Today, I've been trying to use the word 'unconscionable' in as many sentences as possible. So far, no-one has noticed.

A good mate of mine is going away on a five-month tour around the world, starting tomorrow with a flight to South America. Lucky bastard. We're all off this evening in a grand posse, to a comedy club in Birmingham to give him a proper sendoff. By some odd quirk of circumstance, I've never been to a comedy club (although I have seen performances by single comedians, by which I mean comedians without any support acts, not comedians without current romantic attachments), so I'm hoping for a jolly experience. It's the first time I've been 'allowed out' since the baby arrived, so I'm bloody well going to make the most of it. This may involve throwing peanuts.

I still need another holiday though. My friend is looking extremely smug, as well he might; by Saturday evening he will be soaking up the sights and sounds of Lima. I am unconscionably jealous.

As promised, a couple of baby pictures from the holiday. Firstly, here's one of Sarah on a day out on the Lake Windermere ferry:



...and here's one of Sarah following a dip in the inflatable bath (looking particularly adorable in her little pink piggy bathrobe):



I know, I know... you can't see anything of the Lakes. I can't help it, I just like taking pictures of Sarah. Mea culpa.

Today, a paean in praise of the humble jacket potato, a sumptuous feast of hot, starchy goodness wrapped up in its own crunchy cocoon of savoury delight. The versatility! The infinite combination of fillings! Who among you would not give a tooth, even a limb, for a mere mouthful of fluffy baked spud, swimming in a lake of butter and beans, with perhaps a sprinkling of mature Cheddar? O rapturous spud, harbinger of a full and satisfied belly! How I crave your delectable creamy flesh.

Rain, rain, go away, come again another day (preferably when I'm in Barbados or something). I need another holiday. Work sucks like a big wet sucky thing with extra suckers. Grrr. Not in the mood today, oh no, not at all.

Need sustenance. Give me coffee. Must... drink... coffee.

[obscene guzzling sounds]

Puzzlingly unseasonal feature observed this morning by intrepid part-time weather reporter (i.e. me) - there are fallen leaves on the pavement. This is July. Someone explain please.

Am having what my hero and role-model Jacques Chirac would almost certainly describe as "un jour de merde". My return to work has rapidly developed into a please-do-this-incredibly-important-piece-of-work-now-now-NOW scuffle between various supervisors, all of whom are teeth-grindingly eager to monopolise my time. Suspect I may have to do some impromptu damage control with the aid of my trusty staple gun.

I'm back! You can all stop blubbing now. A little more suntanned, a tad more rested, marginally more encrusted with duckweed and considerably less thin. The Lake District is just gorgeous - anyone who has been there (or, at a pinch, read Swallows and Amazons) will know the sort of idyllic hideaway it can be, once you get away from the tourist traps; this is particularly true for children, or for those prepared to act like children (guilty as charged, yer honour). We stayed in a large farmhouse on the edge of Lake Coniston; the house itself was equipped with a huge and sumptuously-furnished lounge, a cosy den with a log fire (still worth having on cold evenings, even in the summer), an enormous old porcelain bath of the type used by genteel ladies in your more racy class of period drama, and a games room complete with table tennis, darts, snooker and table football (all conducive to friendly family rivalry, and therefore used to the point of collapse in the first two days; the dartboard fell off the wall after an hour, taking a nice meaty chunk out of my left leg on the way down).

My brother-in-law having had the foresight to bring both a canoe and a tiny speedboat along, we spent much of the week on the water, terrorising the local fish and causing considerable discomfort to a gaggle of German kayak enthusiasts. I managed, to my delight, to get myself back into a sailboat for the first time in many years, and suspect I'll be doing so again in the near future; it used to be a favourite hobby when I was 18 or so, and I've really missed it. We managed a trip to the fabled Wildcat Island, half expecting to be seen off by bow-wielding pirates (and being slightly disappointed when we weren't).

Little Sarah (who is decreasingly little) had a whale of a time, being looked after by a flock of adoring relatives, carried everywhere in a papoose, cooed at by passing pensioners, and generally having the hell pampered out of her. She was introduced to the concept of sheep, which she appeared to consider the most unbelievable invention of all time; she would look out of the window whenever one of the woolly beasts hoved into view in the neighbouring field, with an expression of wide-eyed incredulity. This led to another development - she has said her second word; it is 'ooo', which she now exclaims with great enjoyment at every opportunity, smiling happily as if to say, "Look at me! I have a vocabulary of two words (the first was 'blup', in case you'd forgotten), and you should all be tremendously proud of me because of this, and should feed me some more yummy milk as a prize for being so wondrously intelligent. Yes you should." And we do. Suckers.

Unfortunately I neglected to take many pictures, as I was so busy enjoying myself, but will attempt to post something when I get them downloaded from the camera.

Closed For The Holidays

Well, we're all off for a week to the Lake District, to indulge in canoeing, horse-riding, picnics, water pistol fights and general larking about. The presence of the entire family of In-Laws will make this easier, as Sarah (who is rapidly outgrowing yet another set of clothing) will have six extra babysitters, hopefully allowing The Missus and I to enjoy getting up to the sort of things that we used to get up to, such as a good night's sleep. After strenous objections from assorted parties, several involving ballistic cake, I've elected not to bring my laptop. The Daily Linguini will therefore be closed until next weekend, while the Head Waiter enjoys a well-deserved holiday. Have a good week, all.

Blogger publishing seems to be available once more. Well, here's hoping, anyway.

Foolish Question of the Day: When one is caning it down the motorway at high (although of course legal) speed, with the windows all the way down, why does the air entering the car cause one's hair to be blown forwards, and not backwards? This happened to me yesterday, when I had to travel for four hours in a car with no air-conditioning (shock, horror) and thusly was forced to rely on good old-fashioned wind power. To my enduring puzzlement, I exited the vehicle at the end of my trip with an unexpected beak-like protuberance poking boldly from the top of my head, somewhat like a hairy duck but with less feet. I can only conclude that the airflow inside the car had somehow been acting contrary to the accepted laws of physics as understood (admittedly poorly) by yours truly.

Any takers?

O where, o where has my last post gone?
O where, o where can it be?
Perhaps it's gone to join my lost template
And will come back in two weeks with a suntan and smelling of cheap sangría and carrying a stuffed purple donkey.

Seriously, if this bloody nonsense with my posts continues, I'm going to have to migrate to Moveable Type and a proper site host. This will mean relinquishing my dearly-cherished principle of not paying for things, cheap reprobate that I am, but if it means having a reliable host, then so be it. Many thanks to all those of you who've offered to assist - I may just be taking you up on it in the not-too-distant future.

O where, o where has my template gone?
O where, o where can it be?
Perhaps it's gone to the big Box In The Sky
And will leave me with a bloody blank page instead of a blog.

Poetry is not my forte.

Come on Blogger, sort it out, will you?

Four days between posts again, that's shocking behaviour. I can only apologise. May I be stricken with a plague of fish for this omission. (Plague of smelly, dead, most likely putrefactious fish, you understand, as a plague of e.g. grav lax wouldn't really go amiss at present.) I have fish on the brain at the moment. I don't know why. I've just sliced my finger nastily on a sticking-out bit of cupboard, but I don't think that's one of the usual precursors of piscine dementia. It's probably your fault.

OK, it's time for a non-baby-related subject, for a change. Why can the UK not produce more genuine homegrown talent on the tennis court? For the last decade, practically, we've had to put up with the tabloids plastering GO GO TIGER TIM HENMAN or similar guff all over their front pages come Wimbledon week, so that we as a nation can cut out the headline and wave it aloft from the crowd, as we indulge in our favourite pastime of vesting all our jaw-clenchingly desperate, shiny-faced sporting hopes in a gangly, dull bloke who we all know, in our heart of hearts, is never going to make it past the quarter-finals again. The only reasonable alternative is of course Greg Rusedski, who is not exactly homegrown (i.e. we gave him a passport in the forlorn hope of doubling our chances) and who has furthermore scotched the majority of his local support by throwing an Olympic-grade hissy fit on court while losing convincingly last week. There aren't really any other names that spring to mind. Compare this sorry state of affairs to the U.S., who churn out quality players like my mother makes herring salad. Come on you Brits, sort yourselves out.

Struggling to keep my eyes (read 'red-hot curried marbles') open today. Three-and-a-half hours' sleep is not, I respectfully submit, sufficient to enable one to carry out a day's labour. This state of affairs does not apparently last, so I will just soldier on bravely. Donations of coffee beans and amphetamines to the Parental Martyrs Fund, Zurich, please.