I was out last night moving amongst the (not really) ordinary British and was met by a wave of protest that there was no blog yesterday.  Nice that you noticed but people, people, I have a life.  And the reason I was not, for once, lying around in bed entertaining you, in a computer related way if you please,  was because I went to the opening of my son’s shop.  Imagine.  A child of mine in trade.

The emporium is located in what is the latest modish area of London,  the siting of which changes on a weekly basis, and is currently somewhere called Peckham.  If you have heard of it, and I would be staggered to discover that you had, it was because that was where the Trotters (from ‘Only fools and horses’ ) lived and bless, you, I expect you thought it was a made up place.

I myself had to look it up on a map – it is in Sarf London where, like any black cabbie, I am always reluctant to travel.  A little quiz question here to wake you up.  How long do you imagine it takes to get there by train from my own tree-lined, river-fronting, spelt munching area?  25 minutes.  That’s practically next door.  No 2 Son was incredibly proud that I had made, and survived, the journey although obviously I wouldn’t of dreamt of taking my lovely convertible or wearing jewellery.  Trendy does not mean safe, whatever estate agents would have you believe.

The rest of the day was given over to gilding the lily for a birthday dinner.  The host had made the classic mistake of telling people his real age and inviting people he had known since boyhood who knew anyway.  I wish he’d asked me first.  I would have told him to admit to 60, do that at least twice, three years apart and then gradually let the figure creep up.  Poker tactics.  Just practice keeping a straight face.  Works for me.

I had a chance to catch up with his very beautiful daughter who has looked to me for advice for 30 years and sadly ignored most of it.  Now I have turned out, predictably,  to be oh so right about career options and starter husbands I can only hope she will be paying better attention in future.  And that goes for all of you.

I rather assume that my readers are a fairly clever lot and if I mention Professor Aronson they will all nod in sage recognition. His work on the subject of cognitive dissonance holds no mystery for you but in case a rogue member of the General Public has happened upon this, I will explain.  The good Prof explored why people continue to hold onto views in the face of evidence which shows they couldn’t possibly be true.

All religions are a fairly obvious example, trusting Tony Blair over several elections another and a good many defence lawyers press on regardless.

I am made of sterner stuff and make no secret of my incredulity that everything evolved from a single-cell slug in the mud and I have some serious doubts about old Einstein’s theories.  (I once visited the Einstein museum – party animal that I am – and even they admit that there are a couple of serious questions without convincing answers).  Let me now present you will a few facts about the earth’s rotation.

In a new venture for me I’ve even done a bit of research on the subject.  If you take the radius of the Earth, its distance from the sun and do a bit of sums you come up with the information that our planet travels at 584 million miles a year (That’s 940 million kilometres, a form of measurement hopefully soon to be tossed out with the rest of the EU impositions).  Now take away the number you first thought of and it transpires that if you stood on a dry spot on the equator you would be whizzing through space at 1000 mph.

Anyone who has ever tried to establish a roof garden will know that the main problem with growing anything is wind.  Hurricanes with wind speeds of 100mph create havoc, destruction, devastation on an industrial scale.  How can we possibly be going at that speed and NOT NOTICE? Witter on about gravity holding us on but it doesn’t do much to stop tornados causing damage, does it?  Why don’t aeroplanes just take off, hover and wait for their destination to appear underneath?  Imagine the time that would be saved. And the petrol.

None of the evidence supports what is supposed to be true but we, or rather you, go on believing it.  I previewed this theory to some chums the other day and they looked incredulous.  These are the very sort of people who 500 years ago thought the human body was made up of humours and excorcism was A Good Thing.

I bet that in another couple of centuries people will look back on us and be aghast at our simplicity.  NB history.  I had doubts.

Now back to the chocolate eggs and celebrating the resurrection.  Happy Easter one and all.

Good morning wage slaves and welcome to the weekend.  I love seeing your little white faces and mole like eyes as you come blinking into the sunlight.  In case you’ve missed it,  it has been glorious all week and now the Gods have smiled and are about to bless you with two golden days which I urge you to make the most of as without doubt we will be asking mournfully in September whatever happened to summer.

It is mayhem at the allotment, like a speeded up film as plants leap skywards and I have already harvested my first crop of asparagus, about a month earlier than usual. Letter, but no samples, to The Times methinks. And I’ve  been watering – another first this early in the year.  Normally we’d be putting out the young rice plants in the recently defrosted mud.

Today I shall be lunching on the riverside deck of a house on Eel Pie Island, waving graciously to boats full of day trippers, no photos for goodness sake, can’t we have just a little privacy?  I intend to take one of my lovingly crafted, home made banana cakes but it’s possibly pushing it, even for me, to claim that I’ve grown those.  Perhaps by June ….

Tomorrow I shall be venturing into the There Be Dragons land beyond the M25 for my sister’s 60th birthday.  We’re not close, what with her being so much older, but I’m going to make the effort, Ray Bans on, roof down and Beach Boys on full blast. And I shall be musing over the sign on the M23 which warns that unmarked police cars are operating in the area. Doesn’t telling us they are there ever so slightly defeat the point of them going about in mufti?  Almost as pointless as the sign on a bollard on a pavement in St Martin’s Lane in Central London which simply states ‘No Digging’.

Not even if it’s sunny?

Its never a good thing to share your dirty laundry with the general public.  At one time this meant not talking to the village gossip at the pump, today it means social media, even if you keep your clothes on.  Be calm, gentle readers, I swear this is still a Trump free zone; read on.

On Mothers’ Day there was an irate post on Facebook from someone complaining very bitterly that they had no cards, or flowers, or chocolates to boast about as their children hadn’t bothered.  Now at the risk of seeming uncharitable – not a line I favour – there are two very negative conclusions that could be drawn.  One – you children haven’t bothered because they don’t like you or they are very selfish people or two – that you are someone who  measures love in material terms.  Doesn’t show you in a very good light, either way.  Certainly not to anyone who couldn’t have children at all.

I may have mentioned before that motherhood is a long, hard road but it does involve a lot of thanks.  Not from your children obviously – they didn’t ask to be here and, during the troublesome teenage years,  will remind you out that given a choice beforehand, you wouldn’t have been their first choice.  Or second.   I recall that the singer from the Pretenders was once used to illustrate a more acceptable alternative.  Whoever she is.

The thanks will come from you, if you’ve got time and you remember.  Thank God the baby’s here safely,  thank God the measles jab didn’t have terrible side effects, thank God they passed their A levels.  It goes on ad infinitum.  And so it should, given the unending list of things there are to worry yourself into a sweat about.  Thank God she didn’t get pregnant as a teenager, he didn’t get hepatitis in Thailand, they didn’t die in some awful road crash.

Now I might not be so sanguine if my sons had forgotten but I had different reasons to be grateful this week.  Elder son bought his girlfriend a book and a really pretty scarf which he used as wrapping paper.  Thank you for my son who has such lovely ideas and is a nice person.  Someone who may not get me chocolates but who never passes a beggar in the street without stopping,

Number two son has been in the Far East but sent a text.  He hated Hong Kong – full of FILTH (Failed in London, Try Hong Kong), the type of dreadful ex-pats that make the 13 hour flight home in economy seem like a tempting idea. And unbreathable dirty air.  However, he loved Tokyo because it was so ‘considered’ and he liked the fonts. No, Smith Minor, not the christening paraphernalia for goodness sake. Graphics, boy, graphics.  Thank you that he has such solid values and a good eye for design.

Mothers Day is a tear jerker when they are five and bring home a crumpled card from school covered in glue and glitter.  At this stage it’s about looking at what they’ve become and perhaps allowing yourself a moment to think that just possibly you haven’t done such a bad job.  Just don’t expect them to say so.