Another milestone yesterday (two if we're being strictly honest, but we'll quickly gloss over the debacle in Denmark last night) as Olivia went on her first expedition since arriving home last week. And the destination for this exciting excursion? Of all places, it was Barton Grange Garden Centre. Now, in the past, when beaten into submission by Cath and forced to trudge grumpily around the place, I would invariably moan, 'I bet Liam Gallager isn't walking around a garden centre at this moment! I'm supposed to be rock n' roll!'. Ever so gently, Cath would point out that I am not Liam Gallagher, and that my idea of channelling the rock n'roll spirit of Dionysian excess is to chance a third bottle of Becks and maybe stay up till half ten. This, in my opinion, missed the point. The point being, that garden centres are one of death's own waiting rooms.

Well that was what I thought before yesterday. Rarely have I been so excited to go anywhere as I was to join Cath in wheeling Olivia down to Barton Grange coffee shop, a place almost exclusively occupied by pensioners, all of whom wanted to peek in the pram - and those that didn't I wheeled it back and forwards over their toes until they realised they had no option but to look in - and cough up the mandatory tribute to Olivia's beauty!

The lady herself snoozed through the entire outing, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if one of the thoughts gently drifting through her mind was,' I bet Liam Gallagher's kids aren't being wheeled around a garden centre at this moment!'. That's my girl!