MOSI...

Great time at MOSI with Finn today. The place is an unbelievable feast of fun for zero £££. The little 'un panicked a little when I made him do 'Underground Manchester'. Must be a family trait - I was a little angsty myself when we ventured into the Gas Gallery. The smell of gas around ye olde gas lamps was to be expected, I suppose, but I did fear an explosion. Anyway, we survived and the little tinker enjoyed himself and said "WOW!" several times.

Old pirates, yes...

Two hours in the park where I mostly played pirates with Finn. He made me say "Ship ahoy, Cap'n" about 300 times. As you can see, it made him smile.

Watch this, literally...

Finn, as you'd expect of an almost two-year-old, takes things literally. So it was this morning when, as we were about to embark on a mammoth Play Dough modelling session, I momentarily placed my mug of tea on the floor. "Watch that mug," I said, with health and safety my major concern. Finn did indeed watch that mug - he knelt down beside it and stared at it for about two minutes. Disappointed that the mug didn't do anything in response to all this attention, he turned his back and picked up a lump of his brightly coloured modelling clay. The other day M asked Finn to stop playing with a toy dog and put his shoes on - he placed his shoes on top of the dog.

Mary...

Our neighbour Mary has finally got the message that Finn's name is, erm, Finn. For several weeks she has been calling him Flynn. I countered each such utterance with a louder Finn but I thought I was wasting my time. Until yesterday, that is, when the penny appeared to finally drop with the stubborn/dementia-ridden one and she called our little monkey by his actual name. There is a three foot tall fence separating our two gardens, so it is a good thing that this confusion has been sorted as summer will no doubt be full of Mary and Flynn...oops, Finn, conversations.

These shoes are made for walking...

A milestone in Finn's life as we dragged him to Clarks for his first pair of 'proper' shoes. Miraculously, Finn allowed the woman in Clarks to measure his feet then, once we'd chosen a pair and they were brought to us, simply let her put the things on his feet. There is no way that putting Finn's shoes on will ever be as simple again. Despite walking up and down the living room and wreaking havoc in all corners of our house, Finn refused to budge once he was shoed up, save for collapsing on the floor in an 'I know they've told you I can walk real, real good but I'm a baby, goddammit!' heap. By the time you read this post I fully expect Finn to have lost at least one of his shoes.

Happy Birthday Finn!..

One today! Wow!

Ferchrissakes...

Finn's christening today. All rather nice. He laughed and smiled at all the right moments and was most amused by the priest, although not so amused when the time came to be dangled over the font. It was an exhausting day. We are now heading to Manchester, where M is on BBC duties for a couple of days and Finn and myself will wander the streets in search of the finest entertainment.

Flock and roll...

To Honeysuckle Farm, where Finn came face-to-face with farmyard animals for the first time. You should have seen the state of the pram wheels by the end of the afternoon. The stench of the Saddleback pigs was washed down with some of the farm's lovely ice cream.

Reading: Haruki Murakami - What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.

Return journey...

Back after several days and lots of tedium in Northumberland - Morpeth to be precise. Lots of work, nothing that's really bloggable. The only consolation of working away from home is the welcome waiting when you return. And in just four days, Finn's legs seem to have gotten a whole lot stronger.

London boy...

Finn in London. On the left, catching the rays in Hyde Park and, on t'other side, looking rather disturbed at the price of a pint in the bar of the Royal Court.

Return journey...

London! Birmingham! Manchester! We're now back from our three date tour. Man amid the fashionable boutiques of the capital city's King's Road to his lady friend: "Shopping, of course, is all designed with women in mind." On the same road I was rendered almost blind by a most intense bout of hay fever, tears streaming down my face. I got some most peculiar looks as I pushed Finn along.

Star fish...

Hot on the heels of his March success, Finn secured his second swimming qualification today and his trunks can now be emblazoned with the Starfish 2 badge, while the certificate will be going in his Record of Achievement. Hurrah!

Listening: The Subways - All or Nothing

Let's dance...

Today Finn danced. To Prince. He got the funk.

Appetite for destruction...

Today is all about short film. So, by way of homage, Finn made a small screen appearance.

Cousin thin...

Niece is being read to from her book about cats.

"This cat is fat."

"This cat is thin."

Niece: "This cat is Finn! This cat is Finn!"

Rottweileresque...

When two or more High Street stores gather together adding the suffix outlet to their name (eg Ted Baker Outlet, Coast Outlet, Paul Smith Outlet and, tee hee hee, The Works Outlet) then you have an Outlet. Last day in York ended in a journey to the so-called Designer Outlet. Their bizarre strapline, which stands in tall letters on the glass entrance, is 'Guilt Free Shopping' - I've never felt guilty when shopping, I tend to save that for the times when I shoplift. We purchased some of last season's odds and sods, ate in the food court and took a slow drive back along the A1079 to homesville.

Ah, The Apprentice. This year's lot are a peculiar bunch and all deserve sacking. This week it was funny to see that good Jewish boy Michael had absolutely no idea what kosher meat is. But he hung in there, as Sir Alan of Sugar likes his youthful stupidity. Also clinging on for another week was horrible Miss Piggy clone Claire Young, who I am growing to despise. This woman has little going for her, save for her tedious ability to talk endlessly. But what else should we expect from a former Club 18-30 rep? Apparently, and according to her official BBC biography, Claire is nicknamed the Rottweiler because of her ability to go after whatever she wants. I dunno about that (Kev G Brown, is that what a Rottweiler does?) but I would concede that she's a big, 'orrible bitch. After her time as a holiday rep, Claire went on to find "her niche as a Category Buying Manager, which involves ensuring the shelves of Superdrug are stocked with the right hair care products." A Category Buying Manager? Sounds more like a shelf stacker to me.

We both got some writing in while we were away although probably not as much as we should have. I am now cross-checking what I've come up with against the West End Whingers' simple questionnaire which should immediately be made mandatory for all playwrights.

Museum...

To the York Castle Museum for a fun frolic amongst old stuff. I first went to this place when I was about five and it's lost none of its magic. Finn is too young to appreciate the exhibits but he did enjoy traveling past a Victorian parlour, 1950s front room, the still glorious Victorian street scene, the prison cells and the new Sixties section whilst riding in the back carrier that the museum lent to us. So much so that he fell asleep. Then he woke up and made groovy gurgling noises.

York was much nicer to be around today - the Bank Holiday visitors had all buggered off so we managed to get riverside drinks and food in at the Pitcher & Piano and could move with ease through the streets without people falling over the buggy every other second.

Reading: Richard Benson - The Farm

River Ooze...

The first of three days in York. It was Bank Holiday Monday, of course, so it was horribly busy and the misery was compounded because, on the sunniest day of the year so far, we couldn't get a drink outside because all the pubs were full of people who only ever drink once a year. Instead, Finn sat on the banks of the River Ouse and waved at people that passed him on their river cruises, pausing just the once to turn around and pose for this nice photograph. We found out later that Paul the giraffe had managed to earn £178 busking on Whipmawhopmagate. His act is simple - he plays a motionless giraffe.

Fortified whine...

Today Finn dragged us around Helmsley Castle which, unsurprisingly, is located in Helmsley (a village popular with motorcyclists on a Bank Holiday Weekend if today was anything to go by). There was an English Heritage 'special event' taking place at the castle when we arrived - which appeared to mean that lots of people with learning difficulties had been asked to dress up in itchy medieval garments and shout a lot whilst occasionally strumming on ladels, banging 'knackers' (ie, the early forerunner of timpani) or performing in some frankly dreadful 17th Century Mummers plays. As a result of their presence the admission fee had been increased by £1. I'm of the opinion that the admission fee should have been reduced because I found their tents to be a real inconvenience but I'm sure medieval re-enactors would beg to differ. Anyway, it was all rather Monty Python and the Holy Grail and the medieval music (or possibly the smoke rising from burning medieval embers) made Finn cry. Sadly, Paul the giraffe was last seen trying to clamber his way out of a moat.

Odds...

To Thirsk for a glorious afternoon eating nasty food from a burger van, drinking beer out of plastic glasses and losing money. Our usual failed system of betting on horses with nice names was employed yet again. We really should think it through - none of our horses came anywhere close to victory. We parked our car in the poor folk and playwright enclosure, where a bird wasted no time and ceremoniously shat on the roof. Luckily, a gust of wind came along to blow over a half-filled plastic glass of lager that I'd very sensibly balanced on the roof of the car, so the dirty mess was replaced by something stickier. Then, just prior to the 2.35pm race, a bird actually shat on me. "That's lucky," a bloke behind reminded me. He was patently unaware that even the most reliable of talismans would come unstuck when confronted by our losing 'nice name for a horse' system. Our luck didn't change. But we did have fun, which is surely all that matters.

We followed the racing with a trip to Tesco. Needing to buy some kiddy-friendly nail scissors I asked a member of staff the whereabouts of such niche products. "I don't think we sell them," she lied. "If we do, they'll be down here," she muttered, leading me to an aisle full of toiletries and the growing range of Durex products. "No, no, there aren't any," she lied again. I tutted, told her it didn't matter then walked around the corner and found them myself. I suppose the point of a supermarket is that they're self-service.

Keen to carry on in a manner befitting the underclass peasants that we are, we made the mistake of trying to eat dinner at a Two For One pub in north Yorkshire that we'd found ourselves parking close to. A spotty youth masquerading as 'supervisor' told us amid the chaos that seems to frequent these crazy places between the hours of 5-7pm, "There's a wait for tables at the moment but...I can let you have a table for two and a high chair, right now!" Somehow, he'd made the prospect of eating in an oversubscribed, tatty, filthy, noisy, shit heap of an establishment both exciting and exclusive. We asked him to lead the way. He brought the high chair. It was even filthier than the rest of the pub. We lashed Finn to the chair, aware that even he was also looking around wondering what the Health & Safety Executive and Public Health inspectors would make of it all. Then we went to sit down. But there wasn't even enough room to pull our chairs out and, unless we could each develop a rapid case of anorexia nervosa and get our weight down to 3 stone we wouldn't be able to squeeze in here and there was no room to manouevre. We about faced, leaving behind hundreds of folk and their children to it. Baffling that people put up with this. We may have a child, I may have children and we may, very often, like to eat out but I am not an aninal... We ended up eating at the quite fantastic Maxi's in Nether Poppleton. It's in a very, very odd place - smack in the middle of an industrial estate - but the Cantonese food and family-style dining experience was lovely. Paul the giraffe - who was arrested at Thirsk racecourse for streaking down the final furlong - joined us upon his release from the cells and he enjoyed Maxi's too.