I feel British, oh so British..

It is a truth universally acknowledged that when you fly to the other side of the world, you should go to Ikea.

We bundled into the car - myself and the parents, the baby, and my sister at the wheel.  I do admire her for driving on what feels like the wrong side of the road.  I have driven on the wrong - sorry, I mean, other, side of the road in a few places, but I always end up opening the door instead of changing gear wreaking havoc.  I am now banned from driving in at least four countries, and a safari park.  But there was certainly no hint of my sister grappling for the door, and she effortlessly drove us all to a place called Emeryville.

I would rather eat my own face than walk around any sort of home furnishing store, therefore Dad, myself and the baby sought refuge in the cafe, which was remarkably like the Ikea cafe in Croydon, where I was once dragged against my will.  The prices were low and there were unlimited coffee refills, so Dad and I enjoyed 74 cups between us, as well as a sumptuous Swedish-American breakfast.

The baby burbled and enabled numerous conversations with others wielding babies, including 6-month-old Logan.  Later in the day, whilst out for another walk, I met Nora the baby (is that really a baby name these days?).  Babies are really good conversation starters.  I did a gig a while ago and one of the comics did a routine describing babies as 'mini dictators'.  I think there is some truth in that.

The other obvious thing to do when your family is visiting from the other side of the world, is to move house.  We spent the rest of the day packing up two years worth of accumulated belongings, outgrown baby clothes, toys, musical instruments, CDs, DVDs, books, furniture, photographs, equipment relating to deceased or escaped pets, kitchen equipment, shoes, bits of bathroom, techy stuff, soft toys, sheet music, bedding; I nearly packed the baby by mistake.  And the dog.

I went for another walk with the baby.  We went up into Fairfax.  I used to know someone who had a rabbit called Fairfax.  We wandered around, then settled in a Coffee Roastery, where we were accosted by a large, hairy woman.  'How old is he?' she asked, pointing at the baby.  '10 months', I duly replied.  She asked some more questions, then said 'how old is he?'; '10 months and about 6 minutes', I replied.  She said that I had an accent and that she didn't think I was from round here.  She's sharp, I thought.  Then she asked 'how old is he?'