Jul 15 2012

My writing career so far…

WordPress

WordPress (Photo credit: Adriano Gasparri)

It never occurred to me that I could write.

There was the odd success at school, but nothing to suggest that I ought to forgo all other careers and take to life as a wordsmith. A couple of years ago, I started to write updates for my department at work. Encouraged by feedback, the update email blossomed into a blog. A few people suggested I blogged for a wider audience and I began the Finextra.com blog.

It was only a few months ago on a trip to Cornwall that I picked up a writing magazine purely on a whim. As luck would have it, that particular magazine was all about electronic publishing and I spent much of the holiday tapping away on my keyboard setting up my brand new wordpress blog.

WordPress.com is superb and thanks to the ease with which you can set up your blog and publicise it, I soon had a regular following. WordPress is heavily gamified and you find yourself glued to your stat’s page watching the page views creep up. I still remember my first “Like” and when I excitedly told my wife that my first comment had arrived, she looked at me as if I was mad.

Since then I have joined a local writing group made up of an eclectic set of individuals. Collective imagination is so much more powerful than anything an individual could conjure up and we have had some fun with some group writing. One such exercise has the first person starting a story with one sentence. The second person has three sentences to develop the story. The third person has to either finish the story or bring it to a cliffhanger with only two sentences. At the end of the exercise, we had twelve stories; two or three of them were brilliant, half a dozen were very good and only a handful were ropey. Not bad considering we only had ten minutes.

I have also submitted some short stories to a publisher, thinking what’s the worst that can happen? Ignoring success for a moment, in order; silence, then “Thanks, but no thanks”, after that “No thanks, but here’s some feedback”. I was chuffed when I was rejected with feedback – at least I could learn from the experience.

All in all, I have enjoyed writing immensely. I’ve been humbled by some of the people I have met in the process and cannot believe I have had hits from 58 countries.

Somehow I doubt it will replace the day job, but you never know…

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Jul 15 2012

The bargain

Spanish Fairy

Spanish Fairy (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The cock crowed and he cried. As he pulled on his rough-hewn sackcloth clothes, he still cried. He stepped outside his meagre dwelling, looked up at the looming castle through the rain and saw no reason to stop crying. Many would envy his position as a blacksmith’s apprentice, but Thomas was miserable. He was useless at smithing and Master Flint never missed an opportunity to ridicule him in front of the other apprentices. His foul breath was as hot as any furnace and the flecks of spittle burned like cinders as he blasted out his daily tirades.

How he hated Master Flint.

Thomas trudged up the hill to the castle trying to understand how he found it so difficult. The instructions were simple enough, but the tools felt like shapeless, clumsy clubs in his hands. Master Flint talked about the feel of the craft, but it was all Thomas could do to avoid maiming himself as he hefted the white-hot metal.

As he approached the threshold, he heard Master Flint giving his first lecture of the day. Realising with dismay that he was late, Thomas tried to sneak to his workplace unnoticed. He almost made it when Master Flint stopped mid sentence. With trepidation, Thomas turned to look, only to see Master Flint’s eyes burning into his soul. For a change, there was no tirade and Master Flint just stared at Thomas as he shuffled with sloped shoulders to take his place.

Master Flint resumed exactly where he left off, all the time glaring at Thomas. Today’s task was all about forging a dagger, one of the most challenging jobs the apprentices had faced so far. Thomas’ heart sank. He had struggled at almost everything so far. How on Earth was he going to forge a dagger. His worst fears were confirmed when Master Flint’s assistant dumped the unformed lump of metal onto Thomas’ workbench. It looked nothing like a dagger.

After dropping it twice, Thomas managed to get the lump under control. His heart froze when it nearly slipped from his tongs into the slag at the bottom of the furnace, but somehow he managed to get the ingot white hot. Edging the glowing lump over to his anvil, he groped around for the right tool. Settling for the first he found, Thomas swung it as hard as he could into the ingot.

It struck with an off-pitch clang and vicious sparks flew out in every direction. Thomas screamed as one flew into his eye. Master Flint appeared from nowhere, grabbed the tool from Thomas’ hand and rattled out the three things he had done wrong – each punctuated with a ringing blow on the anvil. The pain in his eye and the ignominy of yet another lecture in front of everyone was too much for Thomas. He ripped off his apron and ran.

He darted across the busy courtyard and down a corridor. Skittering around a corner, he nearly lost his footing on the wet flagstones. Another turn later and he slowed his pace, but not his sobbing. One more turn and he was lost. He noticed it was no longer raining, and the castle looked different. The stones looked more haphazard, but cleaner. Bright, sweet-smelling flowers grew at the base of the walls. Nearby, he could hear the cascade of a stream and a girl’s voice singing a haunting melody.

Still sobbing, he followed the sounds around the next corner. The singing girl had long dark hair and she dangled her feet in the small, rapid stream. She heard him, stopped singing and turned. Thomas froze. She was dressed in rags, but there was no denying her beauty. Even when she withdrew her feet from the stream and boldly approached him, the sound was almost magical.

Tipping her head to one side, she reached up to touch Thomas’ cheeks and his tears dried beneath her caress. “You are troubled.” her words almost like musical raindrops. “For a kiss, I can grant your deepest desire, but you have to be sure of what you want.” Thomas quickly leaned in and kissed her. The rags she wore felt like silk and Thomas found himself lost in her heady aroma.

* * *

He was unsure of how long he had slept, but Thomas awoke stiff and damp. It was still daylight and knowing his place was at the forge, he reluctantly paced his way back there. Thomas made no pretence of hiding from Master Flint and Master Flint made no secret of his contempt for Thomas, but no words were spoken.

Thomas reached for his tongs and thrust the ingot back into the furnace. Somehow, he knew exactly the right moment to pull it out and he instinctively started working it with the right tool. He hammered the ingot with just the right pressure and somehow it started to take shape. Realising his work had cooled, he thrust it back into the flames. Again, he pulled it out without fumbling and resumed working the iron.

With growing confidence, Thomas’ work rate increased. His hands were almost a blur, the notes from the hammer blows forming a satisfying rhythm. He didn’t even notice the other apprentices as they gathered round him watching in awe. What he did notice was when he felt Master Flint’s encouraging hand on his shoulder and his whispered encouraging words in his ear.

Thomas felt alive and his spirits soared. He had only ever dreamed of becoming a competent smith. The notion that he might actually excel and impress Master Flint made him beam uncontrollably. By his skilled hand, the finest dagger Thomas had ever seen came to life. When he finished, he cradled the dagger, savouring the perfect balance and the pleasing shape.

He offered it up to Master flint who laughed and sagely nodded “there were times when I ‘ad my doubts about you boy. But you come good in the end.”

Thomas could not help but smile wordlessly and proud, not noticing when his hand formed a vice-like grip around the hilt of the dagger. For reasons he could not fathom, he felt like hugging Master Flint. As Thomas approached, his grip on the dagger tightened. He threw his arms around Master Flint, meaning to drop the dagger, but his hand did not obey.

As the dagger slipped between Master Flint’s ribs, Thomas realised with horror the nature of his bargain.

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Jul 12 2012

The slowest, most amazing thing in the world

English: Mount Everest North Face as seen from...

English: Mount Everest North Face as seen from the path to the base camp, Tibet. Español: Cara norte del Monte Everest vista desde el sendero que lleva al campo base en el Tibet (China). Français : Face nord du Mont Everest vue du chemin menant au camp de base. Tibet. Italiano: Faccia Nord del monte Everest vista dal sentiero che porta al campo base in Tibet. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Every so often, Mother Nature gives us a short, sharp lesson in who’s boss. Whether it is the enormity of Hurricane Katrina or the tsunamis that have struck twice in recent history in Asia, these brutal events unfold with ferocity and yet when you see the video coverage, they seem to  move incredibly slowly. No doubt for the people on the ground facing them, they move plenty fast enough.

The sheer power of the forces involved is difficult to comprehend because most of the time, our landscape changes so very slowly. Our tectonic plates shift and collide (or separate) by distances that can be measured in centimetres every year. London sinks whilst the West of the UK rises. But when you look around at the scenery that surrounds us, every mountain, every hill and every valley has been formed by elemental, natural forces over an incomprehensible time period.

There is no shortage of impressive natural features in this world and they look wonderful in their own right, but once you understand how they came to be formed, they become even more epic in scale. The fjords of Norway were all cut by glaciers over millennia. The Grand Canyon was carved by the endless erosion of the Colorado river. The Alps and Himalayas formed by two tectonic plates squeezing together for a very long time.

There are experts who argue that mankind is causing irreversible damage to the planet and that climate change is a very real phenomena. The average temperature is rising and so are the sea levels. But there are as many experts that argue against climate change citing that temperatures and sea levels have a history of changing on a geological scale. I’m no expert but I’m certainly getting fed up of being rained on and I can’t help but feel that we’re not doing the planet any good.

I can only imagine that it must be frustrating to be a geologist – knowing that all these elemental forces have shaped the entire planet and that the best you can hope for is to see Mount Everest grow by about a foot in your lifetime.

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Jul 10 2012

Messing about on the river

English: Building a Dugout Canoe at Basecamp K...

English: Building a Dugout Canoe at Basecamp Karuskose in Soomaa National Park, Estonia (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As a means of transport, boats must be among the very earliest discovered by mankind. A wandering caveman probably saw something like a log drifting down a river and had a brainwave. All he had to do was climb aboard and he could float effortlessly wherever the river went. Logs are not particularly stable, so it wasn’t long before he became fed up with falling in and had the idea of hollowing out the log to make a boat.

The form factor of modern boats has not really changed that much from these early days. With the odd departure into hovercrafts and hydrofoils, pretty much every modern boat relies on Archimedes principle of displacement in order to float. There have been advances in things such as instrumentation and propulsion but the shape of modern vessels has barely changed from the prehistoric dugout canoe.

I have always been fascinated by boats and having just finished The Voyage of the Princess Matilda by Shane Spall, I find myself pleasantly reminded of the days when we had a boat. It was a small cabin cruiser which we moored down near Staines on the River Thames. It is barely a 15 minute drive between Staines and Windsor by car, but in our boat it took 4 hours. Firstly because rivers aren’t straight. Secondly, because boats aren’t quick and lastly because there are 4 locks that lie between them.

The nicest feeling in the world is waking up early and drinking a steaming hot cup of tea whilst sat in the morning chill on the back of your boat. The swans would drift silently through the mist with Windsor Castle as a backdrop.

We had our fair share of thrills and spills and how I didn’t receive a ducking is beyond me. I came very close on a couple of occasions. The first was when I leapt from a moving vessel onto a mooring pontoon. That was when I learned the valuable lesson that every action has an equal and opposite reaction and I barely managed to keep my footing.

English: Canal boat entering Lock on the Thame...

English: Canal boat entering Lock on the Thames river. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The second time was in a lock. It doesn’t matter how much practise you have at going through a lock. It is still very easy to mess it up and when it goes wrong, it causes much merriment among anyone there to see it. My brother was driving, I was on the rear rope and my sister in law on the front rope. Somehow I managed to end up horizontally with my hands on the side of the lock and my feet on the boat looking down into a rapidly expanding chasm of water. Somehow I managed to crab my way to the front of the boat.

So why did I get rid of it? Boats are expensive. A friend of mine maintains that a boat is something you pour money into until it sinks. Take any product or service and insert the word “boat” and the price trebles instantly. We just weren’t getting enough use out of it to justify the expenditure.

Also – boats get filthy. If ever there was a technological advance worth making, it must be the self-cleaning boat.

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Jul 8 2012

My journey in ten years time

English: Sydney International Airport Terminal

English: Sydney International Airport Terminal (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

On the way to the airport, I sit in the back of my car reading my newspaper. It almost feels like a newspaper of old, appearing as it does on a foldable, flexible, digital device. My wife chats to her family using the onboard video conferencing facilities.

The journey is whisper quiet as the hydrogen fuel cell propels us effortlessly along the motorway. Without drama, a voice announces that we are five minutes away from the airport. I fold the paper 4 times until it is small enough to fit into my pocket.

As we approach the airport terminal, the sensors overhead automatically validate that we have the necessary travel documents and the voice inside the car asks us to confirm that no-one could have interfered with our bags and yes it was us that packed them. The safety video is played to us on our in car entertainment system. The RFID tags in our luggage are automatically registered and associated with our booking.

As we pull up outside the terminal, we disembark. An automaton retrieves our luggage from the back of the car before rumbling off on its merry way towards the aircraft hold. The car disappears to go and park itself and we know that the next time we see it will be just outside the arrivals hall when we return.

Before long, we are aboard the aircraft and trundling down the runway. My wife picks up where her conversation left off using the videoconferencing facilities onboard the aircraft. I unfold my newspaper once more and pick up where I left off. Without any request from us, an automaton appears with our choice of drinks and food before going off to serve someone else.

Travelling from England to Australia used to take near enough a full day, but nowadays it’s just a brief suborbital hop and we arrive in a couple of hours. The touchdown is smooth and before too long, we are disembarking. As we walk down the the air bridge, we are automatically scanned for contraband and our travel documents are checked. We head for the exit and find our way to the queue for transit onto our final destination.

On the way to the transit, an automaton carrying our luggage catches up with us. As we board the vehicle, our luggage is automatically stowed and we set off. No need to specify where we are going as the vehicle has already worked that out. After a short journey, during which we are automatically checked in, we pull up outside the hotel.

We walk straight in, as another mindless robot picks up our luggage before taking us straight to our room. As we tuck into some welcoming drinks, the robot packs our things away.

There’s nothing quite so relaxing as travelling from one side of the planet to the other.

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Jul 8 2012

A night at our favourite dodgy restaurant

Restaurant

Restaurant (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We don’t go out for a meal that often, but when we do – we know exactly where to go. Lying not far away from where we live in a cobbled street, it’s an easy walk. Last time, as we headed towards the restaurant, we noticed two things. Firstly; the proprietor standing in the doorway (as he normally does) and secondly a bold sign outside proclaiming a new menu.

We smile at each other when we are directed to a dirty table. The slightly effeminate waiter clears the crockery away before telling us that he will soon sort out the tablecloth. After a short delay, he appears with another tablecloth and with a flourish, he lays it over the top of the dirty tablecloth before laying out mismatching cutlery. It’s no surprise that the new tablecloth is even dirtier than the original.

He hands us the supposedly new menus. Indeed they are brand new and in pristine condition. However, they contain exactly the same dishes we are used to, just with higher prices. He makes a show of handing us a handwritten list of specials. It’s a nice touch, but it’s the same list we always get.

We order drinks. Julie goes for a glass of wine and I order a bottle of beer. The menu tells me that I should get 330ml and it’s no surprise to me that I only get a half pint glass. Instead of feeling cheated, it simply adds to the experience.

Before too long, the food comes out. Mine is fine, but Julie finds hers a little dry. When the slightly effeminate waiter comes over to clear the plates, he notices that she has left a lot of food. When she explains, he apologises and calls over the proprietor. After we relay the problem, the proprietor protests that the meat is far from dry and proceeds to cut off a large chunk which he stuffs into his mouth. He manages to chew his way through the meat, all the time telling us that the  meat is far from dry, but he agrees to deduct the cost from the bill.

When the bill comes, I am happy to pay, but Julie notices an anomaly. Although we have not been charged for her dish, we have been overcharged for drinks. When we bring it to the proprietor’s attention, he struggles to work out the new total and blames the heat. Myself and Julie look at each other before glancing out the window at the cold, torrential rain. What makes it even more amusing is that he supposedly comes from a hot country.

By any conventional measure, the restaurant would struggle but we wouldn’t have it any other way and we can’t wait to return.

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Jul 7 2012

My short career as a soldier

Soldier On

Soldier On (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We had only just moved there. For the first few days it rained. I felt trapped inside the house, aching to play outside. I could only have been three years old and I drove my mum mad as I complained of boredom, hunger and about the rain. At last the rain stopped and I ventured outside into the garden. “Stay close to the house!” mum warned.

Before long, I noticed the shed. I had seen dad take stuff in and out and my curiosity was piqued. Prying open the door, I looked inside. An Aladdin’s Cave of tools, buckets, paints and old bits of wood lay haphazardly around the inside of the shed.

Some were covered in spiders’ webs. I steered clear – I don’t like those infernal creatures. One item stood out amongst the junk; a bright red paint pot which looked to me just like a soldier’s helmet. I tipped it over and put it on my head wrapping the handle round my chin like a strap. It felt very heavy and I struggled to keep my head upright.

I marched like a soldier into the kitchen to show mum, expecting her to be pleased. She screamed. The red paint had seeped down over my hair looking like blood. My dad grabbed me and began washing my hair using white spirits. They felt cold and stung my eyes.

I cried. I only ever wanted to be a soldier.

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Jul 3 2012

Life without the internet

Current Canadian Yellow Pages logo.

Current Canadian Yellow Pages logo. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Thirty years ago, most people shopped in the town in which they lived. They might have made the occasional foray further afield and they might have made use of mail order catalogues, but the chances are that the goods that were available to them were limited to what was in the local vicinity. If they wanted to find something, they would reach for the yellow pages that sat under the phone and look for suppliers of that product or service. Once located, they would “let their fingers do the walking” and phone the number listed using their landline.

Taking out a loan or a mortgage meant hopping on a bus into town to visit your not so friendly bank manager. Rates weren’t advertised like they are today so unless you had seen a comparison article in a recent newspaper, the chances of the being clued up about the market were minimal. Besides which, people tended to be very loyal to their bank.

Credit cards were not common so the majority of transactions would be paid by cash or by using a cheque backed by a cheque guarantee card. Cashpoint machines or ATMs were still relatively rare and you were limited to the machines in your bank’s network (which often ran out of money). Most people still went into the branch to withdraw money. The teller would not have a computer, but they would have a naughty list. If your name was on the list, you were unlikely to get your money and were often invited for a bit of friendly financial advice from the bank manager.

Social networks tended to revolve around churches, pubs or places of education. Social interactions would be face to face or over the telephone. For friends and relatives lying further afield, a handwritten letter was the order of the day and everyone allowed 28 days for delivery of anything delivered through the postal system.

If you wanted to know what was going on in the world, you read a newspaper. Booking a holiday meant visiting a shop called a travel agent where you looked through brochures and selected your ideal destination. The assistant would then book it using the phone. Avid readers would pack a stack of paper backs. Music enthusiasts would pack a Walkman together with a pile of cassette tapes.

Schools were unlikely to have computers and if they did, they would not be connected up to other computers. Computer science was a niche subject. Most computing was done overnight. The results would be printed off onto huge piles of paper which would then be processed manually the following day.

It’s fair to say that the Internet has revolutionised the way we socialise. It has also fundamentally changed the way we research and buy products and services. There is a downside to this. Many traditional bricks and mortar businesses have crumbled as the internet as rendered their business model quickly obsolete. The upsides though are hard to ignore. Within seconds, any product or service can be located and purchased no matter how obscure or where it is made. Individuals can start companies, raise capital, publish books, form friendships and find the answer to just about any question in the world.

In my view, we are only scratching the surface. As more open data initiatives take off and the semantic web takes shape, the online possibilities are likely to explode and I for one can’t wait.

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Jul 2 2012

Just not cricket

The Hawk-Eye system used in the game

The Hawk-Eye system used in the game (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A game of cricket on the lawn is as quintessentially British as a cup of tea or complaining about the weather. Before I understood the rules, it always seemed to me to be the most boring activity that one could undertake. Our trip to Sri Lanka coincided with the cricket world cup and the local members of staff, being completely obsessed about cricket, took it upon themselves to educate me on the intricacies of the game.

Because the competition was held in England that year, the time zones worked out perfectly. We could enjoy a leisurely morning followed by lunch before play started. As the players broke for lunch, we could enjoy dinner and  then play continued in the evening. At first the cricket scoreboard looked bewildering, but after a while I was talking about Duckworth-Lewis formulas with the best of them.

Of course fate dictated that England would play Sri Lanka whilst we were out there. The excitement in the hotel was palpable as we watched the game. England managed to win and the service the following day from the Sri Lankan staff took a distinct turn for the worst. We later read in the paper that the Sri Lankan cricket team had to wait for their luggage for 6 hours at Colombo airport and when it finally appeared, each case was covered in, ahem, helpful suggestions to improve their cricket.

Technology has enhanced the on screen viewing experience of cricket immeasurably. Just after every ball is bowled, there are camera shots from multiple angles available to replay in an instant. Hawkeye can predict the path of the ball in cases where the batsman’s leg gets in the way. We instantly know how fast the ball was bowled and we can see from a cluster of trajectories the different tactics the bowler is trying in order to get his man out.

For the batsman, we have the wagon wheel which shows the trajectory of every shot played with different colours indicating how many runs were scored on each ball. There is an appeals process now where players can challenge decisions when they think the umpire might have made a mistake. The statistics are available for every player whether they are batting or fielding.

Football matches are now riddled with statistics. I seem to remember that during England’s last game of the Euro, their percentage possession of the ball was 40% in the first half and even worse in the second half. Our pass completion was appalling and don’t get me started on the number of shots on goal. Nowadays, not only do you have to endure your national team playing like Accrington Stanley on a bad day, the message is pummelled home with statistics.

They have their detractors, but for me the technology improves the viewing experience immensely. I find the statistics strangely comforting. I’m not obsessed by sport, so anything that helps me to understand what’s going on is a good thing in my view. If it helps to ensure FairPlay – so much the better.

I’d like to think that all those statistics are gathered using complex methods to recognise when each player has the ball and measure the possession with pinpoint accuracy but somehow I suspect there is an army of little old ladies somewhere who click a button on a device every time their player gets the ball or completes a pass.

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Jun 24 2012

A morning with Maisie

English: toilet seat up Deutsch: hochgeklappte...

English: toilet seat up Deutsch: hochgeklappte Toilettenbrille (USA) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Shall we get up Uncle Martin?”. I groan and ask Julie whose turn it is. “Yours” she replies sternly. I reach over and grope for my watch. Squinting, I can just about make out that it is 8:45AM which is actually very good for a Sunday morning. She woke up at 7AM last weekend when it was Julie’s turn.

As I struggle to pull on my dressing gown, Maisie grabs me by the hand and pulls insistently. “Come on Uncle Martin – Let’s go!” We hold hands down the stairs and she leads me into the front room. “Do you want to play in my house Uncle Martin?” as she points under the dining room table. “Yes Maisie, but can I have a cup of tea first?”

The first cup of tea of the day is something to be savoured. There is no drink like it in the world. “Can I help you make it Uncle Martin?” She offers to get the sugar and then the milk but as I tell her, I take my tea black with no added sweetness. “You can get my teabag out if you want to.” She runs enthusiastically to the cupboard and pulls out a box of Darjeeling. As soon as I sit down with the cup of tea, “Shall we go shopping Uncle Martin”. I ask her what we need and she lists off some random items.

Knowing I won’t get any peace until the shopping is done, I walk with her to the games room. “This is for dinner” she says as she hands me a plastic Peppa Pig car complete with occupants. “And this is for dessert”, a plastic giraffe this time. Each time she places an item into the bag she pretends to scan it and makes a beep noise.

Shopping done, we return to the lounge. I sink back into the sofa and reach for my tea. “Uncle Martin – we’ve forgotten the salt.” I raise my eyes to the sky, knowing that resistance is futile. Again, we go hand in hand to the games room and go shopping for salt this time. When Maisie asks a third time to go shopping, I am firm. I tell her I am drinking my tea which she grudgingly accepts.

“Can I have an ice pop Uncle Martin?” She knows she is not allowed treats until she at least has some breakfast. After the argument about the ice pop, we head to the fridge to find her some breakfast. There is yoghurt and a box of cheese dippers unless she wants some cereal. She chooses cheese dippers of which I have to eat half ‘aeroplane style’. Once all the bread sticks are gone, she asks for a spoon to eat the remaining cheese dip. She chooses one from the array I bring her from the drawer. She spends 5 minutes playing with the cheese and making a complete mess before saying “I don’t like it.” and handing me the spoon, cheese end first.

“Can I have an ice pop Uncle Martin?” According to the rules, she has now had some breakfast, so off we go to the freezer. She stands there agonising for 5 minutes over which ice pop to have before picking a coke flavoured one. The top is soon lopped off. “It’s cold!” she complains. As usual, I take her to the toilet to get some toilet roll which we diligently wrap around the ice pop.

As soon as she finishes the ice pop, “Uncle Martin – I need a wee!” There is no time to lose. We dash out to the toilet. When we get there, the toilet seat is up because I used it earlier. She berates me, telling me that the toilet seat should be down for the girls. I groan and put the seat down. Drama over, we return to the lounge. “Uncle Martin – shall we play in my house?” pointing under the dining room table. Under I go and we start to make a campfire out of some random stuff. “Do you want a sausage Uncle Martin?” as she piles Jenga blocks onto the campfire.

Eventually, I get a second cup of tea. As I sit there relaxing, the sudden realisation that I can neither see or hear Maisie (which normally means mischief is afoot). I jump to my feet and dash out to the hallway. Maisie has just shut the fridge. “It’s OK Uncle Martin – I have put the shopping away.” I open the fridge and sure enough there is a Peppa Pig car and a giraffe on the bottom shelf.

Smiling, I shut the fridge. Is there any better way to spend Sunday morning?

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