Saturday afternoon, Manchester. There are gale force winds threatening to blow the entire region away. A poplar tree in the back garden is about to fall over, it's presently being propped up by the garden shed. Apparently there is a chainsaw in the shed. It's Barabara's favorite implement of destruction. I offered in all seriousness to defeat the dying poplar by gashing at its achilles with a chainsaw. Naturally she saw the potential pitfalls such an excercise might incurr - I think her self-preservation skills are more sophisticated than mine. If it were up to me, I'd have bits of tree flying all over the place, threatening to blind people, frantic whirring, exhaust fumes and chain-toothed saw gashing excitement threatening the community of Chorlton cum Hardy; and all of this done in gale force winds. And who said sopped, dull days in grim north country cannae be exhilarating?

Babs just had a wean, she's 3 weeks old... Annabelle. She's sweet as pie and good as gold and falls asleep on my shoulder like a wee kuala bear in a yellow jumpsuit. I'll put up a picture. I've come up to help Babs for the weekend, three hands are better than one. Nothing's different really other than someone else's house, a baby and another city. The sofa, beer and telly remain familiar.

I'm off to the butcher to buy a nice piece of meat to cook for dinner. If you are lucky i'll post a picture of that too.