relatively similar

My mum's dad died a few weeks before my elder sister was born, meaning neither of us physically encountered him. Were my dad's dad alive today he'd be over 120, making it understandable that he was no longer around in the mid-1970s either as he was already reasonably old (for the time) when he died in around 1960. I therefore have to rely on depictions of grandparents in the popular media and from observing those of others directly to have any idea about what they're supposed to do. Fortunately Edgar appears to be intrigued by my dad's face (possibly particularly the reflections in his glasses) rather than repelled by it and was responding positively to being dandled thus this afternoon. I've no idea how good a 13-week-old infant is at detecting congruencies between the faces and voices of its immediate progenitors and their parents but I'd hope that he can sort of spot some similarities and be reassured despite having only briefly met the entity looming at him once before two months ago and having only seen a badly-pixellated version battling its way through my dad's pishy 128kbps-upstream through Skype since.

After popping to a toolshop to pick up a cheap Torx screwdriver set in order to try and fix the display on my phone I managed to get to the station just before the arrival of the train containing the parents by going a bit faster over the stupid cobbled section of Princes Street than I usually would, feeling that I was losing a fair percentage of the air in each tyre in the process. I didn't have time to get my bike locked up so had to trundle it around on the platform with me, catching myself once on each ankle with the chainring whilst so doing (though it's best to do this now when the chainring is still fresh and new after being fitted the day before rather than when it has a bit of grease and nastiness on the teeth to drive deep into such a wound, though I'll have to try and use the big ring as frequently as possible for a while to take the sharpness off if this looks like it might happen frequently) and bleeding lightly onto the heel-bits of my trainers for a few minutes thereafter. Nicky and a snoozing wingpiglet were already waiting in the short-stay car park (confusingly now apparently free, whereas the last time we were there in a car I'm sure there was some sort of ticketing-thing in operation) but as they would be delayed more than me in getting out of the station I could afford to go reasonably slowly over the cobblybits of both New Street and Calton Road and still be reasonably certain of getting back well before them.