Real Ale

We all got plenty of sleep, and after the midwife had visited this morning we decided to go for a trip around town. Mrs J put G in the hoodie that she dyed for her (she bought a load of cheap baby clothes in white and coloured them, every little helps you know). However, it's a bit on the big side, so far from making G look like a newborn yob ready to threaten pensioners and get an ASBO, she more closely resembled Little Red Riding Hood's younger sister. A sort of Even Littler Red Riding Hood.

We stopped by Mrs J's work so all of her colleagues could coo over her. Conveniently, this took us close to Albert Square, so I persuaded Mrs J to let me stop in to the real ale festival tent for a drink and a snack. She needed to get some cash so told me to go in while she went to a machine. As I pushed the pram towards the crowd of drinkers, I realised that I was about to very publicly walk up to a bar and get a pint of foaming local beer with a ten-day old child solely in my care. It's the sort of behaviour that gets you onto the front page of the Daily Mail underneath screaming headlines featuring words like "disgrace," "shame" and "the unacceptable face of Britain." So I waited for Mrs J to come back and we went in together.

Just as well, because once we'd sat down I spotted this rather ominous sign. It's as if they knew I was coming.