From moshpits to sandpits?

Four days into parental leave and I'm pleased to report that there's no sign I'll be having to wave goodbye to the dangerous world of rock 'n' roll anytime soon. On Monday morning I witnessed a guitarist whack a member of the audience on the head with her instrument. True, said guitarist was a 50-something bespectacled lady, the victim was two, the guitar was acoustic and the incident took place at a baby and toddler group in a church hall, but those are only minor details.

Now that we're down to one wage for the next six months, we've agreed on the need to tighten our belts and cut out frivolous excesses. Enjoying venison steaks and profiteroles for the first dinner of my parental leave, and lamb tagine and Maison Blanc sticky marmelade cake the following night, hardly ushered in the new age of austerity, mind...

In other food-related news, we've started weaning and Stanley has taken to mashed-up banana with a gusto that leaves me concerned that he might end up with equally questionable tastes in music and football teams. Not to worry, I suppose - I've got the luxury of a full six months in which to decisively mould those tastes...