Saturday, 24 July 2010


During my summer sojourn to the coast of the extreme South West, I managed to fit in some very noble people-watching. This yielded many results, the most striking one I have already described in 'Naked Woman Flesh'.

However, I observed another phenomenon: holidads.

These are not just normal dads but dads on holiday with the kids and The Missus, hence 'holidads' - holiday dads (but shortened for poetic effect) ... keep up, dear!

Anyway - holidads.  For the sake of clarity, I was not a holidad. I was quite the opposite, I hope. You are intrigued now, aren't you? I can tell!

Holidads are that breed of men who seem to expect wifey to run around after them and the kids while they take in the Stocks and Shares in the be-minatured Times at breakfast time. In our hotel, there were a number of such geezers. Wifey would haul screeching Tarquin down to eat (and all the parafernalia of kiddihood) while Holidad brought nothing but the paper. Holidads don't even look up when wifey, having desposited the snot-and-tears Tarquin, scuttle around gathering the food for them all from the servery. Holidads don't bat an eyelid or so much as pause between column inches when the incandescent sprog throws a paddy. They leave their rather flustered and embarrassed significant-others to deal with all that malarky. These chappies are conspicuous and they are out there in their millions and billions. 

I have never understood why some dads just let the mother get on and deal with it all. Yes, maybe in some (and not all, this is the Third Millenium) cases they have the fancy job while mindful wife does the domestic stuff - and there may be some balance in that division - but ignoring the kids, letting them be as invisible presences before their newspapers? Once, I was at a party where a little kid was playing happily with mum and dad looking on. The little love spilled their drink; daddy tells mummy that this has happened and she ought to clear it up. This echoes in all things; dads that never clean the manky touche of a post-poo poppet; dads that never get up in the night to deal with the lung exersions of a yelling infant; dads who, while on holiday with the family, seem to take a holiday from them in their very presence. 

Domesticity may be split  - parenthood isn't. You might be the Duke of Financial Headquarters, that that is your child there - get involved and be glad you can!

That's as much as I have to say about that.

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