Birth certificate

I seem to have neglected to mention that the Minx is in Amsterdam. Or was. She flew out on Tuesday with her friend Vic with a view to seeing Biffy Clyro play the Paradiso, last night, and came back today. Hence, I have been doing my bit as 'Chorley Dad', minding the miniMinx. 

Not that it's been hard work (she never is). On Tuesday evening she went to to see 'MacBeth' so I had Dom 'round for a takeaway curry and couple of bottles of wine, and last night she was already in bed and watching something on Netflix by the time I arrived back. 

So, after seeing her off to school, this morning, I drove up and spent the day in the office before going home. There was the usual pile of post: work stuff, CDs for the radio show, and something official looking for Hannah, which turned out to be a replacement birth certificate, so she can finally sort out her passport and driving licence, both of which have the wrong birth date. 

It was funny holding it in my hands, suddenly transported back in time. Looking at the date, I wondered why we'd waiting twelve days before registering her birth. Logistics, I guess. The handwriting on the form dated it, too, and I spent a bit of time looking at that old address. It was odd - but not unpleasant - to be back in 1993. And a little daunting to think of everything that lay ahead.

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Still no batteries in the Minx's scales
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Reading: 'The Liars' Gospel' by Naomi Alderman