Cook some

Surprisingly I managed my cycle ride up to Cambridge.  Even more surprisingly I did it about 20% faster than I normally cycle to work...a distance of just 27 km as opposed to the 103 km of this ride.  It took four and a half hours of peddling to complete it in the wind rain and cold.  I have to say I was pretty chuffed with myself, as it wasn't until I'd left the house that I had decided to do it. I think you can see the route if you click here

It was a trip through my own little history.  The start point was just by the changing area for the Olympic Opening Ceremony, and as we peddled through London I went past many familiar sights including my father's old factory.  Later on we went past Audley End...I remember leaving my bicycle there as a young teenager when I went off for a day trip to London...it was just propped against the wall, completely unchained or shackled and still there on my return - would that happen now?

I didn't really see all that much in the dark...it was heads down stuff and concentration required all the time...the rain was pretty consistent from start to finish, so we ended up soaked top to bottom before we'd hit five miles.  It didn't matter too much really...I quite liked the cooling effect, although it made things a bit slippery, especially over drain covers.  The wind was blustery so it could catch us unawares, but fortunately it was generally blowing in the right direction.  I was delighted to see an owl fly past...they're great to see, and enjoyed the coincidence of a cock crowing as we arrived in Cambridge.

The three refreshment stops were marvellous...a hot warming drink and some energy-giving food were just what I needed.  But it did mean that when you went out side again, it felt really, rally cold.  The worst time for me was just after the half-way mark after a short stop...out into heavier rain, uphill, loads and loads of pot holes, and nearly missing a turning.

I learnt some things

Being part of an ad hoc team thrown together as we met in the cafe at the start made all the difference.  We swapped lead position as one would flag and another would find a burst of energy,we all rolled merrily along as the hours ticked by

You don't get sleepy as you peddle.  I had wondered whether I would just fall asleep at some stage...I had no idea what the impact would be

Pot holes can floor anyone.  The roads were littered with dangerous pot holes.  i managed to miss them all just about, but a good number didn't complete the ride simply because they crashed down the holes and buckled their wheels

A seven car police chase in the middle of the countryside at midnight is not exciting, just terrifying

If you wear a Brighton and Hove Albion shirt on the night of one of the play-offs, people will want to talk to you a lot...so you'd better know what the score is/was

The mysteries of the rail network are beyond belief.  I took the train back at a cost of £24 - I was only going to Stratford.  The six people who were going all the way to Liverpool Street paid the princely sum of £10.50 each, although they were travelling a longer distance.  My route mean a change at Bishops Stortford, onto a train to Liverpool Street and then back to Stratford, even though there is normally a train directly from BS to Stratford....this was the route they made me take, even though it would have been better to have taken the train directly to Liverpool Street and then out again...quicker and cheaper...grrr

As for the title of this post...it was text I sent The Cat's Mother about one in the morning....predictive text can have some interesting results...wonder if you can guess what I thought I'd written

By the time you read this....

....I should be well on my way to Cambridge.  Tonight I'm due to be cycling the 100km from London starting at 10.00pm...and finishing as the sun comes up.

There are only three issues:

1.  We've been invited to a dinner party with a few of our favourite friends.  It's tempting.
2.  It's really rather windy, and whilst I can cope with cold and rain, wind is something that is altogether more uncomfortable (OK...cut with the fart jokes)
3.  Due to one cold after another, I've done no training.  So I have something in common with Jade Goody, apart from the fact that she was buried in the church yard next to us when we lived in Buckhurst Hill

So either wish me luck or condemn my fecklessness

A long hot summer

Are we the only ones to see and enjoy the ultra miserable 'The Village' on BBC 1?

I think it's a total gem, avoiding all the normal TV cliches, and "telling it like it was", except a bit more drab and gloomy.  It tells the story of a Derbyshire village through the 20th century, and the first series has focused on the period during the first world war.  Boy oh boy was life hard then.  I'm really looking forward to the second series which will be set in the twenties.  I doubt (and hope) it will be much cheerier, as they were pretty bleak days too.  The Village was something that the BBC does best when it tries.  Remarkable screenplay that actually made you pay attention, think and use your imagination.

Sorry about the ad at the beginning



Many have compared it to Heimat, the German programme that followed a family through the challenges of the twentieth century.  Equally brilliant, less gloomy, and just as fascinating....but you need many, many hours to watch the trilogy from beginning to end



We had an interesting bank holiday - I mentioned our trip down to Brighton, but we returned to host The Boy's 18th birthday bbq with all his friends.  It was an afternoon thing to avoid the drunkeness that often clouds these things...how foolish of us.  Sobriety was generally maintained during the daylight hours, but as the sun set, the teens headed off to the pub.  The Boy was summoned back some time later.  He arrived in a bit of a state, and worse still had lost the Ray Bans his girlfriend had bought him as a present.  He was distraught.  She's still not talking to him.  And me?  I was furious, but equally distraught because I could feel his wretchedness at having got himself into a pickle.  At the moment he got home I could still see the little baby of eighteen years ago...helpless and confused.  Painful, really painful.

And there was I stupidly thinking that once they hit 18, you could retire from real parenting duties.

Art for arts sake

May's a good month to visit Brighton.

It's funny how the internet age has changed the amount of things we know about.  I grew up in a small village on the Herts/Essex borders called Hatfield Heath.  It was everything that a village should be.  A large green on which cricket was played every year and the site of the annual summer fete.  There was a butcher, a baker, a haberdashery, a general store, a garage, a news agent and plenty of pubs.  I don't think any of them exist any more, although I suspect cricket is still played on the green.  I remember once my practically hysterical mother screaming blue murder at me as I sauntered across, not realising that a few hours earlier adders had been found in the grass.

What I didn't know, but I suspect I would now if I was growing up there was that just down the road lived and worked Britain's greatest sculptor, Henry Moore.  It seems extraordinary to me that within spitting distance was someone with such talent and fame and we didn't even know.  These days, his home, studios and grounds are open to the public.  We went the weekend before last with a couple of friends.  He used to deliver the newspapers every morning.  As well as many of Moore's works, there is currently a Rodin exhibition as well, so well worth the trip down the country lanes.

I particularly liked this one...it's in a field of sheep, and the reason it changes colour is because the sheep rub up against it...I guess it's worth a fortune, and the sheep have no idea at all!

But back to Brighton.

May is festival month in Brighton, so whatever your taste in arts, there's something to see or do.  It's odd then that in all the years I've lived there I've not managed to see more than a handful of things.  But the last couple of years we've discovered the Artists Open Houses event...essentially it's an opportunity to see all the creative stuff that comes out of Brighton, as well as having a nose round people's houses...who could resist.

We really like Frances Bloomfield who creates these

And Sophie Woodrow who creates these

Just down the road from us, Studio 323 is doing a project of photographing everyone who comes in.  We had our portrait taken, so I expect it will pop up here some time.  See if you can spot us!

Knowing his liking for Scotch eggs, I thought John would be pleased about this

And talking of things Scottish, grrr...the Scots really annoy me.  Sorry, but it's true.  And it's not just because I've had more than one Scottish girlfriend.

Take this, for example.

Why does it make Scotland better than England, any more than it makes Scotland better than any other country in the world?  There's something seriously wrong with the Scottish psyche that they can only measure their own success in comparison to England.  If they were a person, Freud would have something to say.  the therapist bills would be enough to bankrupt the country.

Anyway, I will probably keep my thoughts to myself when we travel north to Edinburgh again this summer when The Cat and The Boy perform again at The Fringe.

I suspect they are like the child of a very famous and successful rock star or actor...always trying to prove their own worth, but really not having a fraction of the talent of their parent.  My apologies to  Peaches Geldoff.  And to my Scottish friends and relatives.  But really, the next time I hear the chant 'Anyone other than England'....

I will probably keep my thoughts to myself when we travel north to Edinburgh again this summer when The Cat and The Boy perform again at The Fringe.

How mad is this...another one of those PC nonsenses.  You can't tell children whether or not they have a Best Friend...we all like other people to a greater or lesser extent, and frankly it's distorting nature if we try and interfere at this emotional level.  Anyone want to be my BFF?

You can imagine how mad this made me feel.  If the bank is sold off, taxpayers will be facing a £20 billion loss.  So whilst the bankers who got the damn thing into the mess have got off largely Scott Free, we will have to pay for their greed, folly, selfishness.  Worse still, the bank has continued to pay outrageous salaries and eye-watering bonuses whilst most people have had to pull in the reigns...that is even if they have a job.  I'm sure the Tories would like to off load it, but common sense says that if it's back in profit, we should keep a hold of it until we the people who bailed it out get our money back....and some.

The best pint of beer ever

I was wondering if I could add this rubber duck to my collection

I think it would look very nice in the bathroom

Last night I broke my duck, and for the first time ever voted in local elections. Despite UKIP offering to repair all the terrible pot holes in our roads, I didn't think that is where my cross should go.  Both The Boy and The Cat were also able to vote for the first time.  As The Cat's Mother reminded us, many people have died to ensure we have that honour and privilege.  I can't say that I'm a great fan of the way democracy works in modern Britain, but on balance it's probably better than having a despotic tyrant in charge.

 The Boy's hi-viz label on his jacket makes him look a bit Star Trek

Once we'd done our duty, The Boy took me off to the pub, and bought the first round.  It was truly the best pint I've ever had.

We have a baby boy!

Mum To Be in the office is no longer MTB.  She is just Mum.

Her yet to be named boy arrived this morning at 5.30.  And no I don't know how much he weighed.

We are very happy.

Isn't he beautiful!

Swot

Well it's a hard thing when you have to work on your birthday...and even harder when you are swotting for your 'A' levels.  The Boy is having his first exam tomorrow, so he has little option but to be head buried in books this evening.  He has my sympathy.

He will be eighteen.  That's a big age isn't it?  I wish I could remember that far back, but I can't. In eighteen years he's gone from this

To this

The celebrations actually started a couple of weeks ago, with the family lunch...the date decided by when Grandma in Cyprus was visiting.  The birthday decorations have stayed up, so almost become part of the fixtures and fittings.  This weekend he will have a bbq in the garden with friends...a welcome break for all of them from the rigours of revision I hope.

Eighteen years passes so quickly, and it is easy to forget some things.  Fortunately there's been a camera at the ready to record most of the most important events.  The Cat's Mother and I spent a week in Brighton a few weeks back.  It should have been relaxing, but in fact most of my time was spent scanning in original photographs to the computer, so we could create book for him.  With diligent (!) editing I managed to get down to just 565 photographs which filled some 150 pages...we used Jessops (not the chain that went bust, but in fact the online photo book service who have served us well in the past).  Photo books are a marvellous invention, and the two copies we bought are fabulous...something that we will enjoy looking at regularly.

For a present, I felt that some keepable was the order of the day, so I had a wooden box made especially for him.  It is completely handcrafted by Hawthorn Crafts, and has his initials inlaid in the lid.  It's quite beautiful.  Not so long ago it looked like this

And it finished looking like this

I don't expect a wooden box will mean too much to him at the moment, but I hope in time he will come to treasure it.  Of course, I couldn't let it go at that, so I asked the very fabulous Scarlet Blue to come to my aid.  I gave her a list of eighteen things you can do when you are eighteen (OK, some you might be able to do before that, but I couldn't let that get in the way of things) and she wrote eighteen envelopes, each of which has inside some money to enable the thing to be done. Each one is sealed with wax and has been placed inside the box. For some I had to be a little creative...so when he votes for the first time, I've given him the taxi fare, and there's money for a sandwich after he gives blood for the first time.  The one I'm most pleased with is the money to buy a round.  Mine's a pint, please...

And this is how it looks

Of course, it wasn't without pain...I managed to drip burning wax onto my finger, and it remains blistered. Ouch.

So, Happy Birthday, Fred.  It's been quite a journey over the last eighteen years, and I hope the next eighteen brings you everything you dream of and aspire to.

Eighteen years in one picture (click to see what I mean)

Terrible situation

Like Mr Clinton, I didn't inhale.

Once I saw a video where someone had hot wax dripped on them for sexual pleasure...or at least that's what I assumed it was as neither had their clothes on. I didn't watch long as I just couldn't see what the pleasure could be. This weekend, I was using sealing wax and managed to accidently drip some onto my finger. I now know for sure that there is no pleasure in it. In fact two days later, I still have a nasty blister on my finger and it still hurts. As they say, you can't condemn it unless you've tried it.

I know that I can be unreasonable. In fact I can be the master of being unreasonable...it's a technique I use when dealing with nasty corporations, and usually gets me quite a long way. However, The Cat's Mother makes me look like a rank amateur. I learnt from a very young age that there's never any point in arguing with a woman, but sometimes, just sometimes it has to be done. So since Thursday night, with a brief pause on Friday, we have been at loggerheads. It has seen us complete a journey with one in the car and one on the train when we both should have been in the car, and one go to a party to which we had both been invited whilst the other stayed at home. Anyway, no doubt The Cat's Mother will think I've been unreasonable for writing this. I might yet delete it.  Women!!!

Have you ever had one of these messages from a friend:

"I am sorry for reaching you rather too late due to the situation of things right now. My family and I had a trip visiting Manila Philippines,everything was going on fine until last night when we got attacked by some unknown gunmen. All our money,phones and credit cards was stolen away including some valuable items, It was a terrible experience but the good thing is that they didn't hurt anyone or made away with our passports.

We have reported the incident to the local authorities and the consulate but their response was too casual, we were ask to come back in 2 weeks time for investigations to be made proper,But the truth is we can't wait till then as we have just got our return flight booked and is leaving in few hours from now but presently having problems sorting out our bills here and also getting a cab down to the airport, Right now we're financially strapped due to the unexpected robbery attack, Wondering if you can help us with a quick loan to sort out our bills and get back home. All we need is (2,000 £) I promise to refund you in full as soon as I return home hopefully tomorrow or next. write back now to let me know what you can do.

Thank You."


The first time I received one, I almost fell for it because it does come from their e-mail address...it was the bad English that gave it away. It worries me that one day I might get tricked, and I'm sure that some others do lose out...modern technology seems to feed the thieves quite nicely.

Are you happy?

I'm a little annoyed with Gay John.  Best friend and business partner of Gay George.  Yes, George who has spent this year in hospital coming back from near death after being knocked off his bicycle.  I saw Gay John this week cycling near London Bridge.  A busy, busy street, and he didn't have a helmet on.

It is noticeable how quiet the Korean issue has become...at least over here.  My best guess is that in the Peninsula the problems have not in anyway gone away, and the expectation is of a clash (hopefully only of rhetoric) sooner rather than later....unless the Chinese have really stamped their feet and told the Playboy of the Eastern World to behave again.

My life just became a little better with the removal of the fly from the ointment I mentioned a few posts back.  It all came to a head pretty much as soon as I'd written about it, and the resolution was straightforward.  I'm not crowing about it...in fact I'm a little saddened that it had arisen at all, but I hope the new arrangement means that everyone knows what they've got to do, when they've got to do it and how they've got to do it.

Over in Syria, I see that the temperature is ramping up with accusations that gas has been used.  The esteemed Mr Cameron has suggested that it is the issues around the Iraqi conflict that are preventing us from intervening.  I still remain of the opinion that sticking our nose in will only make things worse.  Syria is a sovereign nation and we should keep out.  Particularly as we really don't know where the rebels stand, and it might well be that we're feeding the radicals who will one day turn on us.  It wouldn't be the first time would it...Afghanistan....

I was intrigued by this article on the BBC - it's about the happiest places in the UK.  In general, and having read it I think we should all be moving to Scotland as they seem the happiest.  My personal experience is somewhat different...I dare say no more Mrs Chandler.  I've always found the folks of Brighton a very amiable and happy bunch, but that may be entirely down to easy access to the sorts of substances you wouldn't want your children indulging in.  Obviously Londoners are an anxious lot...not surprisingly as it's a very insecure environment, and you've got to feel for those poor bankers always worried about just how massive their next bonus is going to be.  I couldn't understand why people from Leicester were anxious though...the ones I know there seem pretty chilled.

Impressed yet another Old-Etonian has joined Cameron's ranks in deciding how the country is governed.  Boris' younger brother Jo is now helping formulate policy...or perhaps I should say helping ensure the old guard remain in charge whilst continuing to trample on the workers (which includes the middle classes)....

I couldn't believe this story that made the headlines this week.  Most of the papers have focused on the immorality of James McCormick...and that's fair comment...but what worries me more is the stupid gullibility of the people buying these things.  A novelty golf ball finding device repackaged and presented as an explosive detector whilst being sold for $55,000...no wonder things are so awful in the territories that Mr Blair and Mr Bush liberated from tyranny - bet they're feeling proud of themselves, and not at all worried that this might be symptomatic of where all those lost £billions have disappeared to.

Meanwhile, I may be a God.  Over at business social network LinkedIn, they've introduced a feature which encourages you to endorse your contacts.  It makes suggestions for you, so all you have to do is click the button. And people have been endorsing me left right and centre, and often for things I know nothing about.  After a few months of this, I can tell you I am a genius at everything and anything.  You may bow down and worship at the feet of someone who is better qualified, more skilled, more effective than anyone.  Of course, you may decide that the whole thing rather undermines the value of social media for business networking...

I am in awe of Mr Madiba...he may also be a God...this leaflet was thrust in my hands as I left London Bridge station last week

Immigrants go home

I think I've been banned from booking and taking The Cat's Mother to any of the sort of events I like.  Now she's a west end theatre sort of person, and I'm more of a east side Fringe sort of person.  Generally this has worked well because with complimentary tastes we each get to see something that we wouldn't otherwise have done.  In fact the sonnet walk at the weekend managed to satisfy us both...we traipsed through the back streets of the east end, allowing me to spot the street art I like so much, whilst she got to hear the Shakespeare she likes.  However, Tuesday night it all became a bit challenging.  This was how it was described:

"Project Colony is Fourth Monkey’s site specific production at Trinity Buoy Wharf, a follow up to their recent sell out and award winning production of Sarah Kane’s 4.48 Psychosis at the Edinburgh Festival. The audience become part of the action, as colony inspectors in Project Colony, an immersive, site–specific piece at Trinity Buoy Wharf, based on existentialist author Franz Kafka’s short story, In the Penal Colony."

For me this was manna from heaven.  For The Cat's Mother it became purgatory.

Trinity Buoy Wharf is in the middle of nowhere.  Literally.  My punishment for dragging us there was two blisters the size of golf balls from a new pair of shoes I was wearing...it was a long walk from station to Wharf.  My reward, our reward was the most spectacular views of London.

The bar in the performance space was somewhat under-stocked..so there was no gin or tonic for the gin and tonics we ordered, so I resorted to Jack Daniels (straight), and she had vodka and lemonade.  There were thirty six performers, and at best 27 in the audience.  If you took out the parents of performers and friends of the theatre company, the cast outnumbered the audience by about five to one.  In fact we may have been the only ones who had paid for tickets.  Well I enjoyed the performers coming up and chatting to us in character, asking us what England was like, and telling us this was their first party.  The Cat's Mother recoiled in horror.  I quite liked being taken down into dark, damp cellars to witness torture and execution, and even enjoyed returning to the colony's town council debate.  But it would be true to say, The Cat's Mother wanted to leave at the interval...actually she probably wanted to leave within five minutes of the start.  It would be fair also to comment that the two lead characters were the weakest of the lot, and gave the thing the feel of a school play.

Today, my favourite sandwich shop will close, to be replaced shortly by a swanky new French restaurant.

It is a sign of the times, a sign of the local economy that this is happening.  Twenty years or so ago I started working in a part of London called Clerkenwell.  It was undeveloped, unreformed and pretty unknown.  The streets were lined with sandwich shops, Chinese take-aways, curry houses, greasy spoons.  Sophisticated it wasn't.  But it had character in spades.  But Clerkenwell became trendy, and one by one the old shops and take-aways closed to be replaced by smart and swanky establishments.  I'm all for progress, but it was a shame as the 'local's were driven away to be replaced by metrosexuals.  I was part of that - I'm a comfortably off consultant.  Seven years or so ago I moved to Bermondsey.  True, Bermondsey street has long had the uber trendy Fashion and Textile Museum, but that was only because it was run down...and cheap.  None of my friends and business contacts knew where Bermondsey was....and struggled to find it when they came to visit.  The Street itself was safe, but wander too far away and a mugging was a virtual certainty, leave your car you'd return to a smashed window and missing radio.  Our office was broken into three times within two months when we arrived.  Yes the area had problems...big problems, but it too had character, and lots of small, independent traders.  The Street has become gentrified, and the surrounding area is more prosperous and calmer.  But inevitably the same process is driving the old style places away.  Again, I can't deny a degree of culpability...I'm still a comfortably off consultant, and reflect the type of people coming into the area. Prices of property have rocketed - at the corner of our mews, there were some shared-ownership flats.  I'm not sure what happened but they were sold off to a private developer, and have just sold for £700,000 each - a high price for a small, poorly built two-bedroom apartment.  We still have the greasy spoon run by Italians...for a while longer...and we still have the Cypriot barber (although I had to stop going there when he started included trimming my ear as part of the haircut).  My favourite sandwich shop is run by Turks, and they will be heading back to Turkey once the shop shuts. Once, one of the girls behind the counter asked me to marry her...I think she needed a work permit...and I doubt that will happen again! For me that's a shame, the price of progress.  The Street will be 'nicer', but a tad less interesting, and probably less friendly and welcoming.  Shame.  Real shame.

Building blocks

Here's a selection of pictures I took on our walk at the weekend

  

 

 

 

 

And now for this weekend

With a high degree of inevitability, after a week of rest, relaxation and enjoyment we overdid it at the weekend.  It wasn't all our fault.

On Saturday we went on a 'Sonnet walk' organised by The Globe theatre.  Essentially this took us from the top end of Shoreditch to The Globe via the places important to Shakespeare, with the odd actor leaping out and reciting a sonnet to us along the way.  Now I realise that the sonnet bit is pretty specialised and not to everyone's taste...but, but, but the flipside is that it took us to bits of backstreet London we wouldn't normally see...and, and, and there were plenty of hostelries on the way, so it will be walked again as a pub crawl...and given the distance it will indeed be a crawl by the time we reach the end!  Our legs ached as we reached our destination.

 Not everyday you see a labourer reciting a Shakespearean sonnet

 This one was a fairy (on the left)

 We never did work what this building was...completely surrounded by modern offices

 A sonic sonnet

 All shapes and sizes

A bicycle substituted for a horse...and it worked incredibly well

Sunday was exercise of a different sort...and we got the easy part of it.  One of our friends was running the London Marathon.  For the first time...at an age when she like us should be putting her feet up.  We braved the crowds and headed for Greenwich for a glimpse before moving on to Mudchute on the Isle of Dogs for a second look, and then onto Tower Hill and finally along the river at the 40km mark.  We cheered, we clapped, we shouted.  The Boy and I were made to carry heavy rucksacks full of provisions because getting a drink and bite to eat in central London is a difficult task. Humph.  There was, of course a great atmosphere.  Really fabulous...and probably all the more emotional because of the bombings in Boston the week before - one of my good friends was running in that and she was pulled up half a mile from the end because of the atrocity.

 17 miles....

 Still going strong near the end

...and we bumped into some Olympic drummers

The weekend before this

I'm getting forgetful.  Not in a 'Where are my keys' sort of way, but in a 'Oh yes I had completely forgotten about that' sort of way.  I think I've developed 'Lazybrainitus'.  If you know a cure, please let me know.

I thought I'd blogged this, but can't find it, so I guess I forgot:


Kelloggs asked how Gay George is getting on...he who was sent flying from his bicycle into a lamp post by a Range Rover. I think I mentioned we went to see him....at the hospital near Paddington.  He was more talkative than I've ever known him.  Some of it made sense....so there's a change...he never made sense before.  We could hardly get a word in edgeways...I'm guessing all those weeks in hospital must leave you bored out of your brains.  Anyway, he was a lot fitter and healthier than I expected and looked nearly perfect.  He has now moved from that hospital to one nearer to home...a real blessing for him, and it has reduced the travel burden for his family enormously.  And I've had this note from his wife:

"We're having a meeting today about discharging him... So he could be home in the next couple of days which he's thrilled about. The plan is for him to be an outpatient at the cognitive skills, osteo and max facs clinics there. Still al long way to go but definitely on the right tracks."

In fact George is now home...hurrah!


We managed a week without going out.  Actually we more than managed, we revelled in it.  We were busy enough at home not to increase our TV viewing hours, so it was fabulous.  When I say we didn't go out for a week, that's not quite true...on Friday night we met up with friends for dinner.  But Friday nights don't count. In our group of six, there was one who was running in the London Marathon on Sunday.  She was cool as cucumber about it.  And another who spends his days avoiding bullets and bombs whilst digging for oil in Iraq.  He too is pretty cool about that too.

The previous weekend, which I've not yet recorded for posterity (and given my forgetfulness, I need to) had been a busy one.

The weekend had started early on Friday with a lunch at The Globe theatre...we've managed to get ourselves involved with the new indoor Wannamaker theatre there which will open in the autumn, so they were kind enough to feed us.

That's us on the stage at The Globe. Left to right: UP, The Queen, The Cat's Mother, Me (looking a bit rough, and for the first time scruffier than UP) and The Cat

And then on Saturday we had a family celebration lunch.  This was the start of the festivities to celebrate The Boy's birthday, and had been timed to coincide with Grandma in Cyprus' visit.  It was lovely to get everyone together over for the afternoon.  Some hadn't been together for a long time...not since The Boy was christened I think, or may be even earlier. I think he enjoyed it.....