Recently by Sid Langley

Hottest day of the year ... two sports days, one for each grandchild, handily one am, one pm, both ordeals to a grandfather with a sun allergy barely dealt with by a giant straw hat and a flagon of Factor 50 - and (no, don't laugh) a clutch of Christmas communications through the post and via email.

I laughed heartily at the Health and Safety aspects of the infant schools sports, where 'javelin throwing' turned out to be launching a giant dart made of sponge into the wind to see how far it would go - it was simply too light to actually 'throw'. They'd have been better off hurling a cricket ball, but that was probably far too dangerous.

The huge performance project down at Goodrich Castle at Ross-on-Wye which I wrote about back in May and which can be seen at http://blogs.birminghampost.net/lifestyle/2008/05/forbidden-fruitful.html
has been proceeding apace with director Helen Parlor (above) and her team getting ready for the big day in a couple of weeks. Here's a picture blog of rehearsals, workshops etc

I don't take this blogging thing too seriously - that's part of its attraction, unlike the 24/7 sweat of the last staff job I had, which was great, but extremely hard graft and which left the life-work balance tipping very much one way ... which translates as your work becomes your life (and then you die ... prematurely).

But serious or not, I must own up to waiting to see what my old friend/colleague Grovesy - aka Paul Groves, aka Shouty Villager (?), aka a certain model maker (?) - has to say about Dr Who developments. I trust his instincts, even if he has an unhealthy obsession with The Apprentice - we all have weak spots - and he is a serious cyclist, which has got to be weighed in his favour against the Sugar rush.

I am really grateful to replacement Turkish goalkeeper Rustu. No, you're not in the wrong section - sport is still that green-labelled bit where they talk about Bob Dylan lyrics (good collection of them in today's Guardian by the way).

I am as interested in goalkeepers as I am in typewriters, both slight obsessions. Last night against Croatia in some big tournament which we aren't playing in, the idiot 35-year-old ran out for a suicide tackle, leaving his goal empty and Croatia scored with less than a minute of extra time to play.

Amazingly, the keeper then made a huge clearance into the Croatian penalty area from which Turkey equalised with the last kick of the game.

This chap, one George Lamb, is said to be the most annoying person on radio. Complaints about BBC station Music6 have gone through the roof since he started DJ duties there. But he's also won an award as best radio newcomer.

Apparently he's been on the box doing various presenting chores, but I've never seen him. He's floated around that strange metropolitan sub-celebrity world where people do promotion work, act as agents, generally know people. He used to manage Lily Allen, for instance.

He is, in fact, one of a rather large and growing number of people, events, bands etc who for me might as well live inside a black hole, another universe. I'm not saying it's good or bad, but certain things just don't make it on to my radar.

That, said beaming nine-year-old Jessica, was really, really good. The second 'really' is the one that counts, lifting a reliably entertaining family show into some kind of childhood superleague, a rather special theatrical experience.

Yes, as a hardened old critic I can wholeheartedly urge you to catch Dani Parr's terrific take on James and the Giant Peach, which grabs Roald Dahl's version of fairy tale darkness by the throat and shakes it into pure delight. I've got all sorts of sophisticated reasons for recommending the show and seasoned appreciation of some of the professional brilliance on display
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A fantastic ensemble cast, for a start.

What's you relationship with Shank's pony? It's the only sensible way to get round major cities, I reckon. Public transport and your legs beat the car hands down, particularly in London.

So how far do you want to amble to find a metropolitan attraction? Half a mile (that's 0.6km) is a doddle I reckon. A mile (1.6km) is easy. A mile and a half (2.4km) is a piece of cake.

Well, book in at The Quality Hotel, Westminster, and you'd do the half mile to reach King's Road, Sloane Square or Westminster Cathedral on foot. Within a mile are Big Ben, also that MP place that gave HP sauce the logo on its bottles, Knightsbridge, the London Eye, Mayfair, St James and more.

I am still a toddler deep inside. Here I am with a great and worthy event to bring to the world's attention, an opportunity I truly relish, and all I can think about is wasting time with a little ballerina who twirls madly every time I tease her with my right index finger.

Right, before someone reports me for something sinister I'll hasten to add it's all quite harmless - but great fun.

With the Birmingham International Dance Festival proving such a huge hit - and Fiona Ferguson kept us all hooked with her great blogs on this site - I thought there'd be a ready readership out there for more dance doings.

How long ago did punk splutter out? Remember all those safety pins and slits? What about the New Romantics and hefty blokes slapping on the lippy and eye shadow? How about the much, much earlier Teddy Boys?

I recall going in my early teens to an old tailor working from the front room of a terraced house in the back streets of south Lowestoft to get some trousers narrowed to the cool 14-inch bottoms that everyone wanted in those days. Drainpipes, they were, my cheapo attempt to emulate my fashion idols of those days, the young fishermen (pictured) who were earning loadsamoney every week and getting suits hand made at Edwards in the High Street. They were in outrageous colours and combined Teddy Boy styles with cowboy touches.

Fascinating popular cultural congruities during a short break to wrap up the half term holiday - putting the winner of Britain's Got Talent (that's George Armstrong) and Florence Nightingale (that's her on the right) in the same section of the elitist swamp that passes for my brain.

Jodie and Jessie are there as well, along with Old Grapefruit Face (my pet name for Lord Lloyd Webber) and a Victorian do-gooding tea magnate.

Right, I'll take this slowly and perhaps you'll eventually get my point.

The adventure takes place in London. With the daunting task of helping shepherd a major school trip there in the offing, Son of Sid, as a friend calls my daughter, takes the chance to check out the Florence Nightingale Museum at St Thomas's Hospital as we're staying within easy walking distance (hotel write-up follows in our Travel blogs).