I decided to venture into my local pub to see if they were showing a Bluebirds match that was live on Sky. I hadn't previously found it particuarly friendly but a small feature in the local paper accompanied by a smiling landlady reported that it was under new ownership. A poster on its window promises ‘all live matches shown’. I had barely walked in when a shaven headed bloke with a barely gnawed pie looked up from the table and asked, in a gravelly voice if he could help me. I mentioned the match. ‘Yes, we show all live matches’, he said and went on to switch the big screen on. A familiar watchful landlord type, perhaps best suited the pubs of the this very local sort.
In the afternoon we drove to Altrincham. We went first to a retail centre for a crib mattress for our new baby then, while in the area, on to our friends. We took our respective offspring to the local park. A grafitti artist hoarding for Woodstock Park caught something of the atmosphere as some youths with hooded tops larked about. The largest yells, however, came from Ed who objected that two other children had dared to take up some swing seats for which he presumably should have hadfirst refusal
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