Ups and downs 2

My week off is over. The spare room is now Son's room, complete with mattress on floor and table for painting miniatures. The box room is now redecorated (exciting white) and lined with the bookcases, and a completely random mixture of books. When I have a spare afternoon I will take them all down. sort them alphabetically, take out the outsize ones and stick them all back on the shelves. Next job is to make a hammock for the soft toys, so I'm off to find appropriate netting tonight.

Box room will just about fit a single mattress (actually 3 sofa cushions) now. Otherwise guests get the sofa bed downstairs and the cats jumping on their heads all night.

It was a nice week. Friday I went to a National Trust lecture on the Lunar Men. I was the youngest there by at least 20 years- the tea and biscuit was nice. Saturday we started our 2/3 star kayaking course, which was most entertaining. Sunday I practised on the canal and fell in (again). It is getting colder each time, unsurprisingly.

Delighted to see that our crooked drive paving people have made it to Rogue Trader; the ones that aren't already in prison.

Still entertained by Robin Hood, despite or possibly because of its many flaws. Booked tickets to see the Flaming Lips next week in Birmingham, which should be thoroughly excellent. Thinking about taking Son to the Grieg centenary concert early next year; he wants to know how long it will be.

Read Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence Man this week. Wasn't aware that a) it was intended as a two parter, b) Mann was inconsiderate enough to die before writing the second one. It was left rather in the air. However I still like Thomas Mann's books enormously, for no obvious reason. Looking for something else to read at the moment. Having the book collection completely jumbled is quite good for that, although I shall have to hope that I can still identify the various books lent to me which have now ended in in the general pool.

Watched Constantine; another film better than its write ups, or maybe I'm just non-fussy at present. Anyway I thought it was very good. Dreamed of Tilda Swinton giving kayak lessons. Got nowhere with Kingdom of Heaven though- possibly the combination of strong silent type hero and my playing spider solitaire instead of watching the screen. The strange political thriller about brainwashing people whose name I've forgotten was a bit better, although not sure what it was meant to be; the plot was carefully explained at the beginning leaving only the playing out to be done, which was done quite well.

Must get on with some work- usual week off backlog to deal with. Remarkably unstressed about returning- usually a long weekend is enough to make me rather jumpy but very relaxed this time.

Kayaking every Saturday for the next three weeks, then a whitewater trip (in December!) the boats are completely different to handle from the ones we own, so adapting is taking a while- their boats will turn 360 degrees on the spot whereas I have to do a three point turn to change direction on our fairly wide canal. All good experience though- Beloved is already talking about getting a whitewater playboat as well as his tourer, happily ignoring the absence of money problem :-)

Just finished watching Pirates of Penzance; the 1983 film that I haven't seen since it came out. I remember being absolutely captivated by Kevin Kline. Nice to know that my tastes have matured slightly since (!) but it was still great fun.

Finishing off breakfast prior to starting painting the box room. Lovely sunny day; might drag Son off to the B'ham nature centre this afternoon to visit the ravens and the otters while the paint dries. I went to the Natural History Museum on Sunday but was rather too high (having not slept much the night before) and the surrounding noise of children and the fact I couldn't touch anything drove me rather batty, so I didn't stay long.

Always worth going though, if only to remind oneself of how utterly huge blue whales are and to nose around the interesting fossil and stuffed remains. Found a dire wolf, which was rather smaller than the grey variety but did have impressive jaws, and a rather nice stuffed wombat. And a giant lemur which was larger than I was, and an assortment of elephant relatives with different numbers and arrangements of tusks, none the size of Tolkien's versions though. And a ver impressively rolled up armadillo.

Dropped into the V&A as well, on the basis that I'd never been there, but concentration too crap to appreciate- main response restricted to ooo shiny.

Anyway better now after sleep, and happily redecorating.

I have a bit of a problem with infanticide as a verdict. I gather that it is an early version of manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, which I also have a bit of a problem with. "you couldn't help it but we are going to convict you anyway." And it's all very well to announce that the poor woman walked free from court, but she spent 18 months on remand, which is rather scandalous. Even more so was the police spokesperson, whose response seemed to focus on the fact that this woman didn't seem sufficiently upset about the death of her baby and was therefore callous and cold, both good reasons for locking her up. As someone who has recently been informed by her (now ex) psychologist that she wasn't showing enough emotion and was therefore seriously disturbed I object rather strongly to this kind of classification by level of emotional outburst. I think it was Angela Canning who ended up with a prison sentence for murder informed by a similar judgement of her inappropriate lack of screaming and hair tearing grief. And in this case we already have a diagnosis of severe post natal depression- how exactly does the police officer expect a severely depressed person to behave?

And then, just to annoy me further, we had the council spokesperson pontificating about the sympathy extended to the baby's family (mother clearly excluded) and in particular the father. This will be the father whose disappearance two weeks after the birth precicipated the mother's illness. The one who wasn't prepared to look after a baby and now doesn't need to.

Fortunately for my "unnaturally calm" mental state infanticide cases don't come up very often.

I think I liked Torchwood. They've certainly done a reasonable job of mixing up the stereotypes. I rather hope that they don't feel that they have to justify their post-watershed position continually.

Cardiff looks nice. Maybe I shall visit it and spend lots of money there.

Time to investigate the paint situation. New paint only accessible with some trouble so box room is going to be painted in whatever colour tins we have left over; it's going to disappear under bookshelves anyway.

A quiet if water orientated weekend. Fell in canal again (twice), bought a new fish.

Went into Brum to buy lots of C J Cherryths. Received first organic veg box. not sure about the necessity of the organic bit but the UK origin of most of the stuff and the fact that the rest came by boat not plane seemed sufficient to justify extra cost. Also I get interesting vegetables and have to work out what to do with them, which is better than eating ready meals.

Robin Hood. Oh dear. "Tick tock". "Tick tock?" Medaeval England? According to Wikipedia at least a hundred years too early, and probably nearer 200.

Beloved suggested that what it was nearest was the Disney cartoon version. I've only ever seen clips on - what was that children's show that showed clips of films? Screen Test, I think? Anyway, that. But he's probably right nonetheless.

However since Guy is still wearing leather we shall perserve for some time longer. I notice that they solved the problem of Will's brother by......wiping him out of existence between the first and second episodes. Creative, I have to admit.

Watched The Island as well; not nearly as bad as the reviews had it. Car chases excessive though.

Exam is over. Don't need to know any maths any more. Would have done better with a slightly less slapdash approach (picking questions on the basis that they hadn't appeared in the past papers and were therefore interesting probably won't get optimum score, and essay plans got a bit overlooked, but the actual maths bits were alright I think.)

Major achievement; got to exam having had a good night's sleep, not down, not excessively up.

Son has finally accepted a mobile phone, mainly because he has discovered it has Snake on it.

We are all going to have exciting online interactive calendars.

Firefox is still playing silly buggers. I am going to carefully describe what happens and then SOMEONE is going to tell me what do to about it (hopefully).

Only happens on the Guardian website. I visit a particular page and after about a second I am redirected. Up to today I was always redirected to the Wikipedia page on referrers. Today I got redirected to some other page on referrers, but since this doesn't show up on my History I can're remember which; called Captain's Cabin or something similar. Definitely not Wikipedia, definitely the same subject matter.

Using Explorer it doesn't happen. Visiting the same page on the same day gets the same result; going back to it next day is often fine. It's maybe one page in 10, but some days seems worse than others.

No-one seems to be trying to sell me anything.

Any clues?

To celebrate the end of my maths course I have written a small amount of Newton/Leibniz slash. But I decided not to post it here, you will be pleased to hear :-) Anyone desperate to read suggestive correspondence about Infinite Series, just let me know.

Robin Hood of course. I declare a certain amount of partiality, in that I still believe Robin of Sherwood to be the best thing ever made for television, but I shall nevertheless try to be objective.

First objective thought; Guy in leather.

Second objective thought (since the first one wasn't very successful at being objective); That was all a bit fluffy really. For example;
First ep Robin Hood; Robin returns from the Crusades, rescues a poacher, annoys a father, hugs his peasants, discovers Sheriff is evil, taunts him a bit, flirts with Marion, launches last minute rescue of peasants and rides off into forest to meet the rest of the gang.

First ep Robin of Sherwood (OK this isn't objective either but bear with me); Robin's father is Herne's chosen one, gets killed defending sacred arrow, Robin's foster family slaughtered brutally, Robin launches daring escape from Nottingham Castle dungeons, falls in love with Marion, who is then sent by evil Sheriff to marry even eviller Baron who actually wants to sacrifice her to astoundingly evil gods. Robin is chosen by Herne to save his people and makes a start by rescuing Marion in the nick of time.

One of these was original, daring and quite exciting. The other one was rather fun and I will be making a point of watching the rest of them. But.

Third objective thought; There was one conversation in the first episode that was worth watching the whole thing for. Not the political satires, although I was fairly amused by the on-the-spot poaching punishment. and more amused than I should have been about standing shoulder to shoulder with Rome. Not the witty exchanges, which weren't bad although there should have been more of them and less peasant hugging. But the hint of a back story between Robin and Guy.

I decided to encourage the Universe in this trend by writing Guy's back story (obviously rather rapidly) as it plainly appeared to me it must have happened. Really I wanted to append it as a file to this blog but I don't appear to be able to do that. So I shall add it below but assure my less enthusiastic readers that nothing of any import will appear below it so they can just ignore the stuff below the asterisks and move straight on to whatever it was they were going to read next.

No sex or violence (well, no real violence). No-one dies. Positively PG rated. And very sad, (at least I though it was sad). And yes, it's slash. Have you ever known me write anything else?

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"I've Seen You Fight"

Guy had told his servant not to bother unpacking. He had no intention of staying in a rather inferior guest room in Nottingham Castle for long. But then the Sheriff had made a point of telling him to dress for dinner, so he’d had to search through the badly packed chests himself.

That was how, long after the call for dinner, he was still sitting on the side of his bed turning the trophy over and over in his hands. Remembering.

The tournament had been held in Lichfield, and was a full three day affair. Nobles had come from as far away as London and Bristol and Guy had been looking forward to it for months. His swordsmaster had been training him intensively for the junior tournament, and even his father had grudgingly agreed that he was one of the best young swordsmen around. Another year and he could have entered the full tournament, but that would have to wait.

By the start of day three he was the clear favourite out of the juniors. He’d not had much chance to watch the full tournament; he’d seen little of the archery or the mounted competition, but he’d watched every bout of the swordfighting that he could get to.

The final day was perfect. He’d won one straightforward bout to get to the final, and filled in the hour or so before that was due to take place watching the semi finals of the men’s sword fighting. The first pair was unevenly matched; Sir Trias was a huge yet nimble man with a scything stroke that had put many of his opponents in the infirmary despite the blunted blades. The other was fast but not fast enough; he was carried off with a broken leg after a few minutes.

The second pair looked poorly matched as well. Sir Henri of Bolsover was well muscled, quick and technically brilliant. Guy had loved watching him fight, appreciating the technique and style. He’d seen him in two bouts and like most of the spectators had decided that Sir Henri was certain to win the tournament.

Guy hadn’t yet seen his opponent, Sir Robin of Locksley, fight. He was unimpressed by the young man he saw warming up; Robin was barely a year or so older than he was, and slightly built. When the fight started it soon became apparent that Robin was slower and less skilled than his opponent. But for some reason Henri just seemed unable to land that decisive blow.

After half an hour the bout was still going and the organisers of the junior competition were getting restless. The final should have started by now. Guy, though, had forgotten about his final. In the last few minutes he had noticed something very surprising.

Henri was on the back foot. He was tired, he was frustrated, his concentration was going. Guy caught him glancing around the ring, as if looking for someone to stop the fight.

His opponent was bleeding from a blow across his nose. His left arm was held at an uncomfortable angle; Guy thought that it might be broken. Yet those strangely intense eyes were focussed on Henri and his head was forward. He looked as if there was nothing he wanted more than to hit this man with a blunted sword forever.

It ended suddenly. Robin turned and flung himself, shoulder first, past Henri’s guard and into his chest. Henri was down, Robin had recovered his balance, and the fight was over.

Guy was first to his feet, cheering. During that half hour he’d decided that he now knew what fighting was about. Not technique, not speed, but keeping going regardless and above all winning.

His revelation took him through the preparation for his final. As he walked out into the arena a final time doubts hit him. He looked up into the audience, seeking out his swordsmaster. Instead his eyes met the pair he’d grown used to watching; Robin, roughly bandaged and still in the bloodstained clothes he’s fought in, was seated up near the back. As Guy paused, staring, Robin grinned at him and raised a hand in greeting.

The trumpets recalled Guy to himself. After that it was as if he could do nothing wrong. Quarter of an hour later he was bowing before the Earl of Lichfield, with the applause of the crowd a wonderful sound. He sneaked a look up into the audience when he could but Robin had gone; his final started immediately after the ceremony.

His prize was a trophy; two crossed metal swords on a carved wooden base, and a purse of 5 silver pieces. As soon as he could get away he raced over to the area where one of the Earl’s clerks was taking illegal but officially overlooked bets on the tournament outcome and gave him four of the five silver pieces. “On Robin of Locksley” he stated firmly. The clerk frowned, both at the amount and the reckless nature of the bet. He didn’t want to be accused of cheating this young noble.

Congratulating Guy on his own win, the clerk suggested gently that while Robin had undeniably fought well, he must be exhausted after the long bout while his stronger opponent had had hours to recover. Guy glared at him. Would he take the bet or not? Sighing, the clerk agreed.

Guy raced back to the arena and pushed his way to the front. Like Robin, he hadn’t changed out of his fighting gear, or had his small bruises seen to. He wore both as a badge of pride.

Trias strode heavily into the arena swinging his sword over his head theatrically to rapturous applause. Robin followed him, bouncing lightly on his toes. He looked across the crowd and his eyes met Guy’s again. This time it was the boy who raised a hand. Robin smiled and called out something to him that was lost in the crowd noise. Then the trumpets started.

This final was shorter than Robin’s semi, but no less difficult. Trias had the strength and the speed, but this time Robin’s skill seemed the better. Guy barely saw the swords move; he watched the total focus in Robin’s eyes and never doubted his bet.

When Robin won he was surrounded by the crowd. Guy, now feeling stiff and sore, couldn’t push his way through. He saw the ceremony though, and collected his twelve silver pieces from the clerk. Despite searching and asking, he didn’t find Robin again that day; he must have left immediately after the tournament.

Guy’s father held a feast in his honour when he got home, his silver pieces were soon, but pleasurably spent, and his trophy lived in a place of honour until he left home next year. Since then it had been lying in his clothes chest, half forgotten.

Looking back now, it seemed that day had determined the rest of his life. He’d hoped to meet up with Robin again, but Locksley was half the country away. A year later, around the time of his own knighthood, he heard that Robin had sailed for Palestine.

Guy’s father had flatly refused to allow his only son to join the King’s crusade. Guy had almost defied him but he had no resources of his own. Instead he gained his father’s rather surprised approval by taking up a post with the new Sheriff of Nottingham. For a while this had worked well; the Sheriff had given him responsibility for Robin’s own lands when he expressed an interest in Locksley. He still felt a bond of kinship with Robin, he told himself; the kinship of the warrior. He could not fight by his side, yet, but he could perform that sacred duty of friendship, the care of his possessions.

But his chosen task soon became more difficult. Taxes continually rose, the Sheriff stopped praising him and started sneering, the peasants were unruly. What good were his honed fighting skills when what he needed to do was to stop poaching and petty theft?

Guy started off with the intention of treating the peasants well, as his father always had, but his temper was getting shorter as estate management became more difficult. The first time he lost his temper completely and ordered that a criminal be hung over what, looking back, might have been a fairly minor infraction he felt guilty afterwards. But, as the Sheriff pointed out when he drunkenly tried to explain this one night, theft in the village had gone down dramatically afterwards. And he told himself it was Robin’s property he was protecting here. Who would look out for Robin’s interests if not him? Even collecting taxes had to be done after all; the King’s knights in Palestine (and one knight in particular) needed support.

Nevertheless it was hard to satisfy the Sheriff and keep the lands productive. He had always found making friends difficult and he became cold and withdrawn, saying nothing when the Sheriff taunted him or the peasants hissed. He found that black suited his increasingly dark moods and being feared brought its own satisfaction. He pushed himself in the training barracks, his swordsmanship, always good, became excellent.

Guy had a little fantasy, barely admitted even to himself, about what would happen when Robin came home. Robin would astonished to see him here; he’d recognise him immediately of course. Robin would thank him for the care he’d taken of his property, invite him to stay on at Locksley to continue to manage the estates. They’d be inseparable friends and knights, sparring together, seeking adventure. Together they’d put the Sheriff in his place, the peasants would start behaving, they’d chase down outlaws; all the petty trouble in Guy’s life would be gone.

In his saner moments Guy suspected it might not be as simple as this. But even at his mos sober he never doubted the bond between him and Robin; that would last.

Then Robin had returned and for a moment when he recognised him in Locksley everything was unbelievably wonderful. A few minute later his life had fallen apart. Robin didn’t recognise him at all, clearly thought he was in league with the Sheriff to rob him of his lands. This cold-eyed stranger had humiliated him in front of the peasants and thrown him out of his manor house. Guy had been so furious that he couldn’t even try to explain.

Then the arrogant lordling had ridden into Nottingham and said all the things that he, Guy, had been planning to say to the Sheriff for years, only the idea was that they would say them together. Instead he was standing on one side, like some flunkey. After sleepless night he had decided there was still a chance, if he could get Robin on one side, explain, but then the idiot had raised rebellion in the middle of Nottingham and ridden into Sherwood. Where Guy would now be expected to hunt him down and kill him.

For one wild moment he thought of riding out there himself, tonight, to try to find him. Surely there must be some way of putting things right? But he knew that for Robin and anyone connected with him there was no coming back from this; nothing but execution would do for the Sheriff. He visualised his neck in the noose, the Sheriff laughing…. And it was after all Robin’s fault; Guy had done nothing but act in truest friendship. He had been rejected, insulted; how much more could he be expected to suffer on Robin’s account?

Guy slammed the trophy onto the floor, swearing. Enough was enough. It was time to change his life. Tonight he would go down and get very drunk, and then tomorrow, if ordered, he would go hunting in Sherwood. He was no longer the boy that had won some child's competition. He was the knight in black, a sworn knight of Nottingham and this time his sword would not be blunt.

The guard in the corridor of one of the damper bits of Nottingham Castle was surprised to hear shouting from Sir Guy’s room. He was pretty sure that no-one except Sir Guy was in there. He was more surprised to hear the thumping and splintering noises. Tentatively, he knocked. “Go away” was the only polite bit of the response, so he did. Not a good man to cross, Sir Guy.

Ten minutes later Guy threw the door open and strode down towards the common room, immaculately garbed in his usual black, without acknowledging the guard. He had left his door open; curious, the guard took a look inside. There was no obvious sign of destruction. The fire spat and he glanced into the flames; glowing dully were two miniature crossed swords.

Feeling rather more balanced today.

Been contemplating this niqab thing. An interesting interview with a couple of covered women on Newsnight last night. One took the standard religious stance, about which I have no comment (read the standard and unoriginal "Religion is silly and harmful" rant in here if you like). The other reflected the reason why, I suspect , more and more young Muslim women are covering up. She didn't want to have to interact with her appearance every time she went out.

For every young woman who buys and wears clothes with pleasure there are at least one, and probably more, who find the whole process stressful and demeaning. Fashions like drop waisted trousers are designed for slim, tall women yet everyone is expected to wear them. Make-up is obligatory, expensive, and difficult to get right. You are required to look as if you intend to look attractive even if you don't want to attract anyone and then you are conscious of being judged, not so much by boys as by the other girls, to see if you have succeeded. For every gossip mag's article about celebrities looking good there are two about them looking bad; too fat, too thin, too hairy, not smiling, grimacing, cellulite; whatever they are is judged as wrong. That's the message taken away; not o much that everyone should try to look as good as the latest model but that everyone, however hard they try, is vulnerable to claims that they have failed.

A significant number of girls find ways to opt out. The enduring success of Goths is, I suspect, the simplicity of the dress and makeup options. I took to kaftan and bright green polyester flares during my late teens. Not even I could claim that it looked good but I knew damn well that it was so far outside the norm that I was safe from the accusation of trying and failing. I'd rather be considered crazy than inept.

A niqab is a brilliant way of opting out. The minor inconvenience of a full head and body covering is nothing compared to the relief of not having to try to work out what it is you are meant to be wearing and how. To be able to meet the gaze of the world knowing exactly what it is that they see, knowing that they aren't judging your shape, clothes, make-up, shoes, acne. Wonderful!

It's a really bad idea, of course. What we need to do is to develop a sufficiently thick skin not to care (or a mental disorder that has an interesting side effect of convincing us that we look wonderful regardless of what we actually look like). But it seems that many women never do that; hence the huge industry in anti-ageing products.

Maybe most of these women will regain their confidence, safe behind their black. Maybe they will feel able to be seen again when they get past the ages of maximum pressure.

I like Jack Straw's idea that you can ask other people to dress in a way that assists you to work out what they are thinking. Maybe removal of the trousers for men might help in certain situations? (or then again, maybe not)

Whoever wrote the DSM IV definition of hypomania and included episode is not severe enough to cause marked impairment in social or occupational functioning clearly hadn't tried to write coherent commentary for Counsel on 200 pages of witness statement and accompanying documents with a deadline of close of play that day while in a distinctly hypomanic state. Having run out of decaf tea and therefore drinking more caffeine than for months. I'm spending more time wandering up and down corridors than I am contemplating pictures of small children standing on treetrunk (just why has this guy included that in his supporting documentation anyway? I think that would confuse the hell out of me on the best of days.) And the DSM criteria ought to include something about wrecking one's carefully nurtured FreeCell score as well. now that is annoying.

Spent a while researching hair dyes before deciding that my hair is nearly the perfect colour already and that while red streaks are appealing the fuss made to get them there isn't worth the bother. Tempted by pre-Rapahelite red but suspect it wouldn't turn out that way and the only thing to get dyed effectively would be the bathroom.

Drinking decaf coffee now, otherwise known as mud.

ten to three! Must get back to documents, or I won't get home tonight.

Day before yesterday- normal.
Yesterday- jumpy and anxious.
Last night/this morning; very tearful and down
This afternoon- everything bright and sparkly and I'm having trouble sitting still. And I have a bag full of random items bought in town.

None of it is very condusive to work, unfortunately but I prefer this to the other lot.

It apparently has the wonderful title ultra-ultra-rapid cycling and isn't that uncommon, but if it carries on I'd better go see the psych I guess. Probably brought on by looming exam and missing some sleep.

Way things are going I'll probably be back to normal-ish shortly. At least I now have "Squatter, The Australasian Farming Game" to play with, complete with a hundred sheep-head plastic playing pieces. The rules seem to be very keen on the idea of worm drenching- can't wait!

Playing a desperate housewife could entice women gamers

From the BBC article about female video gamers (and pink Playstations). Which raises some important questions; are we attracted by the idea of being desperate, housewives or both?

I suspect it was meant to be capitalised.

Scraping along the bottom today, mood wise. But got to work and may even manage to do some at some point. Spending a lot of time contemplating campsites near Hay-on-Wye and eating Minstrels.

We ended up watching Nausicaa last night, which was rather excellent and enabled me to try out some "resistance is useless" jokes which fell completely flat. I think possibly Mirrormask was slightly disappointing in contrast to Studio Ghibli; a bit too linear. Beloved tells me the Nausicaa comic is considerably fuller of plot, but I did try to read it at one point and found the style of drawing very impenetrable.

Time for a small amount of work before meeting Beloved for lunch. Must remember to pick up a cinema leaflet for Son as well, who is doing some sort of project using it. Nothing on again; where have all the decent (or interestingly bad) films gone?

Today's been not so good after all. How I can get nervy about revision for an exam that has no importance whatsoever I don't know, but somehow I manage it. Not sleeping so well again either.

I think something nice had better happen tonight. Might be a good evening for a takeaway and chasing the family into one room long enough to watch a DVD; they still haven't seen Mirrormask and I'm up for another go. A bad evening for more maths revision and trying to get the house tidier. Feeling vaguely "run away"ish which is usually a bad sign.

Spent a good hour out on the canal though, thinking about nothing much except keeping the boat upright, spotting the trees that have started to turn and ducking the rather fast-falling acorns.

It's a beautiful evening too.

Son and I watched the last half of Revenge of the Sith last night. Fortunately our set top box is on the blink (or as the lady told me when I rang her earlier, overheating because it's on top of the DVD recorder) so we got to miss much of the worst dialogue. Although I love the "only Siths deal in absolutes" line. And the bit where Anakin, having had his arms and legs chopped off and having been set on fire, informs Obi Wan that he hates him. I still don't understand how that scene got into a mainstream film though. You make three films featuring (in the first one) a small cute boy, you kill his mother off, turn him evil and finally you mutilate and burn him onscreen and the censor goes "Fine, no sex or bad language, off you go."

I'm pleased to see that according to today's paper at least I am not responsible for making Son stupid (or not in one specific way. No doubt I'm responsible for mis-bringing him up in many other ways, like allowing him to get away with murder when it comes to food. Although he did discover that he liked soy sauce yesterday; slight progress.)

Bit lacking in inspiration, enthusiasm and everything else so that will have to do. No doubt perkier tomorrow.