In Dire Straits

No-one was in particularly good form over the holiday weekend as a subtle, slow-acting virus seems to have been passing through the household. Rowan's continued wakefulness doesn't aid recovery either. When under the weather and tired then everything seems like a battle as the children mess about at mealtimes and try our patience to the limit.

Sharon and I escaped to see Mark Knopfler on Sunday night. The boy can play. I preferred the older, more familiar Dire Straits material as some of the newer stuff is a bit country and a bit diddley-i-dill, especially with seven of them playing. Good musicianship though and entertaining enough. We enjoyed a quiet drink in Kays Bar afterwards.

I did battle with the hedge by the garage on Tuesday, ripping most of it out, much to Sharon's horror. I've been spoiling with a fight with most of the hedges for some years now. A few of them are unshapely and unmanageable. Berberis at seven feet high and four feet deep is no fun to trim. Give me the old privet hedges of Raasay Drive any time.

Rowan is making great progress with his words and has become an avid Thomas (bo-bass) the Tank Engine fan. Shouts of "choo-choo!" as he demands one of the Thomas books or starts raiding the train track boxes and spilling their contents on the play room floor, are commonplace. He is now managing to say his own name, after a fashion, as he goes round everyone at the table - da-dee, ma-mee, nho-winn, dhinn, sohnn - and sometimes strings a couple of words together such as "bi-bye bo-bo" as his nappy gets changed.