's too long. You're a bit like these custard slices," he says, picking one up and waggling it at me.

"Squishy and strangely comforting?" I say.

"Well past their sell-by date," he says.

Sally and the seagulls

The first walk with a new baby is a big event for a grandmother, so Susan's face is radiant as she pushes the pram with little Sally in it through Howard Park and across Kilmarnock Water.

"Take my photo, take my photo," she says.

"Make your smile a little smaller," I tell her, as I sight through the viewfinder to compose the shot. "It's filling the field of view."

Lunch in the Longhouse is the plan and it should have been an uneventful walk to get there. But we figured without the seagulls. They like it around here, but Chuck does not like them.

"They swoop down and attack me," he explains.

"Why?" I wonder.

"How should I know?" he says. "Maybe if you're a seagull I look like a fish."

Susan opens her mouth to say something smart and closes it again without doing so. I'm impressed. "Being a granny suits you," I say. "You're becoming sensible, mature and restrained."

"That'll be the day," she says.

Up ahead a squawking flock of herring gulls is delving yellow beaks into food scraps someone has dumped, down by the river. We make a wide detour.

"Laridaphobia," I say and wait for someone to ask me. No one does.

"An intense and irrational fear of seagulls," I say. "Laridophobia."

"There's nothing irrational about it," Chuck says. "They attack people."

"Only if you look like food or threaten their young," I say. "I read about one woman who kept getting dive-bombed by a herring gull in her garden that had made a nest on her roof."

"There you are then," he says.

"She started wearing a colander on her head for protection," I tell him.

"Now that would suit you," Susan says.

On the outside, the oldest pub in Kilmarnock remains rather rustic. Inside it's bright lights, blue metal and burnished wood. We settle down, place our orders and ask Marie what it's like being a mum.

"We're still not getting much sleep," she says. "Every three or four hours she wakes, wanting to be fed. And sometimes she cries and cries and I don't know why."

Lines of stress furrow her forehead for a moment, then her left hand reaches out to the pram and touches the bundle lightly, and her face starts to soften.

"I didn't think I was all that maternal," she says, stroking little Sally. "But she is lovely, isn't she?"

"She is gorgeous," her gran says. "The most beautiful baby in the world."

"See that's my point," I say. "A granny gull would feel the same. You got to expect grown-ups to protect the young in the family, whatever the species.

"Next time a gull attacks you, young Chuck, just picture it as Susan, sweeping down from the sky."

The colour drains from the young lad's face. "Bloody hell," he says. "Now I am scared."

Maxwell's waves

So I'm stood on a sandbank by the side of the Kelvin, throwing stones in the water and making waves for my son to photograph, when he tells me I'm doing it wrong. "Too many splashes," he says. "Pretend you're a girl. Throw underarm."

Well I give it a go and I'm not very good. Whether it's lack of practice being a girl, or discomfort that macho walkers with big dogs can see me, I just can't land the stones in the right place for the composition he's aiming at. 

"What was that?" he demands, dropping the camera from his eyes and looking across unadmiringly. "There!" he says, familiar impatience with me rising to the surface, as he indicates a spot no more than ten feet away. "Can you see where I'm pointing?"

"I can see it," I tell him. "I just can't hit it."

"You couldn't hit a cow's arse with a banjo," he says. "Gimme the stones and I'll throw with one hand and take the photos with the other. You go stand under a tree and try to stay out of the shot."

So I stand under a tree and ponder the reversal of roles that age brings to parenting. There once was a time, not that long ago, when my word was law. 

Nah, that's not true. Little bugger always did more or less what he wanted. I remember him sat at the table at the age of three, for half an hour once, flatly refusing to say the one word that would release him, to get on with his life. Thrawn doesn't even begin to describe him, from the day he was born.

But at least there was once some recognition that, as the elder partner, I had some expertise that he hadn't. I taught him to cross the road when he was four, ride a bike when he was six and drive a car when he was seventeen. I had a role once. 

Now it seems my role is to get out of the way when he's being creative and to constantly remind him of things he's forgotten. Well not actually forgotten. It's just less effort for him to retrieve stuff from my brain than from his.

"So what's this all about again?" he calls, seemingly satisfied with his one-handed photography.

"I told you five minutes ago," I say, pulling myself off the tree and wandering across the sand. "We're looking for images to illustrate a lovely poem about James Clerk Maxwell."

"Who?"  he says.

"Exactly!" I say. "Only one of the greatest physicists who ever lived. And he belonged to Scotland. But nobody here knows anything about him. It's a disgrace."

"Calm down," he says. "You're getting the dogs excited. What did this guy do?"

"Unified electricity and magnetism. Proved light was electromagnetic radiation. Gave us field theory, which underpins all modern physics. Made the theoretical breakthroughs that led directly to relativity."

"Sounds quite a guy," he says. 

"He was," I say. "Einstein had a photo of him on his study wall. So our plan is to run a bunch of events and activities that will raise the profile of James Clerk Maxwell, until he's as well-loved as Robert Burns."

He studies me sceptically, while packing his camera in its hold-all and slinging it over his shoulder. "Lemme get this right," he says.

"On the one hand there's this handsome country boy who wrote wonderful love songs and broke women's hearts. On the other you've a bearded Victorian gent who invented electromagnetic field theory?"

"That's it," I say.

"And you want ordinary punters to be as crazy about both?"

"Yeah," I say. "What do you think?"

"I think you've as much chance of winning the women's shot put at the next Olympics," he says, striding off along the sandbank.

Rantingness

I began this blog with a post about trying to escape a rant from my son. But I actually enjoy a good rant, especially if it's verbally inventive and soars into flights of fancy. 

In this clip, McGlashan, a Scottish nationalist ranter, treats his agent to an entertaining tirade on how the Scots invented everything, then the English stole their ideas. "The English," he shouts. "We even invented them. We did. We took all the people in our country who were poofs or perverts. Or deviants. 

"Or bastards. Or girls. And we put them down south and said 'Right, you can be the English. You just stay there and we'll come down and kick your arse every now and again.'"

As this clip illustrates, a good rant is often accompanied by shouting and arm-waving, which is why some people dislike them, failing to find the humour and seeing only aggression.

So I'm driving my son back to his flat the other day, after meeting him at Tesco's, where the zombies got us, and a girl walks in front of the car, lost in her own earphone world, and forces me to stamp on the brakes.

It doesn't bother me any, but it sets him off on one. "What is it with young people these days?" he demands. "They walk out without looking and expect you to stop for them. It's insane."

"They don't know how dangerous the world is," I suggest.

"Well, somebody should've taught them," he says, as I start the stalled engine and head along Great Western Road, towards his flat. "Why do they expect everybody else to look out for them?" he demands.

"I'll tell you why," he continues without a beat. "Nobody gets to chastise kids these days. You have to reason with them, share their pain, persuade them of your point of view."

He draws a breath. "Send them to conflict resolution classes!"

By now we're stopped at the traffic lights just past Kelvinbridge and his raised voice and apparent agitation is attracting the attention of pedestrians, who look like they're wondering if he's about to explode or smack me around.

But this is not aggression and it's not directed at me. It's just good old-fashioned rantingness. "Maybe it's better to bring kids up like that," I suggest. "More enlightened than the traditional way."

"More enlightened?" he barks. "Are you mad? Do lionesses reason with their cubs, if they're getting too close to a big male? Do dogs consult the charter on the rights of the child if their pups are being a pain? No! They cuff the little fuckers and so they should. It's how kids learn. When I was a toddler, all cute and curly, crawling around your house, trying to eat sick, drink bleach and explore the electricity sockets, you didn't sit me down and explain human biology, did you? You smacked me."

"I'm not sure I did," I say. "It was a long time ago."

"Well you bloody should have!"

"You'll be telling me next that friendly neighbourhood cops should be encouraged to give kids a clip round the ear," I say, as we pull up outside his flat.

"Cops!" he shouts, seemingly oblivious of the young constable walking past on the pavement. "Don't get me started about cops! All they do is protect rich bastards from the people they've screwed."

"It's all right, officer," I say through the open window. "Care in the community - he's harmless."

"Get him off the street, sir, he's causing a disturbance," he says.

"I will," I say, taking his arm lightly and guiding him towards the door. "Let's get you inside and have a nice cup of tea."

"Tea!" he shouts, with a wicked grin the cop can't see. "Don't talk to me about tea. Those stupid bags don't have any tea in them. They're just dust, mouse-shit and spiders scraped off the factory floor."

I pat his arm for the benefit of the cop, who's still watching us. "Get inside, pillock, and put a sock in it," I say quietly.

"Socks!" he shouts, as I finally get the door open and shove him safely through. "Don't talk to me about socks!"

PS Alternative link to McGlashan. Catch it while you can, because Channel 4, who own the rights, have already blocked it at several websites.

Objets d'art

"You going back to the office after this?" I ask my son over lunch in Antipasti.

"It's hardly an office when you've people standing on tables throwing paint at the walls," he says.

"Would have improved some of the offices I've worked," I say. "Studio then."

"Actually there is a resemblance to an office this week," he says. "One of the guys brought in an office chair and he's slowly cannibalising it for his work," 

I chew the thin, crispy pizza and spoon the froth from my cappucino. "Can you make art out of anything?" I wonder, and he gives me a look that says the answer's obvious.

"Of course you can."

"Surely not?" I say. "What about a slice of this pizza, two pregnant gerbils and a signed photo of Silvio Berlusconi?"

"Stick it on the wall that's art already."

"What about the collected truths of Tony Blair?"

"That would be minimalist."

"How about a steaming pile of horseshite?"

"Come on," he says. "Have you any idea the number of artists who've used steaming piles of horseshite in their work?"

"No," I say.

"Me neither," he says. "But it's a lot. Everything is raw material for art."

"Are you an artist?" says the waitress, come to collect the pizza crusts, and he gives her the smile that melts stones in space. She fumbles the plate and says "Sorry". 

"Just a student," he says and looks away.

The waitress lingers, acting busy with the crockery, but he's off somewhere in his head and doesn't turn back till she's gone.

"Lemme ask you something," I say. "Did you notice that woman serving us?"

"I saw her," he says.

"But did you notice her? Did you see that she liked you?"

"She did?" he says, surprised.

I shake my head. "You're missing several antennae, son. I've suspected it for a while. It's why you're still single."

"I'm still single because I saw one marriage up close and personal, when I was a boy. That was one too many."

"Good point. But they're not all like that." 

"Sure they are."

"They're not. Have you any idea the number of marriages that are perfectly happy?" I ask.

"No," he says.

"Me neither," I say. "But it's a lot. Loads of women make great wives. In fact women are the one exception to your theory about making art out of anything. You can't turn women into art ...."

He holds a finger up fast to silence me. "If you say 'because they're works of art already', he warns, "I'll disown you."

"I wasn't going to say that."

"Yeah, you were."

"Yeah, I was."

He shakes his head in sorrow and gets up to go.

Choices

My son is unhappy with the location I've chosen for lunch, an ancient establishment on Sauchiehall Street that has sweet-scented, glass-fronted cakes downstairs and an old fashioned restaurant up above, where black-clad waitresses glide to and fro, like ghosts from an earlier age.

Well maybe not glide. "Last time we were here the woman who served us was 93, looked like Julie Walters in the Two Soups sketch and got our order all wrong," he reminds me.

"Poor soul," my sister, always quick to sympathise, chides him gently. "She was doing her best. You'll be old one day yourself."

"No doubt," he tells her. "But I won't wear a dress three sizes too small, move at two miles an hour and bring milky tea to people who order black coffee. Why are we here again?"

I can see clearly now that this isn't one of his bright, sunshiny days. So I tread carefully. "Let's sit down and you can tell us what you've been doing at Art College," I say.

He grunts but takes a seat at the table the nonagenarian leads us to, and his aunt asks how he's getting on. The charming smile reserved for non-parents flashes in her direction, and he tells her the portfolio he's been working on for months has gained him an interview for entry to the degree course.

"Just me and one other guy in the class," he says, acting casual.

"That's fantastic," she says, kissing him on the cheek. I give him an equally delighted but more manly punch on the arm and ask when he got the news. "Couple of days ago," he says.

   

"What! Why didn't you tell me then?"

"Never thought."

You can't strangle a son in a restaurant, of course, but it's tempting at times. "Your mum and I have known you were an artist since before you could walk, and have been trying to get you into Art College for half your life. You're on the verge now and you didn't think to tell us?"

"See that's the thing," he says. "You pushed me too hard. If the two of you had left me alone I'd have got here years ago. Telling me it's what I should do made me decide I wasn't going to do it."

I look at the little bleeder in disbelief. "So why are you doing it now?"

"Because it's my choice now," he says, snapping the menu down on the table as the waitress ambles arthritically up to us. "Would you like soup of the day?" she asks.

 "What's the chance of getting any, if I say 'yes'?" he asks her. 

"Fifty-fifty," she tells him.

"Go for it," he says.