Rather as Margaret Thatcher might have put it - we are a great uncle. Welcome to the world Henry Owen Geraint Parfitt, born to my brother's daughter and for whom the world need hold no greater concern than whether he will play rugby for his mother's England or his father's Wales. Since both parents are fine cricketers perhaps the problem will not arise and he will simply play cricket for England. Let us hope he is of that forgotten breed, a staunch top order batsman. Even as I type, another engrossing test match against India is unfolding and England's manful bowling attack attempts to compensate for the manifest inadequacy of the batting. Test cricket, you can't beat it.
What else of moment is going on in the world? Well, I have been amusing myself reading Timothy Snyder's The Road to Unfreedom, a skilfully composed polemic which is fascinating on the phenomenon of Donald Trump but misguided on the nature of the EU. I will return with a more considered review in due course.
BFP is still on his exercise regime - A bike ride on Friday took in two turns up Hillwood Common and one up Worcester Lane. A seventy-five minute run followed on Saturday, which was very tough going. The old legs are feeling it today hence I am sitting at my keyboard and nursing the first glass of wine of the Sabbath - the Ned sauvignon blanc, good cooking white.
My bedtime reading is Len Deighton's Faith - I have read it before but I want to tackle as a unit the final Bernard Sansom trilogy - this is popular fiction produced at its best, the work of a great jobbing writer. He should be taught on creative writing modules. Perhaps he is.
We've found something good on Netflix - Rake, the doings of a degenerate Australian lawyer.
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