tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751967702294567112024-03-02T15:50:08.744+00:00Dad-ismsThe funny sayings, mannerisms and other idiosyncracies
of our dear old Dad, Kerr Kirkwood (1927-2007).Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.comBlogger148125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-9144302421179774782024-02-24T10:45:00.001+00:002024-02-24T10:45:42.967+00:00Serving drinksAs I mimicked during the JKKs' recent visit to Naworth, Dad would preface the serving of drinks by telling a guest: "I'm worried about your thirst". Sounds so much more attentive than just saying "what would you like to drink?". A bit OTT, though.Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-80023712246731369772023-03-13T14:00:00.001+00:002023-03-13T14:00:11.844+00:00Holding your ears <p>When playing football in the garden and an errant shot was sailing towards the kitchen window, Dad would put his hand over his ears for some reason as though not hearing the smashing of the window would somehow make it better. Come to think of it, he did it when it was sailing over the fence. I was having a kick around with Aidan yesterday and found myself instinctively making the move as the ball sailed up in to a tree.</p>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18256488269354928542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-6111012199397551812023-03-13T11:05:00.002+00:002023-03-13T11:08:31.451+00:00Football shout<p>Watching Reading v Blackpool among siblings and cousins last month it was perhaps no surprise that John and I were reminded of Dad's shout at Elm Park: "Keep it on the island, Reading!" As we said, he clearly didn't have much faith in the team's skills if just preventing the ball from going out of play was something worth encouraging.</p><p><i>The pic comes from Reading v Arsenal in 1972.</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5JUjBTBtddj20mRlOlr51Uo4PWXFfRmu_sYMDWb2ftKDUIaHiZhwADzlO53pbOoPZTunhIJ7avLiwR6uFMO0ataZmhh2H5majv5I7oA2GztBDAXp3lEGNZGD1qGieDPTMvQX38e9gbilqCaYF5Lq3DVxgrUmBrrQ0EcF7UqicU93R2sWQDv_kUwFy/s1944/Reading%20v%20Arsenal%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1227" data-original-width="1944" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5JUjBTBtddj20mRlOlr51Uo4PWXFfRmu_sYMDWb2ftKDUIaHiZhwADzlO53pbOoPZTunhIJ7avLiwR6uFMO0ataZmhh2H5majv5I7oA2GztBDAXp3lEGNZGD1qGieDPTMvQX38e9gbilqCaYF5Lq3DVxgrUmBrrQ0EcF7UqicU93R2sWQDv_kUwFy/w400-h253/Reading%20v%20Arsenal%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-18122609574284095652022-11-30T15:59:00.001+00:002022-11-30T15:59:19.245+00:00"You're not on the rostrum now"<p> Meaning there's no need to talk so loudly or self-importantly.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKEVf7EE5gDqE3fA9NBBILGUd4hxoTIDYDanrqWfDaPaLUi34p8n2kAy62DQIgChdleD0UTt1TvxiEb05yb7Eks2YeFa56KW12BDyyRGXwOKy-wwGEg7VQOKUbOUpOJpMWzXtXcBK_UBQgbBEXHd0bY-Pub6AlG0FTH7m_Q7_QFjdN_8J6zaISRVSz/s4000/IMG20221130155536.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKEVf7EE5gDqE3fA9NBBILGUd4hxoTIDYDanrqWfDaPaLUi34p8n2kAy62DQIgChdleD0UTt1TvxiEb05yb7Eks2YeFa56KW12BDyyRGXwOKy-wwGEg7VQOKUbOUpOJpMWzXtXcBK_UBQgbBEXHd0bY-Pub6AlG0FTH7m_Q7_QFjdN_8J6zaISRVSz/w467-h350/IMG20221130155536.jpg" width="467" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-52706493868302849802022-08-30T15:09:00.002+01:002022-08-30T15:09:37.961+01:00Love note<p>Seldom a note actually about love but any piece of paper left around the house prompting action from a family member or sometimes a note intended for someone to whom you would never wish to show love to start with. I leave them all the time.</p>Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-43259374856754063532022-05-30T10:25:00.001+01:002022-05-30T10:25:07.057+01:00Brush in your bed<p>Leaving a brush in someone else's bed was always a great wheeze for Dad - and often for children getting their own back. In response to finding a brush as he slid into bed Dad would call out: "That's very childish" even though he was the one who instigated the trick.</p><p><i>Pic of the day:</i> "Faulkner's sale" is written on the reverse along with a reference to the print being produced in Jan 1955.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqf976ushz5rwtqqMIDMmjlbfHMa2iXlTQbW448U3YFYC8PEe4WYXzuRPOqEFoa2Sn-0SRYMSRX2Vjvig3psXDYQT94_ue85flPAAoGsBkOFwvJH2e9fvoulO5HdWx2e94qlToH9to-Rk1dmkiccsw6ppwDT0IFx6wO_v6I67O9VYEZS9rV0-2WNQg/s1327/PK_0241.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="875" data-original-width="1327" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqf976ushz5rwtqqMIDMmjlbfHMa2iXlTQbW448U3YFYC8PEe4WYXzuRPOqEFoa2Sn-0SRYMSRX2Vjvig3psXDYQT94_ue85flPAAoGsBkOFwvJH2e9fvoulO5HdWx2e94qlToH9to-Rk1dmkiccsw6ppwDT0IFx6wO_v6I67O9VYEZS9rV0-2WNQg/w400-h264/PK_0241.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-88612876756975182422022-04-26T15:00:00.002+01:002022-04-26T15:00:28.739+01:00Dessert disappointment<p>Dad would request a dessert after a huge main course. Mum would plonk a very small portion in front of him. He'd pause for a moment, pull a comically disappointed face and say: "That's not enough for a mouse".</p>Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-14817597673360744932021-12-26T09:58:00.002+00:002021-12-26T09:58:34.308+00:00"... and a happy New Year"<p>At the end of grotto shows particularly if families aren't getting the message and departing I sing just: "And a happy New Year" without the preceding lines from We Wish you a Merry Christmas. Yet another Dad festive legacy and a handy form of conclusion.</p>Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-12069654852439421322021-12-23T18:31:00.000+00:002021-12-23T18:31:05.381+00:00Boxing<p>Pretending to box by having one hand in a fist and the other cupped just below the chin. I think he picked this up from his days boxing at Reading School, where he was taught to defend his chin - maybe the cupped hand was how it felt in the boxing glove. I found myself adopting this position while messing around with Aidan the other day and he's adopted it now - us both punching each others cupped hands, so we don't actually clock each other on the chin. This was raised back in 2011 as part of a longer list, but worth a trotting out again I think.</p>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18256488269354928542noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-87630120688255756672021-12-21T15:14:00.003+00:002021-12-21T15:14:45.759+00:00Solid groundPolly and I entered the grotto to the strains of Johnny Mathis' 1976 Christmas chart-topper (I'm back in hospital radio DJ mode here), When a Child is Born. Dad used to sing the line "I'm on solid ground" every time Mum presented a dessert.<div><br /></div><div>The song also always reminds me of cycling back from Bearwood on dark country lanes (now Lower Earley), my sheepskin gloves building up a layer of frost. I sang the song to stop myself getting too spooked.</div>Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-31297785500965146352021-08-18T02:59:00.002+01:002021-08-18T02:59:54.627+01:00The hurry up<p> Walking upstairs to bed this evening, with Aidan just in front and dawdling, I used Dad’s technique of growling and whacking the stairs behind him as he then scampers up. It used to delight and terrify me in equal measure. </p><p>Surprised this one hadn’t come up previously (I searched) but good to keep this ticking over and having at least one a year.</p>Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18256488269354928542noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-30839896383712052182020-07-21T11:29:00.000+01:002020-07-21T11:29:00.180+01:00'k you p!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hard to know how to spell this Dadism as it's more of a sound than a word. It's basically an abbreviation of "thank you", curiously appended with a p. Used to thank someone for a small favour.<br />
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<i>Pic of the day: </i>John recently posted this on Kirkys on Tour, of course, but here it is again for posterity.<br />
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Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-36661827726078158322019-03-22T14:14:00.002+00:002019-03-26T09:24:38.284+00:00Kirkwood Drive<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Here's a interesting corner of the Kirkwood kingdom: Kirkwood Drive in Sydney. It's named after William Love Kirkwood, brother of our grandfather and sister of Aunt Peggy. He was a decorated military doctor who treated casualties from Gallipoli in the First World War. He emigrated from Ayrshire to Australia in 1906 to practice with his maternal uncles (both Kerrs). His grandson has just sent me William's biography.<br />
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Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-41421853028137402582019-03-19T15:40:00.000+00:002019-03-19T15:40:45.707+00:00Eager to be examined<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Bertie comes home from school and recounts (very briefly) the day's pre-GCSE exams. "Try me on a question!", I implore, knowing full well that I'm unlikely to know the answer especially if the subject is science. Dad used to do that.<br />
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<i>Pic of the day:</i> A tantalisingly grainy scene from Pembrokeshire in 1975. I think we can all safely say that the actual colour of Mum's bikini, the windbreak and surfboard [great flash!] match. I think Dad's jumper was red too.<br />
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Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-40466354293993685152018-01-08T11:37:00.001+00:002018-01-08T11:37:43.712+00:00Clapping at the end of TV programmes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dad would often do this as I'm reminded every time that Bertie and I now applaud (loudly, of course) when the credits roll. Odd buggers, all of us.<br />
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<i>Picture of the day:</i> The happy twins at a family reunion in the early 1990s, I think:<br />
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Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-16423429041900613192017-11-14T09:06:00.000+00:002017-11-14T09:06:24.413+00:00After a busy day ...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dad would say he'd had a <span style="font-size: 11pt;">“hell of a day”</span>and then recount that all he</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">d eaten was a single sandwich or something just as paltry.</span><br />
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<i>Pic of the day:</i> Here's a rarity: three generations (well, almost) of matriarchs.<br />
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Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-34617223245437588782017-09-04T14:36:00.005+01:002017-09-04T14:36:54.371+01:00Fighting talk and Gold Top<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If you offered to take on Dad at a sport (eg tennis) he would often reply "That's fighting talk, that is!" much as I did when Beck challenged me to a game of pickleball on Thursday. Not a specific Dadism, I appreciate, but a phrase he favoured.<div>
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Gold Top was, of course, Jersey milk. Dad would often check if the milk was Gold Top especially if Mum served it with a dessert when cream had run out.</div>
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<i>Pic of the day: </i>This one's in honour of the recent Issitt Disney wedding. Which niece was the bride, Beck?</div>
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Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-15881569810639778802017-08-24T11:22:00.002+01:002017-08-24T11:22:31.084+01:00Improve your mind<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
An expression used by Dad to urge offspring to do something educational rather than trivial, eg read a book. (I found myself saying it when spotting Bertie on his new smartphone.)<br />
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<i>Pic of the day: </i>Who can name the venue of this family meal? In the first pic Beck and Martin look enthralled by the occasion ...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx1RkNWlFybgWNMa6a1dF8InbBsOMRZTFtJLudgaYks2yOnSh0X9GaZPj70RHNGWlv7wI7rXWDNe7ge15P5xy21PJ86oWRrSAEhWbTDPsqTJ06F3PH2uJ8td8VQ_Z-NqGxAhD0tSYglfo/s1600/Mystery+meal+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="821" data-original-width="1600" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx1RkNWlFybgWNMa6a1dF8InbBsOMRZTFtJLudgaYks2yOnSh0X9GaZPj70RHNGWlv7wI7rXWDNe7ge15P5xy21PJ86oWRrSAEhWbTDPsqTJ06F3PH2uJ8td8VQ_Z-NqGxAhD0tSYglfo/s400/Mystery+meal+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-56250191186157140692017-02-13T01:31:00.001+00:002017-02-13T01:31:04.090+00:00CoughingI found myself doing a Dad cough this evening: Starting off almost as a low growl before gradually being promoted to a full on bark, often multiple times. Note that Paul has already claimed the admonishment to ones self, to "shut up" after such a cough. On a related note, also found myself stating how I'd like to "give the chef a wee peck" last night, but predictably this was one of the low hanging fruit that went in the early days, but worth revisiting.Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18256488269354928542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-2216136935894220612017-01-09T09:37:00.000+00:002017-01-09T09:37:07.420+00:00Holiday enquiry<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Every account of a holiday would start with the question: “You left the house at what time?” Not, you note: “What time did you leave the house?” I was reminded of the gambit when I quizzed the Poode about Peru.<div>
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<i>Pic of the day: </i>We turn back to the hands of time to July 1984 for this one:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-QydOqMpA_AO5tBjz6uheLvd7ig8FCnKgIDeBe8p7AGw-ilyhLmZr2KOhvxOyQUdwa5KsVHO3WJsSgLgWCgoeKFi3xZSbhjh3I57T72-uX2DtbpebFezUBkVfQvGQa8SrqqJPi1-teK0/s1600/July+1984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-QydOqMpA_AO5tBjz6uheLvd7ig8FCnKgIDeBe8p7AGw-ilyhLmZr2KOhvxOyQUdwa5KsVHO3WJsSgLgWCgoeKFi3xZSbhjh3I57T72-uX2DtbpebFezUBkVfQvGQa8SrqqJPi1-teK0/s400/July+1984.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-84071009955263681412016-10-20T09:40:00.000+01:002016-10-20T09:41:58.833+01:00Don’t swear. It’s Sunday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Like the inference that somehow it<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>s absolutely fine to blaspheme on all other days of the week.<br />
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<i>Pic of the day: </i>Here<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">’</span>s Dad selling Ayrshires in December 1984 with, if I<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">’</span>m not mistaken, Joe Payne to the left and the clerking Poode to the right.<br />
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Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-52177311186357690652016-09-26T10:57:00.001+01:002016-09-26T10:57:49.472+01:00Tennis again<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When a ball landed some distance from Dad and particularly in an inaccessible place he would point at it even though its position was obvious, open his eyes widely and nod to communicate the need for his opponent to pick up the ball. I've been doing this in the garden with Bertie lately.</div>
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<i>Pic of the day:</i> Another one from the bureau files and what a rarity in that it shows Dad with all four of us together. Great shot.</div>
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Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-87714757157870551922016-09-19T10:00:00.004+01:002016-09-19T10:00:57.132+01:00Calling people by the name of someone from a TV programme...Mads and I are hooked on Poldark at the moment and there is a character in it called Demelza - I have called Mads Demelza a couple of times after watching and I realise this is what Dad did. ANyone else remember this? Beckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05727059728423374168noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-83538191518470170932016-09-16T16:56:00.000+01:002016-09-16T16:56:29.415+01:00Piddling in the gardenMuch to Kris' chagrin, Aidan has a preference to go for a piddle / tink tonks (see previous posts) in the garden rather than going to the loo indoors - even when it's closer. Like to think there is a genetic link through me to Dad for this - remember often seeing the old boy, back to the house, taking his ease at the end of the garden - much to the chagrin of Mum...Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18256488269354928542noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75196770229456711.post-58388940987286344252016-09-15T10:29:00.001+01:002016-09-15T10:31:49.655+01:00Knee squeezing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Do you remember how Dad used to grip either side of your kneecap with thumb and middle finger and then squeeze for no apparent reason? I do this with the kids occasionally when they're sat next to me in the car. They don't like it any more than we did.<br />
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<i>Pic of the day: </i>Mads has been growing vegetables in the garden this summer - like her Ma did many moons ago or is she just fingering a weed? Came across this print when rifling through the bureau at Aldbourne looking for a Reading streetmap.<br />
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Paul Kirkwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04506737125948891439noreply@blogger.com1