Not a commuter story, but life as we know it...........................

Whilst I may have been somewhat remiss in keeping up to date with blog entries of late, our man in Kent is positively buzzing. Here's the latest from Dirk...............
 

We've all been there, that moment of panic when you realise you're in the wrong and damage limitation is going to have to involve some truly weasel-like behaviour.  
With friends to lunch bringing their very small children we had to set about making the house safe, and as I rather grumpily busied myself concealing all weaponry, removing things that set light to stuff and moving sharp-pointed furniture to the no-go areas, that sinking feeling became entrenched.  As Wilbur Smith would have put it, 'the serpent of dread had uncoiled in my underbelly'.
Sure enough there then came the joyful request to retrieve the high-chair from wherever it had been stowed. Here's the drill:  Begin with a puzzled look, follow that up with a shrug which implies that by no means is this just my fault, and if this doesn't work you're going to have to embark on a big fat lie. Protest that 'of course I didn't take it to the dump, I do have SOME sensitive bone in my body, as if I would be cavalier with the throne in which all three of our children, and no doubt generations of our ancestors, have guzzled their way to near-adulthood.
In reality I have quite a vivid picture of it burning furiously on the bonfire, the years of dribbled cod-liver oil, SMA, yoghurt, treacle and Calpol leeching their way out of the woodwork to spark a magnificent inferno. I am obviously damned to hell, but best not to admit it.