Twins: Ten Thousand Letters To My Children

It is probably not a gross generalisation to say that many middle aged men do not prepare properly before significant bouts of exertion. Not Me! I am not alone in this but few can compete with my preparatory neglect. Acquiring a suitable bike is a start but squeezing into lycra is not a substitute for training. Take my first triathlon. This was a formidable commitment for any man on the wrong side of forty-five and should have been approached with a good deal more rigour. Instead, I consigned the training plan to a pile of dog eared papers on the counter top, filed it as a 'job for later' and unsurprisingly, never saw it again. No matter how far ahead I plan, there is still never enough time. Once I have outlined the sketchiest of plans, the motivation always ebbs until I reach the point where it is too late to pull out but too early to begin weeping. I undertook the triathlon in some tennis shorts that last saw the light of day during Tim Henman...

Alex had his first proper hair cut today. He's four and a half. Before today he had only experienced two official haircuts; one in a wonky rocket chair and the other in a slightly cramped plastic sports car. Before that Grandma wielded the shears and at various stages the plucky young chap sported a variety of looks including the curtain fringe, the unforgivingly truncated cow lick, the bed head and a splendid junior mullet. He has carried them all off with a degree of indifference but it won't be long before he is teasing his hair into what ever passes for fashion at the time. But today marks a first; Father and son having their hair cut together in a proper barber shop. I have had two barbers in the last twenty-five years. The first was Aldo, a chain smoking Italian on Regent Street in Clifton. He was old and sallow when I first walked through his door in 1995 and he still seemed to be snipping away until very recently when his yellowing salon was reborn as something...