It's been a while since the last blog because, to be honest, I've not had much to say. But I crashed my car the other day and one of the boys demanded to know "how can you prove you're not Barry Chuckle?" at the weekend.
I'll start with the car. It was foggy. I was going a bit too fast. A junction appeared from nowhere. Screech of brakes. Too late. High kerb. Bush. Signpost. Ditch.
I escaped with a bit of whiplash and a big bill for a new car - why would I need fully comp insurance? I never crash.
Moving on to the accusation of being one half of kids comedy duo, the Chuckle Brothers, it had me stumped. I knew, sadly, that I wasn't Barry Chuckle, but how to prove it?
I said meekly that I wasn't and he said "you're Paul then" and went off giggling. I have now stolen half his trick-or-treat sweets. Revenge is a dish best served cold, sickly sweet and packed full of additives.
We held a naming day for the Fin the other weekend. A good time was had by all, except the baby himself, who was passed around like a giant spliff. To me, to you it went.
He didn't cry. Instead, he just laid in strangers arms looking worried as if he was being trafficked.
He's now piling on the pounds - up to 14 at the last count. He looks less like a baby and more like a midget football hooligan every day. He's also started sleeping through the night. Yipee.
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