Sam Avery

Kids love bouncy castles. And why not? They’re bouncy and unpredictable, like Kanye West on a pogo stick. But just like Calpol, crayons and eating your own bogeys, the allure of the bouncy castle tends to dissipate as we reach adulthood. I’m not someone who lists ‘castle bouncing’ as a hobby these days. My kids, on the other hand, love a good bouncy castle. The bouncier the better. The only thing they love more than a GOOD bouncy castle is a REALLY BAD bouncy castle. Especially those ones that haven’t undergone a decent risk assessment since mullets were cool. In fact, the more dubious the health and safety standards appear to a casual bystander, the more keen my kids are to dive on headfirst and find the hazards. So. We’re at a farm park. We’re enjoying the standard parental farm park experience - the kids are interested in everything EXCEPT the very farm animals that we just paid a whopping £37.50 to visit. (BTW - My son’s favourite animal at Chester Zoo was

Before my kids arrived I swore I’d never shout at them. But choosing how to approach parenthood before your kids are born is like a caterpillar deciding what kind of butterfly they’re gonna be while they’re still building the cocoon. ‘I’ll still do loads of charity work, of course. And I’ll be REALLY nice to moths too, even though they’ll probably hate me because I’ll be so bloody gorgeous.’ Theory and reality are like sugar and shit. I’ve raised my voice to my kids more times than I can count. Often just to shout ‘STOP SHOUTING!’ which I’m aware doesn’t set a great example. ‘You should NEVER shout at your kids.’ And that’s fine. In theory. Because everything’s fine in theory. The Slimfast diet is a piece of piss until day two when you’ve had three hours sleep and someone offers you a Wagon Wheel. Of course, I never WANT to shout at them. I love them more than words can describe. But those you love are also the ones blessed with the innate ability to boil your piss q

MONDAY Demanded to wear socks AND sandals to the park. Mummy said that I couldn’t as it ‘wasn’t the done thing’ so I reminded the inflexible hag that I wasn’t planning on poncing down the catwalks of Milan or wowing the party girls of Manhattan’s Upper East Side in this fucking ensemble. I was simply visiting a subpar, surburban playground in the North of England to ‘arse about for a bit’ and if I wanted to dress like a 57 year old virgin then  I bloody well would do. TUESDAY Daddy is so sluggish first thing. That’s when I’m at my peak. Zipping about. Making plans. Ploughing through breakables. Keep up, old scrote. WEDNESDAY Wanted to be a shark so wore my swimming fin all day. Got told to remove it when I went for a dump but thankfully my arse stepped up with a rousing rendition of the theme from ‘Jaws’ to ensure the shark motif remained uninterrupted. THURSDAY Daddy explained to me that if someone is ever annoying me I must never rise to it and should simply walk away.