Devil boy

I don't have Madonna's phone number and, if your name is James Richard White, it's just as well. Because, for most of last night and a fair bit of this morning, I would probably have given her a call and asked her to pick our Jamie up on her way home from Malawi (even rich beggars can't be choosers). He's been a nightmare.

He woke up at around 3.15 and, not only did he decide he wouldn't sleep again until 5.30, but he thought he would also throw his longest tantrum yet.

After 90 minutes sleep, he roused once more and eventually I took him downstairs to play, to watch telly and to have breakfast. Clearly exhausted but unwilling to put his head down, he complained all the way until, at around 10, he finally decided to go to sleep for a couple of hours.

He's now up, about and in the best of form. Meanwhile, Vanessa and I are very pale and blotchy shadows of our former selves.

As my friend Jacqui - a mother of two herself - pre-warned me on Facebook yesterday, the pyjamas might have been the problem, just as they were a few months ago when we tried him in pyjamas before (we never learn - I know).

Jacqui wrote:

"Stick to babygrows and progress to sleep suits. Who cares if our kids still look like babies when they're six. Our sleep and sanity are worth it!"

And I think she was right for, remembering her words, I suggested we put him back into a sleepsuit just as dawn was breaking and it did seem to calm him down. Needless to say it'll be sleepsuits all the way from now until he's 16, never mind six.

Only one full day in and, already, this doesn't feel like any Easter holiday I've had before. But let's not be downhearted - there's plenty of time to go yet (or could that be a bad thing?)

A brief encounter with Royalty

I remember, about 10 years ago, walking down Victoria Street in London and almost bumping into the Duke of Kent who was headed in the other direction - he's the very stiff, bald one who always presents the trophy to the winner of the Men's Singles at Wimbledon (yes, him).

However, visiting Asda this morning on my first day off work for Easter, Jamie and I had our first shared experience of bumping into Royalty. And I'm not talking just any Royality, hell no. I'm talking Yorkshire Royalty - in the form of Mr Raymond Illingworth CBE.

For those who don't know him - shame on you - he the ex-captain of the Yorkshire and England cricket teams, a former Chairman of the England Selectors, one-time England coach and ex-BBC commentator.

A proper Yorkshire hardman of the old school, he is rightly regarded as a hero in these parts. He is also a Pudsey man and still lives over the road in Farsley where he continues to serve as President of the famous local cricket club and also, so I'm led to believe, as their groundsman.

Because he resides nearby, it shouldn't exactly have been a shock to see him in our Asda - not that I've seen him there before. But I was still thrown back on my heels when the penny dropped.

Although almost 77 years old now, he still has those kindly but piercing blue eyes. And, when they met mine and my eyes gave away the fact that I knew he was, he gave me a polite little smile. I responded by nodding, and then just stood there looking gormless as he passed by with his trolley. But I felt ten feet tall. It's not often you bump into a proper sporting legend in your local supermarket and it made my day.

After our short encounter, I looked down to see if Jamie had also seen him. Unfortunately, he was totally transfixed by the sight of an enormously fat woman trying to push some skinny bloke down the aisle in a wheelchair - to be fair, it's hard to compete with that.

But I told him all about Ray Illingworth as I pushed him home and he didn't fall asleep once. I regard that as a definite sign of approval from my boy and look forward to introducing the two of them on a future shopping trip; if I manage to pluck up the courage to introduce myself to Ray first. So, in truth, it'll probably never happen.

Pyjamaman

Whether or not you agreed with my sentiments in yesterday's little rant about Michael Parkinson - and you are perfectly entitled not to - I did get one positive result out of it: an e-mail from Max Clifford's PA.

You would have to have been living on the Moon over the last few weeks to miss the fact that Max Clifford was Jade Goody's PR. And I would love to tell you that he read what I said in defence of his client on this site and then contacted me to say well done. But, unfortunately, it wasn't like that.

Instead, whilst I was having a sandwich at my desk at lunchtime, I decided to forward him a link to my thoughts and, a couple of hours later, Kate - his PA - e-mailed me back to say she would pass it on to him. Hopefully she'll be as good as her word.

On other equally important matters, Jamie wore his new pyjamas for the first time last night - and then decided he didn't fancy sleeping past 3.30am. It was horrible. One of those nights which, as parents, you'll never forget and I intend to make sure he never does either (once he's old enough to remember not to forget, if you follow me).

Vanessa and I have continued to bring him into our bed at around 5am after he's signalled he's bored with cot life for another evening and he normally goes straight back to sleep. But not last night and the two of us are obviously hoping it's not the beginning of another dreaded "phase."

And finally, an advert. I went to see my physio Johnny for the second time this morning. As I wrote here a week and a half ago, I've had to pull out of this year's London Marathon because of a leg injury which I should have had treated ages ago but have only now sought to sort properly. As well as manipulating the injury himself - to significant effect - Johnny has sent me away with a series of exercises which I am very confident will see my leg right (ironically, it is my right leg) in the end.

Should you live in West Yorkshire and require the services of a top notch physio who's an equally excellent human being, call Johnny Picot on Tel: 0113 255 1422 or Mob: 07964 622 559. You'll be back on your feet - or any other part that hurts - before you know it.

Push off, Parky

One of the things I promised myself not to do after Jamie was born was to become - in polite English speak - a curmudgeon or - in more direct Ulster speak - a begrudging, grumpy old bastard.

But, having read "Sir" Michael Parkinson's comments about Jade Goody in this morning's press, one has to conclude that this is exactly what he has become.

Describing her as "ignorant and puerile," and, "all that is wretched about Britain today," he went on to say that her death was, "not the passing of a martyr or a saint or, God help us, Princess Di."

You would have thought a so-called knight of the realm would at least have had the decency to let her body go cold in her grave before seeking to besmirch her character and her memory. Heaven knows how her family must feel.

I saw a bit of Jade's funeral on Sky News on Saturday morning before we left for Blackpool and, yes, it was ridiculously over the top. But it was also none of my business.

She supposedly decided the format of the day before her death, her family presumably were comfortable with her choices and none of us were asked to pay for it. So where was the problem? And what more business of Michael Parkinson's was it compared to any of the rest of us?

What really sticks in my craw is that this is the same Michael Parkinson who made a life and a mountain of cash out of basking in the reflected glory and talents of others on his chat show. How was his career choice any less parasitic than anything Jade Goody did? And what's more, the majority of his earnings came from BBC Television and Radio - paid for by you and me through the licence fee - unlike Jade who to my knowledge appeared only on commercials channels, paid for by advertising, and in magazines and books which people chose to buy.

Since stepping down from his chat show, Michael Parkinson has been most often seen trying to sell his own book and taking yet more silver shillings through fronting up life insurance ads.

But getting back to the point, you might have expected someone of Parkinson's age and supposed "stature" to seek to be a positive influence on and advocate of the younger generation, rather than seeking to appeal to the prejudices of other begrudging, grumpy old bastards as a means of boosting his profile, his earnings and his not insubstantial ego. He will be hailed a hero by many but I believe he and they are wrong.

Thanks for allowing me to get that off my chest - I feel much better now.

Hole in my Sox

It looks like I really am going to have to push on with finishing this sitcom if fame is to be mine (and Ben's) and fortune is to be Jamie's before he starts school.

Regular readers (I do have some, honest) will know that Ben sent me his version of my original pilot script a couple of weeks ago. I have since been through it and he's done a great job but there's still a lot of work to do before anyone important is allowed to read it. However, we'll put the time in and see where we go. But a rather disappointing discovery earlier today has just upped the pressure.

As well as the sitcom and another idea for a one-off comedy drama, I had a big plan for a book which (needless to say) I hadn't quite managed to get round to doing anything about. And it may now be too late.

As briefly as I can, almost six years ago and just a few weeks before Vanessa and I moved from London to Yorkshire, the Ulster Unionist Party sent me to Harvard University in Boston for a "leadership" course which was also attended by representatives from each of the other major political parties in the UK and Ireland.

It was an incredible seven days which I'll always cherish. But, leaving the politics to one side, the highlight for me was a visit to Fenway Park baseball stadium to watch the Boston Red Sox take on the Toronto Blue Jays. I had seen a fair bit of baseball on TV prior to this but, like most people, regarded it as little more than jazzed up rounders.

After asking other course attendees if they wanted to come with me - they all said no, which was good for my confidence - I turned up on my own and managed to blag a standing-room-only ticket (an Ulster accent can be a very useful tool in Boston). I spent the next five-and-a-half hours standing in my tiny bit of room, directly behind an old timer who was sat down with his pals.

They were all retired, all baseball nuts and on a fortnight-long trip watching baseball at various locations on the east coast of America. He very politely asked me who I was and what I was doing at the game. After hearing I worked in the House of Commons, he declared his huge admiration for the British Parliament (he was an American, don't forget) and Tony Blair. So I recounted all I knew about Westminster and our then Prime Minister and he told me as much as he could squeeze into five-and-a-half hours about baseball. I left the ground completely taken by the game and, since then, have become hooked and a full-on Boston Red Sox fan complete with my own replica shirt.

Most bizarrely for me, though, was that word of my trip spread amongst the handful of Harvard professors who were teaching us during our week in Boston. Several times, in advance of lectures, a professor would request whoever had gone to Fenway to identify himself, then he'd ask me what I thought of the game and then he'd tell me how much he loved "those Sox." These individuals' heads housed some of the largest brains on the planet, yet they were all addicted to baseball and their local team. I found that fascinating, although I understood it a bit better when I read about the history of the Boston Red Sox some time afterwards.

Fast forwarding three years and being very bored in my job, I thought it would be a wonderful idea to try to persuade some kindly publisher to let me write a baseball-themed travel book (OK, so I'm a dreamer) which would begin with a greatly expanded (and much more colourful) version of the above story. The rest would centre on me travelling to America two or three times (probably on the wing) to do interviews including with some of the Harvard professors I met in 2003, attend a handful of games and meet some oh-so-hilarious baseball-type characters. And, whilst it would obviously be a great chore for me, I would selflessly put myself through it in the name of educating and hopefully entertaining my readers (please don't applaud).

I even bought myself a publication on Amazon which told me how to write a proper book proposal. Earlier this year, I actually set myself a deadline of the end of the summer to submit it. But a big spanner has just been chucked in the works. My old school friend Colin Andrews first alerted me to it when I was in Edinburgh for the rugby last month and I've only just got round to checking out the damage.

Here's what it said on the web about the first episode of a recently broadcast Radio 4 production entitled, Baseball and Me:

"Historian and baseball aficionado Simon Schama is presenting a two-part programme on BBC Radio 4 to reflect on why he, as an Englishman, is so fascinated by the American game that the British often dismiss as 'grown-up rounders.' The programme is called Baseball and Me, and the first episode will be broadcast this Saturday, March 7, from 10.30-11.00 am. Simon Schama’s adopted team is the Boston Red Sox, and he recounts that from the moment he saw the floodlit green of the Fenway Park turf and the theatrical attire of the Boston Red Sox, he was smitten. Before then, cricket had been his sport but, all too quickly, wickets became bases and bowlers became pitchers. In Saturday’s programme, Schama gains behind-the-scenes access to his Red Sox heroes, the locker-room, the scoreboard operator and, most importantly, the man who sells the famous Fenway Frank hotdog."

Sadly, methinks my baseball horse has bolted.

UPDATE: I've just stumbled across the following review of the programme on The Times website:

"On Saturday Simon Schama had the chance to perform a great service for this country. Baseball and Me (Radio 4) could have been the half-hour in which the telegenic historian opened up a wonderful game to his trillions of fans; instead, he spent way too much time talking about himself."

Hmmm. Maybe I'm back in the ball game. Or, more likely, perhaps I'm just an idiot.

Family fun in Blackpool

We're just back from our little jaunt across to Blackpool and I think everyone had a laugh.

Despite it being my birthday present, Master White was the obvious centre of attention - there was no point competing with that two-tooth grin.

But Daddy was able to have his moment on the Go-Karts where he lapped the whole field - most of them at least 15 years younger than him - and spent most of the rest of the day talking about it. You might think this is a little sad. And, indeed, you might be right.

Yesterday's trip to the Pleasure Beach was something of a disappointment for Jamie, mainly because he was too young to go on anything. But that was put right this morning when he got to try out several kiddie rides (most of them for three and overs, but we got away with it) in other parts of Blackpool and he enjoyed the swan best of all (although it might not look like it).

Probably the highlight of the break for all was last night's dinner in The Big Blue Hotel which was perfect, the staff were great and - in addition to the rib-eye steak, chicken, bacon and potato wedges he nibbled on - Jamie got to try some of Daddy's "Death by Chocolate."

Mummy and Daddy reckoned at the time it would be a small price to pay to get their boy to behave. What they didn't bargain for (naively, you might argue) was the effect it would have on his sleeping pattern. When Jamie did finally nod off - two and three quarter hours later than normal - after a prolonged sugar-fuelled session of manic behaviour and face-pulling, Mr and Mrs W were regretting their decision.

But no doubt bigger crimes were committed in Blackpool last night (seriously, you should've seen some of these people).

New week tomorrow then.

Preparing for thrills and inevitable spills

The Whites are about to hit to road to Blackpool for two more days celebrating Daddy's birthday (Mummy's idea, not his - very important to point that out).

We're staying at The Big Blue Hotel (not a made up name) which is located right in the heart of the Pleasure Beach. This is both incredibly exciting and also very handy, given the amount of time Daddy intends to spend on the rides.

Coincidentally, Daddy has been to The Big Blue Hotel once before, about 18 months ago. He had dinner there during the Conservative Party Conference and sat beside his good friend Sean O'Callaghan, an ex-IRA informer who once famously saved the lives of the Prince and Princess of Wales. Mr O'Callaghan did not throw food at him on this occasion, unlike Jamie who is expected to try his luck this evening and probably again tomorrow morning at breakfast.

Jamie has been warned that his chances of going on the Tetley Teacup Ride will be greatly diminished should he behave in this way. But Daddy's not sure he was listening.

Full details here tomorrow.

Jamie goes Commando

Probably only for the baby connoisseur or close relative this one, but I am proud to formally announce that Jamie has learnt to crawl.

He isn't blessed with the slickest of techniques at this stage. Instead, it's a mixture of leg kicking, tummy waddling and brute force - like a mini-Action Man trying to carve his way through mud.

Nonetheless, he is able to get from A to D, knocking B over and spilling something messy on C as he goes.

His new found mobility does, of course, cause fresh problems for his parents. Our house is old and not the most child-friendly you'll ever stumble into. But moves are currently afoot to make the environment much safer for him, never mind us and any visitors who come our way.

Last night was the first time I'd seen him do his stuff so, if you have a spare 32 seconds, click on the play button above, turn your speakers on and watch him journey, slowly but determinedly. Sorry it's a bit dark.

Gotcha?!

Come on, own up - did you fall for it? Tell me you didn't.

I know my mother did, as did my nephew Sebastian. No surprises there. Equally, Billatbingey - who left a comment on this site yesterday - clearly didn't.

No, sadly, Jamie is not destined to star in any forthcoming Milky Bar advertisements in cinemas or even in your home - or not, at least, that I'm aware of. It was all an April Fool.

I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me, and I hope Jamie does too when he finds out.

Good fun though!

Milky Bars are on him

Something really bizarre has happened.

Vanessa and I are not long back from my birthday meal and I've picked up both a voicemail and an e-mail which are probably supposed to be top secret - but I'll tell you anyway.

To cut two rather long ramblings very short, some production company wants our Jamie to become a new Milky Bar Kid - on the silver screen, no less.

To tell you what I know, Nestle - the company that makes Milky Bars and employs this production company - are planning to make a new advert which they hope will help them narrow the commercial gap with their great rival Cadbury. The method they intend to employ is as old as the hills: copy them.

In this case, that means making an off-the-wall ad which aims to provoke the same level of reaction as the Cadbury ad featuring the gorilla and the drums (yes, that one).

Nestle's big idea is to relaunch the Milky Bar Kid with not one but six or seven young "actors," the concept being to chart "his" development / progress from the cradle to adulthood - powered by white chocolate.

They want Jamie to play (what I would describe as) Lead Man #2 i.e. not the babe in arms, but the next one up.

The thinking is to only show the ad in cinemas initally but, should it catch on, then move it on to telly screens.

The individual who called and e-mailed me said she'd seen Jamie's picture on this blog and his blond hair and blue eyes made him "perfect for the role."

I know nothing more at this stage but, hopefully like you, I regard the whole scenario as very amusing (and possibly lucrative).

As such - and given that Vanessa's asleep and I'm a bit bored - I've mocked up what I think our boy might look like on his big screen debut.

Time will tell whether he makes it to Hollywood.

Happy birthday to me

I turned exactly 37 in the last hour and I'm not sure how I feel about it.

That's a lie, actually. I'm not pleased, not pleased at all. Indeed, the only small comfort is that 38 is now the official middle age for a man in this country so I can still classify myself as young for another 12 months - even if no-one else agrees.

People, as ever, have been very kind to me.

My mum's come up with the most surreal gift - a hammock, which I'm very pleased about (if just a little unnerved).

As well, as clothes, Vanessa revealed that she's taking her boys for a special trip to Blackpool Pleasure Beach this weekend including an overnight stop. I LOVE Blackpool Pleasure Beach so can't wait for that.

And Jamie bought me some pants and the new Lily Allen CD. Apparently he's already heard the album the whole way through and is suitably proud of his purchase. However, goodness knows what he made of Track 8, the somewhat creatively titled "F*ck You."

Grandad Geoff is due here any moment now to look after him for the night whilst the special boy (that's me, by the way, for just a few more hours) and Mrs W head round the corner to eat curry, drink beer, talk loudly and then regret it all at around 2.10am when Jamie wakes up.

Still, that's ages away so, between now and then, here's to ME!

A taste of home

Most countries across the globe can claim culinary peculiarities of some description and Northern Ireland has two that quickly spring to mind: the Ulster Fry and Tayto Crisps (as represented opposite by Mr Tayto himself - obviously).

I'll talk about the Ulster Fry (or "heart attack on a plate," to give it its other name) another day. However, Tayto Crisps get Norn Iron folk very excited - especially those who no longer live there. And that, I think, is the key point.

After all, we always want what we cannot have and, in general, you can't get Tayto Crisps outside of Northern Ireland. The exception to this rule is Irish theme bars which often sell Tayto Cheese & Onion at extortionate prices.

However, I've never been a Tayto Cheese & Onion man myself, instead preferring the much more exciting (and I like to think discerning) option of Tayto Onion Rings.

I remember, when I was at primary school, laying my packet on the desk in front of me first thing in the morning. I then used to watch the clock and count the seconds until the bell for breaktime went and I could open my bag of Tayto Onion Rings. (That might explain why I didn't reach my academic peak in my early years. My failure in later years must've been caused by something else).

Needless to say the bags themselves were better in those days - two layers they had. A clear plastic inner bag and then a coloured outer bag on top. Magnificent.

Recent years have seen the inevitable rationalisation of the packet into just a single bag (I blame Gordon Brown), but the great taste of Tayto Onion Rings has remained. The only problem has been that I haven't been able to lay my hands on any. Until today, that is.

I was bored and was walking around a discount shop in Bradford looking for something with chocolate on it - that would brighten up my lunchtime, I thought. And there, in the distance, I saw them on a shelf. Tayto Onion Rings, loads of them.

I bought 18 packets in the end. Any more would have been just a little bit silly.

But I might go back tomorrow. Or I might just get a life.

Jamie meets a big chicken

This morning we took Jamie for his first visit to Harewood House in Leeds.

If you're not from Yorkshire and haven't heard of Harewood House, basically it's a big stately home owned by the Queen's rather appropriately titled cousin the Earl of Harewood. As well as the house, there is also a bird garden, some penguins, an adventure playground and a cafe - so we "did" everything but the house which no doubt we'll do when the sun isn't shining so brightly.

There were two highlights for White Junior - he went on the swings and he met a big chicken.

He wasn't sure what to make of the big chicken at first and the big chicken didn't appear to know what to make of him either. So they played a game of (yes, you've guessed it) "chicken" and attempted to stare each other out. Somewhat inevitably, Jamie soon lost his concentration - and hence the contest - when he decided instead to smile at passers-by. Still, it was another new experience for the boy and also for the big chicken who hadn't met our son before either. Hopefully they'll develop a better understanding of each other on subsequent get togethers.

Going on the swings was less of a novelty as his mum and several of his in-laws have taken him on the swings many times before. But I haven't seen him on one for some time and the change was huge - he really goes for it now. More and more of his little character is beginning to develop and there's certainly an element of fearlessness in there, at times verging on him being a mini-daredevil. We might have to get him a helmet.

One minor disappointment was the rather stuck-up approach taken by the penguins. There are supposed to be quite a few penguin residents at Harewood House but, today, only four could be arsed to show themselves and even they didn't put a lot of effort in. They were probably taking it easy in preparation for the Easter weekend but I, for one, was disappointed. Jamie clearly preferred the big chicken and I could see why.

A bit of this and a bit of that

Mohammad's just arrived to service our boiler. Nice man Mohammad, came highly recommended. He takes one sugar in his tea and doesn't like the radio being on whilst he works - puts him off, see.

I'm a bit fuzzy this morning as Vanessa and I went to see Rob Brydon (pictured) live in Bradford last night and, having made the effort, thought we'd have a drink. And then another. We've both become big fans of his after a period obsessing about Gavin & Stacy in which he plays Uncle Bryn. A top man, very funny and he only swore once the whole evening - I'm sure his mum's suitably proud.

He finished off the show with a rendition of Islands In The Stream which, coincidentally, was our first dance on our wedding day. The two of us bellowed it out with all our hearts although we appeared to be the only ones in the audience who did. Their loss.

In a busy Saturday schedule thus far, I've also been to the physio to try to finally deal with a long-standing leg injury which, sadly, means I'll have to defer my entry in this year's London Marathon by 12 months (I'm hurt, alright?!) According to Johnny the physio - I'm meeting a lot of new people today - the problem appears to be linked to the sciatic nerve although he thinks I may also need a cartilage operation. However, hopefully all is curable so I can't complain too much.

Once Mohammad's done his stuff and I place the cash in his back pocket, sorry, hand, it'll be time for lunch and maybe even a little sleep. Vanessa's taken Jamie off to see Aunties Vicky and Jenny and these opportunities must be taken. He's got his new shoes on today - all the better for stamping on my head when he comes back.

Meet Chip and Dale

The moment is finally here - Jamie has cut his first teeth.

They appear to have moved in at some point over the last 36 hours or so and, despite my expert artwork, they're still very difficult to see.

In fact, were I not so worried about offending them, I might even call them stumps. But it is 2009, they've almost certainly got rights and possibly even a legal team - so I'll refrain.

After months of waiting, gallons of Calpol and buckets of teething granules, their arrival was something of an anti-climax if I'm being honest.

Jamie's had bumps in his bottom gum for a couple of weeks but nothing appeared to be coming through. But then, a couple of days ago, Vanessa was sure she could see something although I wasn't convinced. However, last night, I stuck my finger in his mouth, Jamie clamped his jaws together and the truth was out.

They have to be brushed pretty much straight away, according to the baby book - logically enough if you think about it - and I can say for certain that Jamie will not be pleased when we have our first go.

But at least he can comfort himself with the knowledge that he has two new friends.

So whilst we wait for him to learn English, I am delighted to say on behalf of my son, Chip and Dale, you're very welcome.

Going down

There was another minor milestone moment in Jamie World last night as I got out my tool bag and lowered the base of his cot.

As officially the world's worst handyman, it was not a task I was relishing. I'm not an individual blessed with many skills but the few I do possess include neither wit nor patience, leaving me at a definite disadvantage when something needs adjusting or, worse still, fixing.

But, to be fair, I did manage to fulfil the task before me with a relative calm and the use of only a smattering of B-list swear words.

Jamie has come on quite a bit in physical terms over the last couple of weeks. He has developed some new facial expressions, more creative punching combinations and almost the ability to sit up unaided.

It's at this point, according to the leaflet, that the mattress must be dropped and the cot effectively turned into a cage from which the baby prisoner cannot escape, although Convict White will no doubt have a go in due course.

I'll have to remember not to leave my shovel in his room in case he attempts the tunnel option.

I didn't see that coming

I've just had one of those horribly embarrassing moments that can scar you for life.

I was at Specsavers in Bradford for a routine contact lens appointment.

It was quite a brief affair which involved the young optometrist asking me if I had any problems with my vision, I said no, she had a look and sent me on my way.

I went to the counter to settle up and the assistant, who I had been speaking to prior to the examination, asked if there had been any changes in my prescription, to which I replied that all was well and I could see just fine.

She handed me my receipt, I said goodbye to her, her male colleague and the optometrist who had now joined them, turned around - and walked straight into a concrete post.

It could be a very long day.

Not quite ready to blog off

Some nights I sit here at my desk at home, tapping out this rubbish, and wondering if it's really worth the effort.

I started my first blog last year simply as a means of raising a bit of extra cash for my London Marathon crusade. If you haven't seen the site and have nothing better to do, you can still have a peak at: http://www.runningforseb.blogspot.com/

With the Marathon run and all the money handed over to the charities, I had no intention of continuing a blog. But then, with baby-to-be's due date getting ever closer, I thought it might be fun to have an outlet to talk about what I was going through. And once Jamie was born, I thought I would keep it going for a while longer to chronicle his first few weeks as a little person.

10 months, several hundred pictures and 77,000 words later, the blog has become a well-used source of information and hopefully entertainment for friends and family. And, as it stands, I think I will try to keep it up at least until his birthday in June so I'll have a record of his first full year.

Out of curiosity, I added a hidden web counter a few months ago just to find out how many people were accessing the site and discovered that I was getting around 70 hits a week. But in recent days, after setting up a feed to Facebook, that number has risen quite a bit and, this week, I'm well on course to getting over 200 hits. Not exactly earth shattering numbers, but certainly making it worth the effort from my point of view.

Anyway, on Sunday I spent a few minutes on Google trying to find out what search terms would pick up the site (yep, I was that bored) and had bit of a surreal surprise.

By entering "barry white stuff blog coleraine" (OK, so I might as well have typed in the full site address and many people who don't know me will never have heard of Coleraine but don't spoil my moment) the following link came up: http://www.videosurf.com/barry-white-16773

And when I clicked on to it and scrolled down a bit to "Blog Activity" I found a link to my site.

Sadly, when I tried again earlier this evening, the link to here had gone.

But even if it doesn't return, it helps to know, when I do sit down here at night, that there are some people out there reading this drivel - even if I'm not fat, black or dead.

Waiting

Unlike my child-like other half who hates waiting for surprises and continues to insist that she be allowed to unwrap her Christmas presents on Christmas Eve (over my crumpled remains, she will), I'm very patient when I know I have something to open.

In fact, I can get quite smug with myself as I see how long I can hold on. And then, of course, when I finally do open it, it's often sh*t. (Perhaps I'm subconsciously delaying the disappointment? Gosh, this blog lark can be very therapeutic).

I've got that smug feeling tonight as my Cockney friend and sometime writing partner Ben has just sent me draft two of our sitcom pilot script. I sent him my original draft about a month ago and asked him to sprinkle it with funny dust (nothing illegal, you understand). I plan to read it before I go to bed but I can't resist waiting just a little bit longer.

Maybe one more episode of Gavin & Stacey. Perhaps I'll iron another shirt - I only have enough to do me till Wednesday. Or should I clear out that cupboard I've been promising to excavate since we moved into this house in 2004?

And whilst I'm doing one or all of the above, I can think about Ben's redrafted script.

Will it be our shared path to fame, fortune and notoriety?

Might it get me an invite to address assembly at my old school, Coleraine Inst, and Ben the chance to appear on Celebrity Weakest Link? (not that I would suggest Ben is shallow or anything).

Could those dozen or so pages lying in my bag lead to the first of our many BAFTAs or Golden Globes?

A joint appearance on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross? Maybe when Girls Aloud are on.

I quite fancy a knighthood although Ben, being something of an anarchist, might turn his down (I'd better have a word with him).

Or, like so many surprises down the years, will it just be sh*t?

Knowing Ben, I'm sure the latter won't be the case - but, like me, you'll have to wait to find out.

Happy Mummy's Day

Today is Jamie's first Mother's Day and also Vanessa's first as a mother (as far as I'm aware).

And the little lad didn't disappoint. Sometimes I wonder how he manages to stretch his pocket money as far as he does - particularly as he doesn't actually get any.

He gave Mummy a new pair of pink slippers with "Mum" on them, together with some "I Love Mum" chocolates - very appropriate gifts in the circumstances - and a Bart Simpson card.

Sadly, he seems to have inherited his father's inability to wrap presents properly but none of us are perfect.

Daddy himself wasn't exactly feeling tip top this morning after a night celebrating the Ireland rugby team's dramatic Grand Slam victory over Wales yesterday.

Mummy said she'd never seen Daddy as nervous as he was before and during that game. But there again, Mummy didn't see Daddy on the morning of their wedding.

PS Daddy would like to say Happy Mother's Day to his mummy too and to assure her that he did send her a card on Friday. Honest.