Farewell to youth

After three fabulous weeks it was almost too much to let Charity go.  So we didn't.  When she attempted to get on the plane to England we decided it would be best to accompany her, which is how we all ended up in rainy Manchester.

But before getting into that, we filled her last days in Texas with fun and games.  The games were Pete's latest Soccer Shots graduation (they have a lot of these) where I dragged Charity along to watch a bunch of 5-yr-olds kick a ball around, reminding her how many times I'd been dragged to watch her do similar things.  Then we were able to fit in one more major cultural event, which was Spatial Chromointerference by Carlos Cruz-Diez.  It was underground, and I mean that literally rather than in some cool, teenage way; lots of flashing lights inside a disused cistern by Buffalo Bayou.  It was...interesting.

There was only time to fit in a few more meals before we got on the flight to Manchester, bizarrely operated by Singapore Air.  It goes on to Singapore afterwards, and though I was tempted to stow away in an overhead locker I stepped off with the rest of the party.

We enjoyed the usual warm welcome at immigration, where we were asked to prove that we weren't kidnapping our Goddaughter.  "But we're bringing her home!" cried Hannah, while Charity calmly produced a letter from her mother.  Perhaps the immigration officer sensed we weren't happy saying goodbye but we had to, on a rainy Manchester train platform, leaving her to head north while we drove south.  More on that later.

A football team.  Or a group of hooligans.

A hot chocolate at my favourite coffee shop.

So you want to be a doctor?  Have you maybe considered an alternative career...?

Working 9-to-5.

And a little more work.

City girl.

Ready to go underground.

Taste the rainbow.

Just stand still!

 Shadows.

And...more light and shadows.

 Final selfie.

Celebrating an excellent visit.

Ready for a nine hour flight.

Welcome to Manchester!

And goodbye Charity :(

Teenage wasteland

My miseducation at the hands of a 16-yr-old Goddaughter continues.  Apparently, if something's really good I have to say it's "peng ting", and I need to listen to much better music, and I should also be obsessed with buying/wearing "Dad shoes".  But I am a Dad!  Aren't all shoes I wear, by their nature, Dad shoes?!

I thought young Charity was pulling my leg with all this, the sort of hi-jinks I enjoyed playing on my elders when I was a whippersnapper.  But then we were being served by another 16-yr-old holiday-job-lad at the NASA gift shop who, when discovering we were from England, asked "are y'all into Dad shoes over there?"  I then twiddled my thumbs for ten minutes as Charity and said boy compared footwear.  I was lost and alone in a land where I could only watch the locals converse in a language I did not speak.  "I'm going to marry him," Charity informed me as we left.  I'm not sure, even in Texas, Godfathers can legally grant permission for that.

I'm trying to make sure the cultural exchange isn't all one way, so we've been to art galleries, movies, restaurants, and shops.  Mainly - to my delight - thrift stores, where Charity has been buying up much "on trend" clothing that she says is very cheap here.  She's going to sell whatever she decides she doesn't want to wear for a massive profit when she gets home.  Suffice to say, as I'm bankrolling her I'll be looking for a sizeable cut of profits.

Pete has been loving all this, overjoyed to have an older sister who will play with him but is not interested in his toys, and is trusted by his parents to serve ice cream way more generously than them.  But there has been some confusion.  "Why does Charity hate you?" he asked.  "What?!  She doesn't hate me!" I replied.  "But she keeps saying 'I hate you'," he - correctly - pointed out.  "Oh.  Er...it's a teenage thing," I explained weakly.

I always complain that life goes back to boring when guests leave, but it's seldom so true as when we have to wave Charity off in a few days...

Finally got that Texan look down.

Surrealism in Houston Fine Art Museum.

Hmmm.

More excellent Godparenting.

A small intro to Tex Mex.

Explaining how I should hold the camera so she doesn't look short.

First attempt at what young people refer to as a "selfie".

Megasloth.

Kids today.

Bling bling.

Down at NASA.  "Before you were born, people went into space a lot!"

 National pride.

Selfie attempt #2.

Always in control of everyone.

We crashed one of those gender reveal parties!  NOT Charity's.  And it's going to be a boy.

The actual party we were at - Levi's fifth birthday.

A little more Mexican.

Down at George Historic Ranch.  "It's so hot!" is Charity's constant refrain.  These Northern softies!

Lady of the house.

Picking out the dress for her and NASA shoe boy.

Barrel riding.

Selfie attempt #3.

Lunch at Torchy's Tacos.  Peng ting!

Sure, it's all fun, but spiritual direction is the priority for any Godparent.

Ranch dressing

Texas is so much more than just ranching and oil.  And yet, in so many ways, it's all just ranching and oil.  We have the oil bit nicely covered here in Houston so it was time to take Charity out into the wilds, past San Antonio, for a weekend on the Dixie Dude Ranch.

In times gone by, "dude" was something of a pejorative term for people who wanted to come and slum it on the western frontier, to see how the other half lived before heading back east to comfort and civilisation.  So a perfect description of us, really.  We started with a horse ride ("boring," Pete declared, refusing to sit in a saddle for the rest of the weekend), enjoyed petting animals from longhorn cattle to kittens, watched a trick roper hop around with a lasso, and hungrily stuffed ourselves on home-cooked food in the chow hall.

I think Charity found it somewhat overwhelming, especially the fact that wifi was only available in the main lodge and went down for a few hours one night!  But she didn't shy away from the ranch lifestyle, even volunteering to get whipped by the cowboy entertainment one evening, and spoke to far more people than we did.  It's that Geordie friendliness, and Durham on a Friday night is pretty much the Wild West, so it makes sense.

We drove home thoroughly exhausted from playing at ranchers for a weekend.  Even that journey - a four hour drive, from what is basically the next town along from Houston - reminded me that things here are somewhat different from the rural Somerset of my youth, where whips and lassos aren't usually required to farm apples and cheese.  I think we'll stick to oil.

Welcome, dudes.

Only one person has fitted boots that did not come from a thrift store (hint: the one who earns a salary).

One day, Goddaughter, all this will be yours.  If you marry a cowboy.

Ready for the glue factory.  The horse, not Hannah - she's still got a few seasons left in her.

Two-in-a-saddle selfie.

 Country star.

The first night's entertainment.

Rope 'em!

Whip 'em!

For her troubles, Charity got a signed photo of cowboy Will.  Hmm.

Hannah demonstrates why she chose business school over ranching.

 Wild animal.

A Texan morning.

Back in the saddle.

The view from my steed.

That moment in a western when the saloon door opens and the shadow of the meanest outlaw in the state is cast across the floor.

Herding cats!

Something that will not be traveling back to Britain with Charity.

Give a 5-yr-old a bullwhip.  What could go wrong?

Moseying.

 Skinny longhorns.

Our California baby is now full Texan.

Another farm resident.

Rocking on the porch after a hard day's farming.

Moon over Texas.