Funky Chicken

As anyone will tell you, it's not safe to fly anymore. With George Bush's finger poised over the nuclear button, itching knuckle-to-nail to send some thermo-nukes in Iran's direction, international tensions are at an all time high. Security is a distant stranger. We're on edge. Jittery.

But of course that's not what makes air travel dangerous. It's actually the grandmothers. With over-stuffed cases that cause ground-staff hernias on sight alone, it's astounding those big metal tubes can even make it off the ground. From Newark to Manchester. Three tonnes of elasticated pink fabric, books featuring caterpillars with eating disorders, memorabilia, cute notes, marshmallow peeps, more clothes, socks, hats, toys and knitted quilt from Great Aunt Albertine.

So the good news today is that Ellen arrived for a week with us and at long, long last got to hold Maddie. Grandmother and Grand Daughter are getting on famously and but for the interruption of a nap and a mammoth two hour unpacking session (we need how much new hanging space honey?) they've been hanging out together on a sunny, smiley afternoon in Manchester.

The only other highlight of the day was my first formal bit of physio for the shoulder. Now, Jenny is a trained physio but also our masseuse at work. I should have been very, very concerned when she turned up in a 'Sports Rehabilitation' outfit (all black, severe) rather than her usual massage gear. There were release papers to sign too. Ouch. Anyway - she's already working miracles and I can now dream once again of doing the Funky Chicken at bad discos and being able to describe flying with aid of arm movements should I happen to be trying to communicate with Martians.