'sall been happening. Kiddies (x3) returned from Hampshire hols, the land of wild horses, and were handed back from in-laws to natural born parents. Really we missed them. Like I said on my postcard to them (featuring a fine shot of the Orwell Bridge), everything was where we left it and there were no lolly sticks next to the bin, stuck on the carpet.

Cajoled smallest into accompanying me to this afternoon's footy -- thanks, Mum, for winning the tickets -- where we witnessed a terrible, terrible game. Highlights were probably The Boy's comments: "Here comes the fixer-upper man," as the physio took to the field, and "Bring on the horses!" as we discussed the black and white mascots replacing a couple of Town's ineffectual players. He seemed to take rather too much pleasure in Brighton's ginger players (x2) being yellow-carded, and thought the ref should tell their mums.

Two-nil down to the (bottom-of-the-league) Seagulls with a couple of mins to go, and Ipswich score. We've been looking forward to this for the whole match, the chance to jump up & down to the tune of Tom Hark. And over the speakers comes ... nothing at all. Have they stopped doing this? Do they not play that funky music if there's virtually no time left? More groans from the two of us.

And great to have a full sofa for tonight's return of Dr Who: big event for all at Broom Acres. Huge thumbs-up for the new fella and Billie, and what a series opener: snazzy megalopolis effects, cat people, and enough infectious zombies to give The Boy disease-ridden nightmares for a while. Straight into Dr Who confidential for more of the same, where we watched the two leads being soaked, dried and covered with talc repeatedly. And the prospect of werewolves next week: hoooowwwwwl!