Forced Hand

Sometimes something happens that forces your hand. That compels you to do something. And in unpredecented move, I'm going to show you what has forced my hand so completely before I lose the plot entirely.... 

Mucky Pup

Nancy had just demolished some fine German backstube, it's grim up north London obviously, and the proceeded to clean her face. This is what the white heat of technology is all about. Disseminating images of your child licking their face clean. Not transformative algorithms, autonomous cars, or having your soy latté delivered by drone. Just look at her go. That tongue is vaguely hypnotic. Whilst highlighting the joy of the moving image, below is Nancy riding her very own inflatable blue donkey, which is the must have accessory of the season. It has been a horse, a reindeer, Rocinante, a hippo and is generally amazing. Mad props to those responsible.

Tilting at windmills

Enough off these moving pictures and back to the core role. Pro Nancy propaganda. Father Christmas, who won't be visiting again until next Christmas much to Nancy's chagrin, brought her a stencil which she used to craft the message below that even a drug addled Charlie Sheen would have been proud of. I think she is probably right. And probably, hope isn't the right verb. We all love Nancy. And she now sleeps in a bed. A ruddy full sized single bed. Which is insane. She sleeps in a cot no more. I'm going to have to drink a whisky once I've published this to insulate my addled head against the passage of time. Oh and we've just chosen her schools. The results of which come out on my birthday. Apparently, I'm going to 32. I think there must be an administrative error somewhere. 

Seriously. What the bally hell is going on out there? I think that my new radio diet of Absolute 80s (which makes every night a Phase) and Absolute 90s is actually a form of exquisite self torture as basically when listening to How Bizarre by OMC (which in the common vernacular is a CHOON with a great great video and incidently the lead singer is like a cross between the Rock and Andy Garcia) you wonder what on earth happened. You also end up singing along and dancing like your Dad. It's dark. 

Anyway. I'm off for that Whisky. That got away from a bit at the end. 

And for those Darts fans (which I hope is every man jack of you) out there check this out - the slow motion montage at the end, set to cod-classical music is a work of high art. 

Portrait of an artist....

She always wins. She is basically a Baby ENRON

Sleeping with Elephants. THAT IS HER BED. I know.