Whisky on a Sunday

It's Easter Monday (you probably noticed). For years, whilst still living back home, Easter Monday for me meant jumping on a train to Portrush, walking round in circles for about six hours interspersed with the odd lap of Barry's Amusements, then back to the train station - passing through the drunken mix of skinheads, bikers and RUC officers (one or two of the latter were sober, but no more than that) - and on to Coleraine. It was ritualistic, it wasn't that much fun but it was what I and many of my equally misguided friends did each year.

Since those days, Easter Monday has become a very different animal for me in that I couldn't tell you I did from one year to the next. Twelve months ago? Not a clue, and Vanessa's in Asda so I can't ask her. For that matter, I can't even tell you what we're doing today. We had a sort of plan to go somewhere this morning but Jamie was tired and is now somewhere dreamy with, one would hope, fluffy bunnies and butterflies in attendance. We'll all have lunch when he wakes and take it from there.

Save for falling on his head, I think he had a good first ever Easter Sunday. He received lots of love and attention from relatives and returned from Grandma Judy and Grandad Mike's with four Easter eggs. Given that he currently only has two teeth, they will take a lot of chomping so his mother and I may have to help out.

He also brought back a particularly special gift - a bottle of 29-year-old single malt scotch whisky which, family tradition dictates, he will not be allowed to open until he is 21 and it is 50. Mike and Judy have done this for all their male grandchildren and I think it is wonderful thought not to mention exceedingly kind. And Mike, if you're reading this, yes, I promise to keep it upright (now you have it in writing!)

For my own part yesterday, as planned, I spent the afternoon at Headingley with my old friend Major Dave Sherrard and his boys Huw and Niall watching Leeds Carnegie lift the National Division 1 rugby union trophy. Huw (pictured below left) is my godson and I, by my own admission, have been a pathetic godfather - not helped, to be fair, by the fact that his dad's Army life has meant he hasn't stayed in the one place for very long. Vanessa, Jamie and I have arranged to head up to their current base in North Yorkshire in July to see Mrs S and her boys so I am going to get better.

A quick footnote for any rugby fans out there, don't you think Niall (on the right) looks like a young Ronan O'Gara (pictured below)? I think it's remarkable. I only hope he possesses the Ireland number 10's ball skills rather than his father's.