Son of Rambow

Getting my own house in order today. Alf the nice plumber fixed my boiler which was seriously doomed, and needed a large chunky bit replaced, and replaced the jammed valve on my study/spare bedroom radiator. Meanwhile I was painting and sanding the front door again for the 17th time, receiving a supermarket delivery, and generally restoring order to my house which I'd been treating like a hotel for the last few weeks.

In the evening Lorraine and I went off to see Son of Rambow, which is a little gem of a film. Two great central performances by children who were not stage school brats (the director went out of his way to get proper kids). Two boys start making a film together loosely based on the first Rambo film, which is the first film one of them had ever seen being a member of the Plymouth Brethren and forbidden to watch TV or movies, or have a record player and so on. A gentle sentimental and heartwarming romp with some funny moments. Lorraine and I both liked it.

Home to discover Chelsea had effectively lost the championship after dismally drawing with the lowly Wigan. Shortly before I went to bed, I received a message from Anton, still in Australia, innocently saying he had an idea for a present from Oskar's birthday. Fortunately I saw straight through this shameful use of his son's birthday pretext to gloat, and simply did not reply.