Cousin Frank, the legend himself, ventured across the Atlantic to spend a week with our family. In terms of Franktitude, this visit was relatively uneventful (i.e. no near-death experiences on a 600-foot cliff or falling off a bicycle in the path of an 18-wheeler). One gloriously bright day, we clambered out from behind our red door and the oppressive weight of grey that had sealed us indoors for months, determined to give Nottingham the benefit of experiencing Frank and vice versa. The best (and perhaps only) attraction within reasonable distance of our home is a massive property called Wollaton Park. The locale has acres upon acres of open lawns, free-roaming deer, a lake, a historic hall, and, on certain weekends and school holidays, a carnival.

Frank and I found ourselves near the top of a hill gazing down into the valley at painfully gaudy fabrics constructed into tents and awnings, seizure-inducing, flashing lights, poorly-crafted prizes that virtually deteriorate when (or if) the gamemaster begrudgingly puts one into your hands, and a fleet of ice cream trucks. Abandoning my wife and our friend, Laura, to watch the child, we found ourselves quickly at the base of the hill, wandering between the various stalls with increasingly disappointed looks on our faces. As we turned back towards our companions, we began to search desperately for any activity that might contribute towards financially, nearly placing our heavy coins into the grubby hands of the giant slide minder. Yet reason won the day and we turned away from the sackcloth and pink and yellow lengths of metal. It seemed, however, that fate had spun us too far. For we were not facing our family uphill, but rather a mauve-colored arena, full of miniature cars and spewing exhaust from the generator that apparently powered it. Bumper cars.

The only known photo of the legend from his time in Nottingham. No longer in grainy, unclear black and white- he exists!

Cousin Frank and I casually made our way over to the enclosure, not wanting to appear desperate. We asked the gentleman (though there was nothing gentle about him) the rate for hiring his restricted automobiles. When he responded £3 per person, I began to turn toward my family again, but was stopped by a hand that firmly grasped my shoulder from below. Frank was already dropping £6 into the hand of the salesman, one coin at a time, and saying to me, “Let’s enjoy ourselves. This one is on me.” I should have known from the way that the coins fell in slow motion, as though he was paying our fee to Charon, that there was something sinister afoot. But I thought to myself instead, “Free bumper cars!

This electrical car mechanic assigned us to our respective vehicles, while two other pairs of people joined us and shared cars with each other. I looped the “seatbelt,” which amounted to little more than a sharp-edged, loose-fitting noose, over my neck and waited for the buzz of electricity to signal Frank’s demise. As our cars began to glide across the flat surface of the track, we all ignored the “one-way” sign posted on the eastern pillar and began driving erratically, hoping for maximum speed to proceed a collision.

I noted that not all seemed right as Frank paid the ride owner and cackled maniacally. It turned out that after I reached maximum speed and cousin Frank sat helpless against the edge or a few other cars, the vehicle I had received opted to slow down dramatically and suddenly send me in the opposite direction. No amount of steering or stomping on the accelerator would remedy the situation. The vehicle tended to right itself only after Frank collided into me with cataclysmic force and shrieked with delight as an egregious inferno blazed in his eyes. In several crashes, the seatbelt “saved” me by nearly severing my head and drawing the blood to the surface of my skin in a neat little line that ran along my neck and down my chest.  It appeared as though Frank had mollified the carnival gods and rode on the wave of their favor. He had cleverly guided us toward this activity, feigning disinterest in the revelry and acting as though the bumper cars were something “we may as well do” because we had walked “so far.” Frank had an axe to grind, as it turned out. For he was suffused with rage that I had told so many stories in which he was the subject of hilarity.

But, you see, when Cousin Frank went with us to a playground in Nottingham, he got stuck on a merry go round (or “roundabout”). After observing me pushing Langston and wife in a large swing together on which they were able to lay down, Frank desired to partake in the relaxing activity. Behind us, he found a dish-shaped merry go round composed of stacked metal rings and climbed inside.

A fairly close representation of the cone that ensnared Frank.

Proving to be decidedly less comfortable than he imagined, Frank attempted to climb out, but found the effort near impossible. Hearing the groans of struggle close at hand, I turned to watch him and capitalized on my opportunity.

I ran to the merry go round and, as he reached out a hand believing I had come to his aid, I grasped the top metal ring and began to spin the contraption as quickly as possible. Initially, Frank responded to my energetic whirling with, “No thanks. We’re not doing that.” Within seconds, as the cone approached maximum speed, his pitch modulated significantly and he shifted from the declarative to the imperative. In shrill, girlish tones, he shrieked, “Help! Bethany, save me! Save me, Bethany!” Wife responded by laughing near to the point retching and Langston lay their on his back, enjoying the swing and ignoring his relative.

We watched Frank as he attempted to climb out of the cone, but centrifugal force consistently threw him from side to side. Eventually, the device slowed to a stop and Frank managed to toss a leg over the edge of the rim, using gravity to drag his body out of the dangerous playground equipment. He staggered at an angle across a large swathe of grass before collapsing to the ground and giving the fluid in his ears time to settle.

As I sat in my bumper car, speeding aimlessly backwards and gazing at Frank as he repeatedly crashed into my side and foamed at the mouth, I realized that this vendetta had nothing to do with what I had done in the past, but with what I had recounted to others. For example, while Frank stayed in our house, he frequently enjoyed showers- as you do. I neglected to mention, however, that if one happens to turn on a faucet (tap- or whatever you Brits call it) while another is showering, the shower instantly goes cold to prevent from burning the showerer/showeree.

One evening, therefore, while Frank rinsed off, I set my nine-month-old on the floor, strolled over to the kitchen sink, and turned on the water ever so briefly. After hearing the change in water pressure upstairs, I laughed to myself and shut the water off, but was surprised to hear a giggle from elsewhere in the room and close to the floor. Langston stared up with a wide, toothless smile as though he was saying, “That’s right, Dad. Do it again. We shall freeze him out of the shower and there will be much laughter.” Not wanting to disappoint my son, I flicked the water on and off seven or so more times. Yet, I never told Frank of this shower-related phenomenon.

In the middle of our bumper car excursion, I suddenly realized that there are no carnival gods, and though my vehicle clearly suffered a curse in some capacity, I struck out at Cousin Frank. The first blow nearly ended the relationship between his arm and shoulder socket. Fortunately for us, the bumper car regulator let us drive for nearly 20 minutes before he made us stop. Frank and I drove like maniacs, attacking each other and the pathetic couples in the other two cars- who cares if they were children?

Though many an awesome t-bone was frustrated by my reversing vehicle, I saw to it that Frank left with minor whiplash and he reminded me how delicately my head sits upon my shoulders. As the electricity fizzled out, we stepped from our cars out into the sunset-stained lawn, laughed at the weeping children, and set our minds on ale.

1. Soil yourself loudly (especially with the accompaniment of grunts) or otherwise in public
2. Vomit all over yourself and/or another and immediately act as though nothing has happened
3. Cry uncontrollably when you have finished a meal and are still moderately hungry
4. The same as number 2, but with poop
5. Reach into another person’s mouth while they are talking, hook your sharp little fingers around their lip, and just stare into their eyes.
6. Break any intended moment of silence with a variety of body-originating noises
7. Grab your feet and flash all of your hidden areas at your parents
8. Enjoy when someone has to change your pants
9. Stare at your fingers for extended periods of time
10. Relieve yourself in the bath
11. Cry when someone’s face scares you
12. Enjoy hot spinach and pear puree
13. Cry every time your mother leaves the room
14. Attempt to stick everything within reach into your mouth
15. Wear a onesie

Over the past few weeks, I have had the opportunity to witness the beginning of a tidal surge of toys that will be lavished upon my son as his life progresses. Largely innocuous and irrelevant to Langston (he prefers chairs or his own feet for entertainment), there are a few infant leisure items that have captured my attention, namely, bears employed as various rescue workers. Today, I watched Langston as someone held a small bear clad in the gear of a water rescuer. Given his proclivities for amusement, however, he did not award it much attention. All I could think to myself was, “Good for you, son!”- and here’s why: the reality of what that bear represents is terrifying.

Imagine that you’ve ventured out in a friend’s dinghy just off the coast of England in early January. You haven’t a clue why you agreed to this- the temperature is near freezing, you’re shivering prevents you from holding a fishing rod, and you haven’t actually anywhere to go. Suddenly, your friend’s inability to appropriately navigate the boat finds the vessel capsized and you both struggling for your lives. In the midst of flailing your arms, treading water, and timing your breaths to gasp for air at the trough of each wave. The burning in your muscles signal that you cannot take much more of this, when, suddenly, you notice a boat speeding in your direction. The nearly epileptic flicker and color of the lights signal to you that rescuers are fast approaching. As the boat draws nearer, however, you note the inordinate amount of fur that these lifesavers possess. It is a boat full of bears. Now, despite the extreme unlikelihood that these mammals would have received and retained the training necessary to navigate a rescue boat, here they are. You’re problems have been compounded exponentially. Not only are you on the verge of drowning, but shortly you will have bears in the water. Your choices are not between drowning and holding on for the rescuers to arrive. They are between drowning and being eaten. Forget about pacing your breathing. How are you going to escape a group of bears trained to swim in rough seas, not to mention the fact that they can bide their time and follow you at a relaxed pace, waiting for you to exhaust yourself, given their recently acquired boat-driving skills?

A bear dressed as a fireman is even worse. No one would breathe a sigh of relief when, as their house is engulfed in flames about them, they perceive a brown mass of fur wrapped in the gear of a fireman charges toward them at heroic speed. Your situation just got worse, m’friend. No one in need of help ever thinks, “I could really use a bear right now.”

A rescue bear is not an adorable plaything. It is a warning that things could be worse. “Hey, kid. Here’s a teddy bear. Appreciate that your life isn’t this bad.”

Now imagine that that man is, in fact, this author and that the safe is a 5×5 bathroom with a fifteen foot ceiling and a broken lock in a building approximately 60 miles from the nearest ocean. That was the scenario only weeks ago. Having bravely come through the trauma of that event, I can now tell you my story.

Shortly after our Greek-reading group I found myself particularly aware of the amount of  liquid I had consumed that day. I rushed down the hall to the men’s toilet, expecting only a brief excursion. After shutting the entryway behind me, I reached for the lock- an activity in which I have participated doubtless hundreds of times. Something felt strange as I twisted the metal thumb lock- a disturbance. Full bladders afford little time for reflection, though. While decreasing certain internal pressures, I casually looked around the room as I had dozens of other times.

The room is no more than five feet by five feet, and, for some inexplicable reason, divided further into two separate rooms. As you walk in, the sink is immediately to your left. At approximately 2.5 feet of your stroll through the bathroom, you reach the division between the “washroom” and the “toilet.” The University must have had a surplus of toilet doors during the construction of this room, because there is no other logical explanation for why one would divide a private bathroom into two separate rooms, including placing a door between the toilet and the sink. Are there that many males who just need to wash their hands that I should leave the main door unlocked so that they still have access to the sink for sanitary emergencies? Or perhaps it is for added security, like Fort Knox, except that what is on the other side of the final door nobody wants to steal? Furthermore, closing and locking the inner stall door requires either standing on top of or straddling the toilet. Needless to say, I have rarely locked said door except during the occasional instant of curiosity, but I digress- back to me at the toilet.

Having finished the assigned task, I turned on the sink water and pretended to wash my hands, as all men do. I included the added flair of cranking out some paper towel on the slot-machine type dispenser we have. Then things suddenly went terribly wrong. As I twisted the thumb lock counterclockwise, it felt as though knob separated from and turned apart from the deadbolt. Now I had a turn knob that twisted freely from the locking mechanism. I felt a moderate sense of panic surge through my arms (for some reason), and I realized that I had no phone, no book, and no window in that tiny room. I was facing my only way of escape.

For the next five minutes I fought violently with that tiny, metal protuberance, even managing enough room to kick it twice. The option to which I wanted to resort least was yelling for help, but I had reached the end of my already extremely limited range of escape plans. This toilet has the added annoyances for the entrapped of being well-insulated and the furthest room from all offices, excluding the basement. Therefore, one has to scream all the louder if one hopes to be rescued. I decided to bang on the door loudly at first without pleading for help- I wanted to get out, but I did not want to sound desperate. After a few minutes of no response, I began to yell “Hello!” At this point I briefly feared that I might die in that minuscule room. But the thought lasted less than a second as the article about the Chilean miner rescue I had read the night before helped give some perspective of my situation. I had three basic needs met in that room. Besides, the amount of coffee consumed in our department ensured me of the fact that someone would be at my door by the next morning.

About fifteen minutes into I heard the heavenly resonance of footsteps in the hallway. I knocked and shouted louder. Someone twisted the knob on the other side and said in a German accent, “Oh sorry.” Of all the people who could of rescued me, it had to be my secondary supervisor and respected NT scholar Roland Deines. I thought of saying, “That’s okay” to spare myself some embarrassment, but self-preservation won out over pride. I shouted louder, “No, wait. I’m stuck in here. The lock is broken.” I heard a pause and then the sound of someone fiddling with the lock. “Well I can’t unlock it from this side. I’ll have to go get maintenance.” Salvation was near… hopefully.

Moments later a knock came on the door and a soft feminine voice said, “Hello, Andrew are you alright?” It was Laura, the administrator for the theology department. I responded, “Yes, it’s just that the lock is broken.” Muffled chuckles came through the door. “I’m sorry, it’s not funny,” she said. I assured her, however, that it certainly was. “Anyway, I’ve called maintenance and they’ll be here in a few minutes.” Relief replaced the panic in my arms and I waited. A few minutes later Laura returned to say the same thing, so I can only assume the ulterior motive was for another laugh at my expense.

Silence persisted for another five minutes before I heard metal against metal and watched the lock reach the peak of its turning radius and pop back into its resting, and still locked place as the screwdriver slid from the slot on the other side. I attempted to twist the knob on my side, to which I think the person on the other side responded, “Stop that,” but the noise of the vent fan made it difficult to tell. After several minutes of the same sounds and still being locked in the bathroom, I heard one of the maintenance men grab his radio and call a supervisor. “Mike where are you?… Can you get down to Highfield House as soon as possible?… Yeah, we’ve got a gentleman who’s locked himself in the toilet.”

That’s right- the toilet. The longer I live in England, the less it makes sense to call this room the bathroom, American readers.  If I was taking a bath in that room, you would have cause for concern (and probably wouldn’t invite me over anymore). Perhaps it offends our sense of modesty, but it is more accurate. Furthermore, requesting the “bathroom” does not somehow leave the concept so vague that your company is completely unaware of what you are actually going to do in that room. Specificity, m’friends- ’tis the way forward.

Back in the toilet I waited for mike. There was muffled discussion on the other side of that former tree, then a snap, and the door slowly crept open. I suppose he did not want to interrupt in case I had decided to make use of the facilities while I waited, so I opened the door the rest of the way. Forty minutes after the ordeal began, I found myself thanking Mike and company in the liberating atmosphere of the theology department.

(Preliminary work: register son for an appointment at 9 am on October 4th via embassy website. Print, fill out, and gather all required documents. Photograph baby boy (a difficult task) for a ridiculously required baby passport. In order to avoid London traffic and the £8 “congestion fee” for driving through the city, find the tube station closest to the embassy. Figure out which station on that line lies the furthest north and its parking situation, thus minimizing driving distance and parking fees: Stanmore station is our goal. Plan route to avoid needless delays and notify family of plan. Wake baby up if he’s not paying attention. October 4th arrives.)

Step 1.) Rouse child and wife at 4am.

Step 2.) Morning preparations (e.g. dress, breakfast, etc.); gather materials and get into car.

Step 3.) Depart by 5am

Step 4.) Drive two hours and ten minutes south to Stanmore Tube Station. With 45 minutes remaining, son begins to cry. Arrive at Stanmore.  Thank Jesus that there are a plethora of parking spaces available.

Step 5.) Realize that you do not have enough change for the pay-and-display permit. So, grab your wallet with the intention of taking out some cash at an ATM in the station.

Step 6.) Follow a man to the station door. Take note that its locking mechanism has been activated. Man turns around and says, “It’s locked.” Ask man, “Why?” To which he responds, “The trains are on strike today all over London.” Look of sickness and fear falls over face.

Step 7.) Clean pants and run back to car.

Step 8.) Find wife nursing baby. Grab map from backseat and announce, “Drastic change of pl…” only to be interrupted by, “skwllllllshhpppppflppt” and see baby dump pour through son’s diaper into his clothing.

Step 9.) Son follows this up by immediately spitting up on mother. Mother realizes she only has a single replacement outfit.

Step 10.) Head to nearest gas station, take out cash, plan route (realize you do not have a proper map of London), and send wife to restroom to change baby.

Step 11.) Inside unisex restroom devoid of toilet paper, wife lays baby on mat. When it comes time to change baby, wife discovers single change of clothing has fallen out of bag and onto a wet, dirty mop.

Step 12.) Wife changes baby. Mid-way through, baby urinates all over mother’s jeans.

Step 13.) Wife returns to car with virtually naked baby, recounts story, and you head into London. An hour and a half until appointment.

14.) Remaining twelve mile stretch into the city is hampered by traffic. Decide somewhere between 2 miles and .5 miles left that you just need to park because your appointment is in 15 minutes.

15.) Park in sketchy neighborhood garage. Unfold stroller, pack baby in, and nearly forget envelope of important documents on top of your car.

16.) Begin running through drizzle in the general direction of the embassy. Discover journey is longer than .5 miles. Baby begins crying

17.) Let blankets fall out of stroller onto ground and run over them with the stroller. Baby still crying.

18.) Wife removes baby from stroller and carries remaining .5 miles to the embassy.

19.) Run to US citizens’ line twenty minutes late for your appointment only to realize they don’t care about your tardiness and they pass you through security. (Total jog of 1.4 miles).

20.) Change and feed baby, submit applications, and make payments in the embassy.

21.) Eat at Chipotle.

Alas! I find in my possession such proof that would silence their odious noise-holes like so much meconium in Langston’s diaper. To surrender to such slander, however, would mean giving credence to the lie, as my friend Dr. Bonhoeffer would say. The sheer hilarity of the proof, though, presses me to present this item. What shall I do? I am torn between the two. I include this pictorial representation, then, for those of you who objected not to the aforementioned post. The naysayers are commanded to avert their eyes and look only at what follows the picture below.

My British friends might not be as entertained to the degree of my American compatriots, so perhaps a bit of an insider’s perspective will result in greater enjoyment for the Kingdom. In the States one would purchase the items below labeled simply as “Burping Towels”- no explanation. Certainly, the terms “whilst” or “winding” would never appear on this product in our federal constitutional republic. We would also be more likely to take “winding” as “turning” or “punching in the stomach,” before we thought of burping.

That is all I would like to say on that topic.

Below, however, I have composed a list of embarrassing pharmaceutical products whose names allow for no discretion or retention of dignity at the checkout counter/till. One can only lay them on the conveyor belt, head down, cash in hand, and hope that the cashier does not have to call for a price check. They are the items that one will not ask whether the store carries them, but search desperately and, if not found, move on to the next store. These products advertise your ailment with explicitness.

1. Anusol (may as well be called “Uncle Jeb’s Rump-Soothing Cream”)

2. Gas-Ex and Wind-eze

3. Ex-Lax

4. Vagisil

5. Any store brand that simply says, “Constipation Relief,” “Anti-Diarrhea,” or “Hemorrhoid Relief” (in the latter case, you may as well walk up to the checkout and say to the clerk, “Don’t bother bagging that. I’ll be using almost as soon as I walk out the door.” Then try to shake their hand). In fact, let’s just say any store brand that simply describes its intended effect

6. Jock-itch spray with a picture of a male’s body and the treatment area highlighted (the name is irrelevant)

7. Lice-B-Gone

8. The worst of any item I have ever seen: “Faultless Goodhealth Rectal Syringe” (in this case we should be grateful for the anonymity afforded by online shopping)

1.) A Baboon,

Asante sana Squash banana, Wiwi nugu Mi mi apana!

2.) A Saint,

Blessings only $5 (per person per blessing; pets allowed... if they have money)

3.) A Theologian,

Like father like son

4.) Chris Farley,

It's Herbie Hancock, derrrr...

5.) A Praying Mantis,

The Mantis

6.) A Ninja,

Samurais beware

7.) An Actor/Rockstar

This shot doubles as an add for Halls as well as part of a portfolio for an audition to star in a first aid film in the former career.

or 8.) An Irish Dancer

Woshoshoshoshosho

A string of favorites quotes came in a single day and from a single midwife during a course that helped prepare us for the birthing process and the post-natal period. In trying to help the soon-to-be-parents, the midwife fielded a question about the rate of increase in time between contractions. She began her response with, “Textbook rate, from a cervix point of view…” I did not hear the rest. Shortly after this, she encouraged those mothers who wanted to use the birthing pools which are available in most labor wards in the UK (can you hear me, America?). She encouraged the mothers to dress in what was most comfortable, or nothing, if they felt like it. If they want their spouses in the pool (nasty), however, the men must wear swim trunks because, “Midwives are used to seeing naked women, but we’re not so keen on naked men.” Eventually, she got beyond the items available to us during labor and spoke on the event itself. Her eyes glistened slightly as she looked around the room and told the wives, “When you start to push, you will feel like you are taking the largest poo of your life,” then reminded them at the end of the lecture on labor that you are “just pushing down into your body like you’re taking a big poo.” Ahhh, a veritable sonnet on the lips of a bard. Such skill it requires to punctuate one’s stanzas not with commas or ellipses, but with flecks of poo.

When she carried on into the information about actually caring for the baby, she made note of numerous foul, squirty, mucousy, and sticky qualities of this new person. Numerous items were novel to me, and I frequently caught myself grimacing in disgust. More often than not I only realized my expression when I looked around the room and saw all of the women nodding knowingly at our sensei. One of these (numerous) occasions resulted from our midwife’s description of the meconium poop that babies produce for the first few days of life. Apparently, it is a dark, sticky substance (that doesn’t smell!!) that gets all over the baby and can take some effort to remove (Wikipedia has a picture, in case you’re curious). She noted that dads are particularly sensitive to their baby boys being cleaned, and will cry out in horror, “Oooooh! How can you scrape his balls like that!” As she passed on from cleaning the baby, she encouraged us to have our hospital bag ready for the big day, and got very detailed in the process, not even realizing how it sounded when she said, “If you want to be really prepared, because I’m anally prepared…”

As the day drew to a close, she noted that mothers should do all they can to bring the labor on once the baby has reached term. “At 39 weeks [of pregnancy],” she exclaimed, “you should be eating hot curries, taking lots of walks, and having lots of sex. And if you do all three, you get a prize.” I just eyed her suspiciously, because I don’t believe she has any prizes. This suspicion was compounded by her frequent use of the word “squozen”as the past tense of “squeeze.”

She concluded it all with information on breastfeeding, noting that it would be difficult at first, but eventually things would just click. She cautioned, however, that if the baby is not on correctly this can lead to a great deal of soreness- soreness we cannot even imagine, because, to put it in her words, “I don’t want to get into anyone’s private life, but odds are you have never had that much suction on your nipples.” After wetting myself and several others, I gathered my belongings and made for the exit.

The comments above, though amusing, do not capture the awkwardness of another engagement with a midwife during an active birth workshop. She was attempting to demonstrate how a pregnant woman should sit on a birthing ball by actually having a pregnant woman sit on a birthing ball. A novice at it, she just could not get the posture that would please our midwife. “No, that’s still not correct… you’re back needs to hammock… No… stand up for a minute.” She then had her sit on the ball again. “No, you need to sit on your perineum… Wait… do you all know what your perineum is? It’s the place between your bum and your… um… front… between… um… it’s… the area between, you know… between your vagina and you bum.” The fact that a woman who delivers babies for a career had such a hard time saying vagina tickled me ever so much.

That’s all for now. Only four weeks lie between today and the due date. Unless something of great interest arises in the near future, the next time I write there will be another Talbert in the world.

we believe the child may look something like the following, depending on whose facial structure he acquires (wife just hopes he doesn’t have my head size):

I'm fine with the manly chin and bangs, but we may have to turn that side ponytail into a comb-over.

or possibly this:

The eyelashes are a nice touch. Plus, he can look in two different directions at once!