All the fun

Last night, or rather evening was spent in the local park visiting a fun fair - a term I'm going to stick with, although in reality Trading Standards could be called in to investigate such a claim. I finally realised that I am getting seriously old. What sparked this realisation? The fact that we were having to visit before our children's bed time came round? (and fairs always look better in the dark) The fact that none of the rides looked remotely interesting? Although in fairness (no pun intended) a local park's fair is not going to compete with Alton Towers. No, it was the fact that there were groups of youths hanging around trying to look tough and intimidate people by their presence. How did that make me feel old? It was the realisation that I wasn't a target for their efforts at intimidation, just an "old" man out with his kids. The range of rides was pretty limited - a few long slides, a ghost train, a waltzer and some roundabouts. My 5 and a half year old decided he was too big for the kiddie rides, and we decided he was too small for the larger rides. The comprimise was reached - the dodgems. I was delegated to accompany eldest on the excursion, something I always dread as I have unfeasibly long legs which always end up getting battered by the impacts. Still my wife is pregnant, and whilst the thought of making her go on it crossed my mind, common sense and what little chivalry I possess prevailed. Now while my son likes driving fast round dodgems, he is not overly keen on hitting people or being hit. In that sense he is a dodgems purist. However most people take the term dodgem to mean ram all others at the highest speed possible and at the angle most likely to cause whiplash. Last night brought out the best in my driving skills, considering there were at least 10 other cars going round we only suffered one severe impact. A testament to my defensive driving abilities. After a lacklustre visit to the Fun House - a misnomer if ever there were one - tiredness had set in and apathy ruled. My son decided he wanted to go home and go to bed. However, goaded by my wife, I was convinced to have a go at winning aprize on one of the booths. Our one year old daughter had become transfixed by some Winnie the Pooh teddies. Ever the willing parent I tried my luck at hooking a duck to win one. Success - one was snared easily and a warm sense of victory engulfed me. Until it became apparent that the ducks were colour coded on the bottom to decide which prize you had won. Sadly my prey wasn't the correct colour for a Pooh teddy, you can probably guess what my endeavours had secured us - yes, a goldfish. For which we now had to procure a bowl, gravel and food, for what seemed an exorbitant price - perhaps it's really gold - must check tonight. My son suddenly perked up at this prize, he was excited at the prospect of having this fish to look after. Sensing a real opportunity to give him responsibility we readily agreed to him looking after the fish. Would he like to name it we asked? Whenever faced with a name choice he usually reverts to the name of a classmate, and he clearly had no knowledge of Jaws or other predictable names. His final choice left me wondering if he had fallen on his head badly as a small child without us noticing: we now have a pet called Woof the Fish.