Strange to be back after an absence of three weeks. Everything's neat and tidy, Miss Galbraith being the perfect guest on a blog as much as in a house, and yet I'm aware someone has been here. It's the literary equivalent of finding the pepper grinder where you usually keep the salt shaker. Anyway, Mother's home. Just about long enough to turn around the laundry and head back to the airport, but this time the blog will travel with me, to Ireland.

Something of a first, this trip, because Mr Fitzpatrick has organised the whole thing, soup to nuts. This completely eliminates the screaming hoohas I usually suffer as we approach a destination selected by me. Mr F is a tricky customer. He demands warm rooms, soft beds and silence. He is allergic to cats. And he has no truck with smokers. On a trip to Umbria I once managed to deliver a rock hard mattress in a cat-infested house run by a chain-smoker, all in one neat package. Terrific views from the terrace though. But tomorrow I shall travel in a state of blissful passivity. I'm hoping for a sea view, a peat fire and a bottle of Jameson's but I won't throw a tantrum if I'm disappointed. As for the mattress, it doesn't terribly much matter to me. I could sleep on an ironing board.

A brief word of welcome to a little miracle who arrived in a big hurry this week instead of waiting till January. He weighs 974 grams which is less than a bag of sugar. He also still fell within the qualifying period for what Pro-Choicers shyly call 'a third trimester termination'. Pro-Choice for whom, that's what I always wonder?
Well Andrea has chosen Life. Yey! Don't forget now, Andrea. After you've breathed in, you have to breathe out.
He's getting the hang of it. Smart kid.