OK, it's not really the first day. It just feels that way. After hiding behind a giant sky-blotting grey sponge for the past several months, the sun has made an appearance and it's finally gotten above zero degrees here (Celsius), and shot right up to 16 degrees or so. I'm not exactly sure what that is in Fahrenheit. At least 90 or 95. Well, maybe not, but after a long spell of cold dampness, it feels like it. To celebrate, my bride and the critter came to meet me for lunch. Feeling nostalgic, we went not to a great little pub outside the church where John and Paul met. (What do you mean 'John and Paul, who?' This is Liverpool, remember? John and Paul played rhythm guitar for Echo and the Bunnymen), but instead went to Pizza Hut for the celebrated consumption-fest that is the Buffet of Mediocrity. I skipped right by the 'sweetcorn and green pepper' pizza and the 'American breadsticks' (I'm not sure what made them American. They didn't taste like Americans, particularly) and headed for the pepperoni and salad bar. They have ranch dressing. I refer you to my earlier post on the topic. They have ranch-sniffing dogs at every port on the island, trained to keep the foreign dressing off these pure English shores. I have no idea how the Corporation slipped it by them. Corruption in the highest levels of Westminster, no doubt. In the end, I thanked the stars above for the Ranch, as I discovered that there's a reason they don't call it 'Salad Hut.' The salad it covered was pretty terrible. The only bright spot were the cherry tomatoes. Not that they were particularly shining icons of tomato-ness, but Ella had never had them before, and amused her father by consuming 23 of them in a row. My bride, who wasn't paying as close attention (though I'm not sure how she missed me making repeated trips for plates full of cherry tomatoes - what did she think that I was eating them all?) couldn't understand why I didn't stop her. I told her that the encouragement and experimentation to discover a freakish talent was nature's way of keeping parents interested in rearing the hyperactive racoon that is a two year old child.

Last night's dinner conversation: The Critter: 'Pudding, daddy!' Me: Did you eat your meat? C: Eh? Pudding, daddy? Me: Wrong! Do it again! Did you eat your meat? C: Um. Pudding, please? Me: How can you have your pudding if you don't eat your meat! My Bride: It's vegetarian stir-fry, you twit. Me: ...le sigh... OK, I don't really expect my 2 year old to get the Pink Floyd reference, and my bride trots out her "I didn't grow up in your country" defense every time stuff like this happens, but I mean really, don't they make people answer these kind of questions on citizenship tests?