The wrong baby

Thanks to CG I have the perfect subject for my first blog in three weeks.  We're staying with our friends Lance and Antje near Cologne this weekend, but that's largely irrelevant.  Yesterday evening, CG proudly showed me his new wallet, all his cards nicely arranged (it took him half a day to do this) and in pride of place were his photos of children and wife.  One picture caught my eye and I examined it more closely.  That's Hedda, CG assured me.  But guess what  - it is not Hedda, but an unknown child.  The upshot of this all is that my husband has been going around with a picture of the wrong baby for the last eight years.  When I woke up this morning I mulled over this a bit.  Am I being too naive?  Could it be that he has a secret love child? Does he have a different wife photo too? Have no fear, tis not the case.  But ask yourself this - if any picture of a cute blonde toddler will suffice, why go to the lengths of taking photos at all?

The situation has now been rectified.  The unknown child turned out to be my god-daughter, now resident in the USA, so it is not that bad.  I shall let her know that she has occupied a place close to my husband's heart for most of her life.  Now, somewhat hung over, we are about to catch a train into the city centre and look at the famous black cathedral.  Gaia is due back from her tour of Eastern Europe at 4.15 pm and only luck and a shoe string will ensure that she actually catches the train, does not get off at the wrong stop or fail to get off at all - both cases have occurred in the past.  Luckily Cologne central station is a terminus, so the worst thing that can happen is that she stays in her seat and we'll have to bang on the window to make her get out.

We had a wonderful week in Croatia - more about that another time.  Enduring memory - Titus screaming as a plastic bag wrapped itself around his leg whilst snorkelling in the Adriatic (he, not the bag).  Fat Polish men (sorry - note to self - stop making negative observations about Poland) in tight Speedos smoking and - guess what - scratching.  Why do men do that so much?