Seven

I guess it's only a matter of time before someone realises that paying for a key for Queen Street Gardens isn't an essential business expense and in these straitened times it's a cost the company could live without. It's not like we're bankers or anything. But it was one of those fresh, chilly autumn days that tightens your face a little as you walk around but, if you're dressed right, is very pleasant for having a sit in the gardens with a cup of coffee and a good book just wasting time before going back to the central heating that's up high to keep the skinny girls warm.

It reminded me having no car but hiring one and since we were regular customers being upgraded to a soft top Megane (while only paying for a Panda). We drove around in it with the roof down and the heating up full blast. Drove down to Turnberry for a nice weekend away like it was our last. When I leapt at the upgrade I hadn't really thought it through and while it was OK with me and Mandy going to the hospital, with its tiny back seat it was less good for shuttling parents back and forth. But the drive in, seven years ago today, to have Mandy's belly unzipped and the wee breech baby extracted, was a nice thing to think about. If I had any sensible notion of what seven years should seem like, I'd probably say something stupid about how it doesn't seem like seven years.

It was nice to hang around this morning to watch him open his presents - his excitement was nice but the way he dealt with his minor disappointments (he didn't get the Super Mario Galaxy 2 he'd been hoping for) and the way he shared the opening of his presents with Ellen was lovely. He's growing into a nice wee boy. So, pressies this morning, Pizza Hut for tea and he's got his party with his school friends on Friday and another with family on Saturday. Tonight, I'll have a wee dram of the 23 year old Port Ellen that Mandy bought me when he was born and think myself proud and lucky. If I'm careful, it'll last until he's 14. The whisky that is.