When a heterosexual couple become parents through assisted conception involving sperm donation it is the father who will raise the child rather than the father who contributed the sperm who has his name on the birth certificate. Why?

Clearly the birth certificate reflects a social rather than a biological truth. It was ever thus. The guesstimated level of discrepancy between the social and biological paternity within families is almost alarming, and certainly surprisingly high. That's not taking account all the 'blended' families that exist, and always have.

Back to the cloisters boys, and keep your noses out of other people's lives.

Creeping old age

I wrote a brilliant post this morning. It was the best thing I have ever written. By the time I had access to the keyboard the damn thing had flown the coop. I can't even remember what it was about.

My word count is improving, but all those words don't add up to a piece of the quality of the post what I lost.

Maybe this is connected with the Melbourne Cup. The gee-gees are off in under twenty four hours. This inevitably triggers all sorts of associations and brings to mind people who aren't always at the forefront of my thoughts.

Nope. That post had a one way ticket. Bye-bye.

That apology, in full

Whoops, I did it this time.

I must admit I thought it odd to see Mrs Batty driving away from the school in her 5-series BMW as I approached the gates on the hoof.

I met up with the Slug and we proceeded in formation to the hall in which the Parent Teacher meetings were being conducted. The offspring accompanied us that far, pointed out her teacher and then scarpered to the IT room.

Mrs Batty might be bonkers but she isn't my daughter's teacher as it happens. Oh dear. Well at least I don't have to tip toe around the bonkers Doris any longer. My daughter's teacher is, as it happens a rather pleasant woman and I'm not just saying that because she said positive things about my darling. She also appeared to be listening to what we had to say and has offered a more extensive meeting after half-term by which time she'll have the results of the tests she's been conducting on the little dears this week.

So grovelling and unreserved apology. Hats off, too.

If I seem good humoured it is because the Slug took itself off to bed early and left me in peace actually to eat something. Also this is another sauce free night, which is three on the trot which is excellent. The same can't be said for him judging by the way he collapsed against the cooker while making his way through the kitchen and up to bed: that was, to my trained eye, a half bottle of Chivas Regal grade lurch.

Except he drinks vodka when he isn't drinking cheap cider, or cheap wine or cheap super brew.

So in honour of a well known label, though not one he frequently squanders money on I shall start to grade his lurches. It could take me some time to accurately calibrate this, bear with me: I'll start by calling this a Full Smirnoff. We shall see where this takes me. But in all likelihood I'll get bored quite quickly and drop the whole idea.

Until then : bottoms up!

Whoops, he's done it again

Dear Old John is getting on a bit. But I don't believe in letting geriatrics off the hook, especially when they're manifestly past it but will insist on clinging to power.

Obviously with the election campaign in full swing, and the party a very long way behind in the polls he's a man with a lot on his plate; so just possibly he can be forgiven being unable to remember the name of the liberal party challenger in the electorate held by the leader of the main opposition party.

But what's absolutely shocking to me though not surprising (this is an stab at paradox, not intended to be taken as contradiction), is that he's taken it upon himself in the heat of battle to disinter the mouldering corpse of Mary Whitehouse and release her malign spirit across the landscape of the campaign.

Howard's words, if the quote is accurate, were ""Why don't they stick to decent, dirt-free humour that we can all enjoy?" Which should be a fine example of dirt-free (I think he actually means obscenity rather than dirt) humour if it didn't make me want to curl up and cry.

What we should do is bring back Blue Hills, and Skippy and saturate the airwaves with tosh like that. It might be boring, but no one will be offended.

Can I be like this too?

Are all old people this stupid I wondered to myself last Sunday? Actually I didn't. I nearly peed my knickers at the opinions of the Certified Old Duck who was regaling her dining companions and everyone else in the dining room of the Stockpot last Sunday. The Stockpot is the joint we had lunch in on the way back from collecting the Offspring from Victoria Coach Station.

She was there with a couple of equally decrepit blokes and another woman who was sitting with her back to me and whose age I cannot comment on.

There she sat, all garish and highly improbably red hair and absurd face paint. And the only two English cricketers she rates highly, she informs the entire world, are Freddy (that's Andrew) Flintoff. Fat, indisciplined Freddy. And Marcus Trescothick, the Somerset batsman who has a head so all over the place he can't play international cricket.

Hmm.

A few years ago an Australian captain was asked to comment on the England team and whether any of them would make the Australian team and he observed that Darren Gough would be useful ... to carry the drinks.

I ask myself if an Australian captain asked today whether he'd accept any of this lot and I have to conclude that the answer on this occasion would be an emphatic Fuck Off, Mate.

That was wonderful enough but then there was an old duffer bringing up the rear of a parade of old duffers out for a constitutional at the same time as us earlier this week. We were down on the river front at the far end of town where the clubs and pubs are clustered. In their midst there's one shop targeted at yachties.

The shop occupies several several shops knocked together. It sells nasty little nick-nacky (sorry, I have absolutely no idea how to spell that, and the Blogger spell checker has no idea how to spell) things from one window and clothing from the window at the other end of the shop.

I was standing on the step in front of the clothing window to keep out of the way of the parade and I heard him say, as he approached the shop from the clothing end: "Ah, the first chandlers ... well not so much a chandlers as a clothing shop..." Except that from the three shop fronts in between the trinkets and the deck shoes there's acres of charts, winding gear, cooking and lighting equipment, anti-fouling paint and so on and so forth. Everything a boat owner might need in fact. It is indeed a chandlers in the fullest sense.

So when I'm that old, never mind the purple dress or hat or whatever it is I am supposed to want to wear: can I be that bonkers and premature too?