You blog for fifty posts, and whaddya get?

Good grief.

Fifty posts!

Who'd've thunk I had that much wittering contained within the pink mushy bit above me eyes? Well, actually anyone who knows me probably.

I was thinking of celebrating with a huge, HUGE fanfare of links and celebratory pictures trawled from the internet, with videos of fireworks and Red Arrows flybys, with interactive flash games and academic essays on the benefits of perseverance in the face of . . . er . . . not persevering.

But then I thought, actually, that sort of thing takes little effort on my part, involving just sitting at the computer and generally surfing the internet superhighway, trying not to get distracted by porn and videos of car crashes. The whole philosophy of this blog, if it actually has one, is to celebrate life, and one can't celebrate it if one doesn't experience it. Can one? No. One cannot.

So I went out and took a couple of photos on my phone.

First, at the local supermarket where they let people advertise second hand goods on their wall. I often look at these as you can get some real bargains there, and with the advent of eBay and it's computerised ilk, it's an often overlooked source of tat, as well as the occasional useful item. Often, it's not what is for sale that amuses, but the hand written sales pitch or information to be found on the card:


It's a BABYS MOSES BASKET that is IDEAL FOR A BABY apparently. Well thanks for that. I was going to buy it to store distributor caps in. I expect they had some space to fill and thought they'd better put a description in, just in case someone buying a Moses basket didn't know what it was for, although it might have been better used to supply a health and safety warning about not using it to send newborns down-stream, as it's frowned upon. Actually, I feel a bit mean, taking the rip out of notices such as this. And it's a good price, so if anyone needs one, let me know and I'll pass on the number.

Later on, I went to a playgroup. Obviously, I had my kid with me as otherwise that would just be weird. Whilst there, one must suffer the indignities of being dressed by two year olds, and they were particularly insistent that I wear this:


It's a US style fire-persons hat. Because children have no sense of gender equality, I was forced to wear it as I was the only man there, and therefore would apparently be more convincing as an employee of the fire-service, even though I'm far more likely to accidentally start blazes than deal with them. I made a mental note to tell the mothers to go to the next fire-station open day and show their children that women are also employed there, and some aren't even lesbians. That way, they could be the ones receiving the nit-infested toy hats and I could watch tolerantly from the sidelines, eating chocolate biscuits and complaining about not losing my baby weight.

Whilst putting it on (after checking for poo, obviously, as it does have a rather potty-esque feel to it), I did note the irony of the warning label inside:

Of course, if I was a real firema . . .person, I would probably request exactly the same label. Only sensible really.

So there you go. I've got my half-century of posts in, and it's simply a smattering of pictures from my phone, with full intention to carry on in the same vein.