Dare to dream?

I was reading a discussion about the "meaning of blogging" today. I was going to add to it that my blog's main purpose is to keep my friends and family up-to-speed with my movements, but as I haven't updated in a fortnight I thought I'd better keep my beak buttoned.

When a fortnight passes with no time to blog, the hugely important business that has kept me away is all a blur. There was a wedding, a Take That concert (the moral of that particular story is never try to edge your way into the front at a man band gig - or attempt to get home from Milton Keynes on public transport, past the witching hour), a barbecue, a drunken Thai supper, an interview with a Big Brother contestant, yet another day out at a theme park, seven hours in a beer garden, a friend's sad news, breakfasts on the common, outdoor swimming action and a commission from The Guardian (dagnamit!).

Eliott is saying the most beautifully formed "mummies" and "daddies". His word-tally is increasing, so there is light at the end of that particular tunnel. He's also into the most laddish activities these days - toy cars, watching football, Superman, toy trucks, toy trains, The Incredibles and fighting with me and Matt at every available opportunity. He thinks he is Batman. So does his dad. It's all very sad.

I'll leave you with my world cup quarter final predictions: Rooney will score in the first nanosecond and a nation's hopes will soar. Just before half time Rooney will break both his feet and Theo Walcott will come on as a sub and score an own goal (it wasn't his fault he didn't know which way to play the ball). In the second half we will make blunders and bananas and hang on by the skin of our teeth until David Beckham fouls Figo in the 80th minute and is headbutted into next week. Figo will be awarded a yellow card and a "tsk" from the ref, while David starts puking up small, golden balls and is stretchered from the pitch. Wayne Bridge comes on and a nation's hopes dwindle. John Terry spontaneously combusts. Meanwhile Ronaldo's bruised, blue thigh detatches from his body and soars across the pitch scoring the goal of the tournament. Riots break out in various bars and big screen venues across Europe. Plastic chairs hit pensioners in the head worldwide. In the last minute of play, Sol Campbell (who came on for Terry - I couldn't bring myself to mention it) accidently hits Figo with an iron bar inside the box and Portugal are awarded a penalty in the dying seconds. Ricardo takes it and Robbo (who's popped off for a cuppa) isn't anywhere near the bastard as it hits home and books Sven's men on the next Queasyjet flight back to Blighty.

And so begins another several million light years of actual physical hurt.

Enjoy!

Weddings, sunshine, words, pictures...

I'm up against four deadlines in the next fortnight so this could be the only blog I get chance to do in a while. To add to my ever-increasing workload I went on a pitching frenzy this morning with some (if I say so myself) wonderful feature ideas. Shame I picked the hottest day ever to send them (as if any commissioning ed worth his/her salt wasn't out sunning themselves at the pub all day).

Anyone who reads the Sunday Mirror might like to look out for a very special byline I've got in this week's Celebs magazine. 10 points to the first person who spots the blogging superstar!

The sunshine is wonderful and I hope it keeps on shining for Auntie B and her intended, GB, who tie the knot at Chelsea registry office tomorrow. I shall be the drunken one in the 1950's vintage dress. Matt will be the wedding singer. Eliott will be the one fighting to get out of a tie (in this weather? I know!)

What else can I tell you? I've been hob-nobbing with lots of former reality TV personalities this week, I'm rapidly losing interest in Big Brother (apart from Glyn's cooking, of course), Eliott is saying 'Batman', 'flower', 'crisp' (tsk), 'mummy' and 'flapjack', I've eaten my own bodyweight in Carte D'or (sp.) Greek yoghurt & honey ice cream and we discovered that Regent's Park has the biggest sandpit known to man.

*takes a deep breath*











'Nuff said.

Reassurance

The postcode lottery strikes again. Who would have thought we'd have a living, breathing speech therapist sat on our living room sofa just two weeks after seeing the audiologist?

Luckily, we did. And it was all courtesy of the NHS. Seems we have access to a sort of 'community speech therapist' who does informal home visits on the basis of self-referral. How good is that?

Eliott warmed to her straight away and given that our meeting was conducted in the comfort of our own home he did his full repertoire of tricks for her benefit. This was great as she got to observe his play, his social skills, his comprehension and the few words he's trying to say.

She thinks Eliott's problem is confined to his expressive language and this is the most common area for hitches and the easiest to work with. She also said that his troublesome bottom lip (the lip he sucked in so consistently when he was tiny that I was unable to breastfeed him) is likely contributing to the problem. It's not a big, physical concern - it's just a habitual thing, like thumb-sucking, that's holding him back. She suggested we buy lots of whistles and bubbles - anything he has to blow into to operate - to get his mouth muscles moving.

Based on this very early assessment, she thinks he may need a bit of speech therapy - unless his pronunciation corrects itself over the next twelve months (could happen). Her final words were that he is going to be absolutely fine - might take a while, might need some therapy, but he'll get there. My God, was I relieved.

In other news my Dad says that Deal Or No Deal is just about "human greed and boredom". Matt hates Sezer so much that he plans to pick up the phone and singlehandedly vote him out (I'm still more concerned about those knitted boots). And The Da Vinci Code is dry (surprise).

On the work-front I'm looking for coke addicts (not the drink) and former reality TV contestants. Can you help? No, really.