Well, what a week it's been. It started with a kiss, you know: the Pampers Big Kiss, to be precise. Go on, you know you want to... nobody's looking. What harm can it do? Click the lips and you've saved a life: it's that simple. They're over there look - there: top-right, big and red and ready puckered for you. Sorry! But, you know, it's in a good cause: the 170 million mums at risk of tetanus in over 40 countries. One click - one jab, and another life is saved.
Incidentally, that 'Big Kiss' banner started out like this...
From tiny acorns, eh? Which, incidentally, is the title of the forthcoming e-course anthology. The submission deadline was last Thursday so if you haven't got your entry in to Dotterel Press yet it's too late. Well, almost. There might be room to squeeze another tale or two but you'll have to email them (not me) to find out. The address is firstname.lastname@example.org. There's already a stack of really high-quality writing, so it promises to be an excellent read.
To be honest, I'd hardly noticed the deadline passing myself. Because the 30th was the morning after the night before, the night before being a spectacular gala concert at St Botolph's Church by Lesley Garrett. Over 1200 people packed the parish church to hear the Doncaster diva (and us... I was in her backing group for the evening, Cantemus!) and they can hardly have gone away less than delighted. And that was in spite of being dripped on by the rain. Yes, the church roof is leaking. Just as well the concert was in aid of the restoration appeal. If you weren't there, you missed a treat. But you can catch a little bit of the magic on-line, via the BBC report. And if you look carefully, you might just catch a glimpse of yours truly!
In other news, Charlie had his first trip to the barber's this week. He's had his hair cut before, but at home and sitting in his high-chair with plenty to distract him from the job in hand. This was the first time we've let the professionals have a go, and he looked about as happy about it as me. I hate having my hair cut; I think I'd gladly have it stay the same length forever. Not that I've anything against barbers (or hairdressers or stylists or mop consultants or whatever they like to be called). I just don't enjoy the experience. I suffer from Samson-syndrome, and I may have passed it on to Charlie. Having said that, he was very good. He sat still, did as he was told and didn't object to the clippers. But he didn't look happy.
"Is it fun having your hair cut like a big boy Charlie?" I asked him, knowing full well what the answer would be. He just looked at me, his bottom lip protruding slightly, and then slowly shook his head.
No wonder his fringe is wonky.