Alive. It's alive! IT'S ALIVE!

That right arm - famous for pulling Dad's nose and stealing the food from my plate given any opportunity - was relieved of it's temporary sling prison on Tuesday, as the doctors concurred that the collarbone break was now healed

Apparently a little bump remains in the bone (though I can't locate it), but due to his age that will absorb, leaving no trace.

I think his Granny, unnecessarily feeling guilty for the toddlers fall, was most delighted by this prognosis. "Give Granny a cuddle using both arms" I instructed Luca once the doctor was satisfied. I don't think I've seen Mum smile so hard as he wrapped both arms tightly round her.

Amusingly he now needs constant reminders to relax his arm. Weeks of having his arm constrained in a single position has led him to unconsciously hold it in an "L" shape in front of his chest for periods. He gets a little embarrassed by his forgetfulness, and during a visit to the supermarket later that same day sternly told me that "I like it like this"

There's little else of note to report I'm afraid. Unless you're interested in how I fared in my footballing comeback following a two week absence due to a minor foot injury? No? Fair enough

**Useless fact of the day - Carole passed her recent IT exam following a 3-4 day course with a 78% score despite having thought she'd failed**

You have rekindled my faith in the human race. It's not nicked, is it?

My metamorphosis into Aberdeenshire's own Delboy Trotter was made complete on Sunday, as I staggered out of bed at 5.30am and drove through deserted dawn streets toward Thainstone Market. My car, overflowing with an unimaginable amount of worthless cr*p, arrived at destination perfectly on time, at the advised hour of 6am. Where I positioned my motor in the queue alongside similarly lifeless souls in their work vans and saturated Renault Clio's. And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited. A full hour later the gates were finally and suddenly opened and we haphazardly filed in one by one, desperately wiping the condensation off the inside of our windscreens as we blindly drove, open flasks of coffee tipping everywhere as we did. We were shown to our allocated spots, from where we............guess what? Waited a little bit more.

A further hour passed before the market officially opened, and only then did the strict market rules allow our boots to be opened and cheap foldaway tables laid out (un)resplendently. A scene akin to dropping a bag of chips at the seaside ensued, where the seagull-esque punters descended on our vehicles without mercy. Desperately keeping this previously unseen horde at bay while we unpacked was easily the days most stressful job.

It was interesting to see which items markedly enticed the buyers. My DVD collection and books remained largely, and surprisingly, untouched throughout. Most peculiarly however my biggest seller, without question, was my music collection. I've long known my music taste is of an "acquired" nature (obscure indie label bands primarily) so I fully expected to finish the day with much of it still in my possession. As so often, how wrong I was.

Word quickly got around that a trader (guess who?) was here with "great stuff" (the words of innumerable punters who turned up breathless, eagerly sifting through my CD collection) and my long built up collection was rapidly decimated by lines of ageing indie kids. Perversely, the more obscure a band was, the more excited many of these buyers got. One almost literally salivated as I described in detail the sound and genre of "The Concretes" first album.

At least I now know there are people in the world significantly sadder than myself.

Carole and Luca turned up mid-morning to visit, and allow me a brief break to stretch my legs. Luca particularly enjoyed his job as the banker, and eagerly popped the proceeds of each sale into the tin. His attention span ran short, however, by an appetite that would put Godzilla to shame. He sat in the boot of my car and munched away throughout. Banana? Gone. Crisps? Gone. Biscuits? Gone. Chocolate bar? Gone. Our food stock ran drier than a hot Saharan summers day, so Luca and his stomach (we classify them as two separate entities now) was taken home again by his Mum to further devour the contents of our cupboards and fridge. Here's the two of them (or three counting the toddlers tummy) before they departed.

I eventually arrived home mid-afternoon, where a wife-to-be was present and waiting with my much needed late lunch, and a son who was waiting to help me eat it.

**Useless fact of the day - Each year 1.5 billion pounds are spent at Car Boot Sales in the UK. One million people visit Car Boot Sales every weekend**

Bad backs of the world unite

A lazy weekend is being perdured, with my buttocks having rarely left the agonisingly uncomfortable confines of our bedroom carpet

Why? Because I've spent much of the day in front of my PC, enduring the painfully slow process of burning my entire CD collection to my hard drive in preparation of their forthcoming sale. Tomorrow, at the point where dusk turns to dawn I'll roll out of bed and pour my aching and unwilling figure into the front seat of my car and drive the 3 miles from our house to the weekly car boot sale at Thainstone Market (http://www.goanm.co.uk/thainstonecentre/sundaymarket/index.html)

Again, you may ask the question why (or perhaps not, I'd guess the arch tediousness of this blog has lost most of you so far). Don't I have a job that brings in enough pennies to feed and cloth my family? Well, yes (indeed I've just had a well timed promotion with commensurate pay rise) but as the wedding approaches - 35 days, yikes - the bills are beginning to drop through our letterbox with increasing regularity. I don't expect a car boot sale to contribute too much, but as they say in Asda - every little helps

Despite my earlier comments, it's actually been quite interesting sifting through our loft and cupboards, finding items of monetary value, emotional value and (predominantly unfortunately) no value. See the picture below for what is presently strewn beside me:-

And this is but a small percentage of what I'll be taking with me - much of our upstairs hallway is filled with junk I've dragged out.

It's been quite a nostalgic process as I dig through the rubble. You remember where you lived when you bought that book, or the places you went around the time of buying that CD. Of course, however, you only remember the good things from those times. It's interesting how time filters the bad memories from your mind and leaves only those of a more pleasant variety.

Liz left us just a few days ago, after her most recent week long visit. For a variety of reasons both Luca and Carole enjoyed her visit even more than normal, with both rather quiet and subdued following her departure. Carole in particular loved having her around, for all the help with wedding preparations. Conversely this is without mention of the simple fact she doesn't see her Mum enough, and time is always finite.

Luca has been in good spirits of late, with his broken collarbone and sling barely slowing him down. He still throws himself at his Dad like a guided missile, and with this my face has been contorted permanently into the following expression:-

Wednesday, with his final hospital appointment and accompanying x-ray and (expected) doctor's all clear can't come soon enough.

**Useless fact of the day - In 1998, the latest year for which such information is available, among persons over 65 years of age, 4,655 white men and 132 African-American males committed suicide. By contrast, 902 white women and 20 African-American women committed suicide that year**

Who's that?

This is Carole. Voluntarily posing for a picture. Of course, there are conditions attached - namely her simple desire to show off part of the apparel of her hen night costume. Fangs to follow....

This has been the first blog in many a month not to begin with mention of Luca. And of course I'll revert to norm with the pictures below, the first demonstrating Luca's complete disregard for the healing process of his broken bone - I'd asked him to pose and smile, so he took off instead, his sling (and hips - he is dramatic) sashaying in his wake.

Our initial intention had been to watch the local amateur football team play football (perversely Luca hates football on TV, yet loves watching the game live and in person) but the game had ended just before our arrival. In the light of this I, hesitantly, agreed to take him instead to the swing park. And yes, that's my toddler son with a broken collarbone climbing up the slippy part of a slide one handed. Eeek!

"It's not easy with one hand" he'd said before his ascent. This statement has become his mantra since the break. Putting on shoes, eating cereal, even turning the TV channel - the cry of "Help me, it's not easy with one hand" will emanate from a toddler who is clearly milking the situation for all it's worth.

"Catch me at the bottom Dad - it's not easy to stop with one hand"

The final picture below was the last taken before I dropped and destroyed my camera. Judging by the quality, perhaps the God's of photography were trying to tell me something.

Finally, please cast your vote on the poll above. Before our departure to our Irish honeymoon Carole and I will be spending two nights in a hotel in Aberdeen. I've narrowed it down to two choices. Let me know your vote, and I promise not to entirely disregard your opinion. Probably.

**Useless fact of the day - The owner of Kodak (George Eastman) named his company after the sound the he thought the camera shutter made**