My son Freddie is 16 on Monday.
Faye, shrinking to an agreeable "front-cover-of-Vogue" size as I write, was delivered of her lump earlier this week. It WAS, after all, a baby and not a Mary Tudor fantasy nor wind. Glen and Mrs Glen went one better and had twins - I am not sure about weights and stuff but perhaps (2 x the Glennettes = 1 Fayette) ? Anyway, the team took cake, this afternoon, by way of celebration. This will come as no consolation to Faye nor Mrs Glen who, I imagine, are more interested in sleep and cool drinks but we raised a bit of carrot and lemon confection to their health and happiness.
This is a consciously ugly yet not unthoughtful segue: no one ever raised anything in celebration for, or with, baby Peter. He was not blessed with a Mr or Mrs Faye, nor a Mr or Mrs Glen as his mum and dad. His natural father appears a descent enough man who simply wasn't there and will scorn himself for the rest of his life for having taken Peter back to the home in which he died rather than to the Police, perhaps. All that was ever raised for Peter were fists, and belts, and sticks and voices. Today his step-father, mother and their lodger were jailed. None was convicted of murder because none could prove who struck the final, fatal blow. And lesser charges meant an odd display of the English law as an ass: "life" and "indeterminate" sentences will, initially, mean 10 and 12 years for the mother and step-father, and 3 for the lodger. The step-father was also jailed for raping a 2 year old. Yes, I know: unimaginable.
Equally unimaginable is how those in the social services, Police, legal profession and doctors will react when they read the serious case review that says Peter's death "could and should" have been avoided. Ronke and Nick combine forces to make objective sense of this catalogue of horrors and hind-sight.
Robin has just said I have "panache". I am honoured but I'd have sworn it was Gucci when I dabbed it on this morning. Anyway, I am deeply envious of him today because he is going to Kew Gardens where they celebrate the 250 years which have passed since Mad King George III ( new readers note: there were not three "mad" King Georges but there were six King Georges, the third of whom was mad) created, from a mix of borders and beds, the finest gardens in Europe. In part they were for his beloved children: it is a big place but he and the lovely Queen Charlotte had an awful lot of kids. Among other things you can see the finest water-lilies in the world - OK, I am biased but bring me better and I'll concede the point. Robin has a "two good-one bad" outlook for the bank holiday weekend and, I expect, a surreal anecdote or two. The Prince Regent of forecasting is at your service.
Soon, not to be at your service, will be London's fleet of Bendy Buses - apart from the incendiary few that have already gone to the omnibus crematorium in the sky. But there's a problem - the rest of the world , and I do mean the THE REST of the world, are wiser than the TfL of Ken's day: no-one, but no-one, wants them. Not even a variation on the theme of Peter Mandelson's cash-for-bangers scheme will tempt purchasers. A snip at £80k, the jam-causing-lane-blocking-boot-exploding-fare-evading-people-moving machines remain as unloved as a dose of swine 'flu. Emma is On The Buses to raise her hemline in a sultry effort to help get rid of them. I'd just get all the people off and set about them with a box of matches but that is both unwise and dangerous so I probably won't be allowed to.
I am being allowed, with the Oz, to talk to Tony Curtis: yes, THAT Tony Curtis - "Some Like It Hot", "Spartacus", "The Boston Strangler" and "The Outsider". Nowadays he prefers emulating Lucian Freud and David Hockney and will tell us why. We hope. He can be moody but he's entitled.
Liz has gone to Millwall but wondered what she had done to deserve this assignment. It had been seen as a dangerous place but when I tell you it is all in the genes and there is hope for both progress and harmony you will still not have a clue what I am getting at. Nor had she, initially, but is now sold and eager to explain all to you, in elegant and engaging growls. The rest of the football season is withering on the vine - and hopes are luke warm at The Bridge and positively icy at the Emirates but, like the Conservative Party, they must learn to love Europe as their compensation for not winning the Premiership which I think has a thermo-nuclear device built into it that explodes if anyone tried to take it away from Manchester.
James gives us A Night at The Museum 2 and Tormented. The first is funny, I gather; the second, frightening and sordid. I hope we get them in the right order but given Ricky Gervais' involvement, who knows!
I don't think I've missed anything. No room for the baby ant-eater, much to the Oz's shagran, and no mention of the Monaco Grand Prix, much to mine. How swiftly Lewis Hamilton falls from hero to just being "that bloke going out with the bird from the Pussy Cat Dolls".
Papers - possibly all of them free: I can't keep up with the editorial nor economic policy of the Evening Pravda.
Weather, I have mentioned but I mention again because I am very excited.
And that is that.
The Oz is in make-up so I'll just mention ..... no, she's back!!! Must dash.
See you later.
Alastair and Alex.
