It seems that restaurateurs are prepared to inflict any daft gimmick on us in order to sell food.   And it would appear there is a ready supply of stupid people prepared to pay for the privilege.

Last time I whinged about this is was the 'eating in the dark' place.  Daft.

Now I hear of a place where you are treated like, dressed like and served like a baby.   Yes (and no, this is not a belated April 1st post), Babyland, recently opened in London.

Spring is my favourite season.   Well, after summer I suppose.   And it is finally here.   I don't care what the Met office or any other experts say, I know it's here because yesterday I cut the lawns.

I am not fully convinced they needed cutting, but I needed to cut them.   Winter had worn me down and save for the snowdrops and more recently the daffodils, there was little to suggest it was over.  And I had had enough of it.

So, after a good roast lamb lunch and a decent bottle of claret I ventured outside and fired up the monster mower.   Which ran out of fuel half way down the stable block - fully 30 yards from any grass.   No matter.   Fuel replenished and fuel cut-off opened (yes, yes, I forgot) and we were off.

The sweet smell of cut grass was the elixir I have been seeking for some weeks.   Even Georgina was moved to come and help, riding on and steering the mower with me.   This was very scary.

An hour later and we'd done the front lawn and the one outside on the lane and the sun was still shining - and it was 7 o'clock.

Oh, yes, Spring is my favourite season for sure.   Until summer that is.