Woody's round-up

*Looks up at title* I watch too many of Eliott's films.

Here's a round-up of my news.

France was wonderful. I've decided I want to live in a beautiful mansion that costs 50p and has several acres of land, including a forest, and an orchard, and a gite for the beautiful friends who will visit me. Unfortunately, I'd like this dream home to be situated in close proximity to Boots, Sainsburys, Balham Leisure Centre and a tube line into London. You could say it's a pipe dream.

Eliott's saying a few more words. Nothing really being linked-up yet, but his comprehension is zipping along and he's even pissed in the potty a few times. We're sort of egging him on, but I don't think we'll ever be the kind of parents who have a steely determination to get him reading and doing trigonometry before he's mastered the art of finger painting. There's enough pressure to come when he goes to school, so we'll concentrate on days out at Chessington (he's officially a thrillseeker) and discussions on the best tasting colour bogeys, for now.

I had some strong opinions (none of which are fit to print) about the various media features on September 11th; so strong that my mum is convinced I was radicalised by my Dad (who, in the words of Jeremy Paxman, makes Donald Rumsfeld look like a sandal-wearing hippy) when I was last in his neck of the woods. She's probably right. I'm becoming the best right-wing, capitalist, socialist in the world! Oop the workers and the oppressed (as long as I'm not paying for their frickin' housing benefit or expected to live next door to a bomb-plotter).

I also complained for several hours about Martin Amis writing a piece entitled "The final hours of Mohammed Atta" in a newspaper supplement, which was a figment of his imagination (it's the same as my Walking with Dinosaurs problem). Matt shouted at me for being a twat and after reading it I conceded that he (Amis) is a genius and I am a twat.

I've started to like Iron Maiden and Jason Lee is a Scientologist.

Finally, I have got over my fear of flying. Luton airport helped, with it's bars-lining-the-route-from-security-to-departure-gate policy, but the key appears to be 6mg of valium and seven shots of vodka per flight. I used to obsess about my last flight; the sheer terror of take-off, the mid-flight turbulence, the imaginations of a grisly death in several tons of deathly metal...now I think back to a lovely, fluffy experience where (apparently) I order salty snacks and down spirits and talk really loudly about not being scared of flying anymore.

Job done.