CEG

Ah so small. Little CEG has joined the hurly burly of Loved One's clan, but like her parents, remains blissfully serene and remarkably relaxed. Which cannot be said for Loved One and myself as we dash from new born to High School Musical party to Marks n' Sparks to Kupahville, to 30th birthday tapas to house party to bed to rise to food tasting to champagne to train to bed. We're pondering a more extensive sojourn in the future to ease the frantic pace of these visitations, but that won't be happening just yet.

Tomorrow begins the Lad's road trip to the ferry to Dunkirk to the Champagne district to Lake Como and then off for a week to some Tuscan shack for a wee christening. It will be an arduous journey but I will be strong.

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Still rabbiting on

It is a late Grahamstown night. The rugger buggers have finally stopped mauling each other outside my res room door and the last happy revellers have staggered up the hill from the Vic and passed out in their own pooh. The only sound is Ian “Mac” McCulloch's Scouse croon dripping from the tin can speaker of my mono tape recorder.

Fast forward nineteen years (nineteen years!) and that same voice fills the Royal Albert Hall. This is one of those rare occasions where I am surrounded by my peers. I've always been that bit too young to be blending in at those 70's rock gigs (Judas Priest, Motorhead, Alice Cooper et al) and a bit too old to not look slightly out of place at CSS gigs. Here, I'm just about right. The Bunnies (were they ever abbreviated thus? I care not) have kindly trawled through the classics, before having an interval break which allows the entire hall to scrum down at the bar.

When we return, a full orchestra has joined the lads on stage and they play 'Ocean Rain' from beginning to end. Fortunately this album contains four tracks from the greatest hits tape I had all those years ago, so I'm still able to sing along without mugging incoherently in that odd, badly synched way that clearly indicates you've never actually heard the song. Throughout the album set, images from the band's past slowly drift across two large screens and the crowd falters for a moment as a young and beautiful Pete de Freitas stares down at us with a small sad smile. The pictures start me thinking that sometimes the mere act of documentation is enough. It doesn't matter how good these pictures are (a lot are crap) or any pictures for that matter, it is the capturing of the moment that is important. It is with this profound revelation that I realise both I and Mr.Incredible are enormously drunk. We stagger out with the joyous crowd and make our way home via that evil pasty shop in Waterloo Station.

Next week, I will not drink anything, no really.

Dedication

It's not easy maintaining a blog. Having the inclination and inspiration to post something on a regular basis that's vaguely interesting to the dozen or so people who can be bithered to visit. Ah well, what can you do.

Went to Oxfordshire and saw a 17th century pile and a girl who spoke to cats. Went to Brighton and looped the Loop festival. Here are some pictures. The band is called Transformer, they do an interesting line in cheesy electro disco and bad eyewear.

Blogging, it's exhausting.

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