Is the writer concerned that the reader might be so delicate, so sensitive, that actually seeing the offensive word in full would cause them to faint? Or maybe spontaneously explode?

And are we likely to be more offended at actually seeing the word in print rather than just in our mind’s eye?  Because let’s face it, it doesn’t take long for the brain - even mine - to work out what the word is and say it in our heads.

“Bollocks” my brain says to me, when it sees that particular combination of letters and punctuation. “Bollocks”.  I’m sure yours does too.

I’ve seen the same in national newspapers: “The BBC were under fire last night when Ozzy Osbourne said ‘f**k off Wossy’ live on Children In Need.”  (I made that up by way of an example)

Now, my brain has already worked out that the asterisked word is ‘fuck’. And I have said the word ‘fuck’ in my head whilst reading it. So, being the delicate flower that I am, am I already offended at being tricked into saying a rude word in my head? Would I be even more offended if I was to actually see the two missing letters?

No, I f**king wouldn’t  (see what I did there?).

So, what is the point of doing it?

If you’re going to write a naughty word, then at least have the balls to use all the flipping letters.

Well, we’ve had a wonderful time down in French France. The weather has been tremendous (read: hot) and we’ve had a lot of fun. I believe you had a spot of rain here last week?

I have spent much of my first day back, unloading the car and shovelling all the shit out of the back. Two kids = 4 carriers bags of crap! How does that work?

Then I had to quickly find an MOT station that doesn’t do appointments, as I’d forgotten all about it and was illegal as of today.

Then I had to go in to town and get the road tax, because that ran out yesterday, also.

But I did find time to go give some blood, which was good: something I haven’t done in too long a time.

And, I feel good… if a little tired from the “jet lag” of driving solidly for what felt like a million miles. I’m sure driving along the west bank of the Seine, can probably be a very nice experience, at times. But, trust me, not during the 5 o’clock rush hour.

Never, ever, ever again!

A lot of time has been spent in the pool, but we’ve also been to the beach… which was quite nice, even though I’m not a beachy person. We’ve also visited a couple of local beauty spots, courtesy of Geocaching - Mrs Masher’s idea: she can be as nerdy as me sometimes! And last night we went to see a Monster Truck show.

Actually, I found the show quite dull. They just drove these huge trucks - well, normal trucks with huge wheels - up and down and over a couple of old cars. My impression of Monster Truck shows was always of high octane, explosive action, with fireworks and screaming crowds. Admittedly, I got that impression from watching The Simpsons.

Any road up, it’s 10am and the pool beckons.

Au revoir mes amis.

We decided - for some unknown reason - to drive all the way here. So, we departed early on Friday morning and caught the 8am train through Le Chunnel.

From Calaise, it was a long drive down to our first stop at Bourges, where we stayed in a small hotel for the night, continuing the following day to our final destination of Vias-Plage - renowned for having one of the best beaches on the Cote D’Azur, though we’ve yet to check it out.

And sod me, but it’s hot. It reached 40 degrees on the way here yesterday, as we drove through the mountains, but thankfully, at the moment, it’s only 32 degrees.

So far, we’ve only checked out the local restaurants (which are in abundance) and the swimming pool (which is refreshingly cool).

More later. Probably.

Only for a couple of days work, this time - assuming all goes well. I’m in the same hotel again, but they’ve put me in a different room, which I’m finding quite disconcerting: I’d gotten used to the other room. Oh well, at least this one doesn’t smell of wee.

Travelling up here over the last couple of weeks, I’d noticed a large ring in a field just off the M6. Today, I made a point of looking at it a bit harder and noticed that it was actually a Stargate. “Cool, you don’t see one of them every day… on the M6″, I thought.

A bit later, I overtook one of them large, white camper vans: you know, the ones that are so big, that they tow a small car behind them for driving in town? Well, this one was towing a bright orange BondBug. “Most excellent! You don’t see many of them nowadays… on the M6″, I thought to myself. How wrong I was, for only 200 metres further on, I overtook another large, white camper van towing another bright orange BondBug. “A brace of orange BondBugs!”, I thought, “Even rarer! ”

An hour later I saw an accident.  A sight that is sadly less and less rare on the M6.

So, texting (he said, going off at a tangent): I hate it.

Well, that’s not strictly true.  I’m not a big fan: I prefer to call people usually and actually talk to them, but it has it’s uses and sometimes proves to be the ideal medium.

But, so many people seem to use it nowadays as their prefered method of communication. Everywhere you go, you see people walking around, their heads bowed as one finger pecks away at the keypad. No one talks anymore; there’s just the constant beep beep of text message conversations. The current Mrs Masher is a key offender: she will have a 20 minute text conversation with her best friend, as they try to make arrangments for a day out the following day, whereas a quick phone call would have had it sorted in 2 minutes.

And another thing: why can’t these serial texters type proper words?  Now, there is something I DO hate: this condensing of the language into abbreviations.  I received a text a few hours ago from a colleague:

R u wrkng 2nite? I cud do wiv sum help if ur abt?

It took me a minute to decipher it, so I replied, with proper words:

Yes, I shall be working in the Manchester site tonight.
Feel free to call me after midnight and I’ll be pleased to offer you some telephone support.

He came back with:

Tnx m8

Arrgh!

It seems that when I was working in Acton last week, I had strayed into the Congestion Charge zone.  I really have no recollection of doing so.

I remember seeing signs saying Congestion Charge 3 miles ahead, and then 2 miles ahead, but I thought that I must have turned off before I entered the zone itself, because I don’t remember actually seeing it.

A friend of mine said “Oh, you’ll know when you are in the zone, because there are cameras and signs everywhere and big letter Cs painted on the road.”      I don’t remember seeing any of that. If I did, I’d have happily paid the £8 fee… which I could have claimed back as expenses anyway.  As it is, I now have a 60 quid fine to cough up, which I can’t claim for (ignorance is no excuse, in the eyes of the law and our expenses claim department).

I suppose I could write to them and plead that I wasn’t actually there, but unfortunately, they’ve kindly provided me with photographic evidence that I was.

I wonder if entering a plea of stupidity would get me anywhere.

What I didn’t realise is that, yes, it’s a mile away, but it’s a mile directly down the flight path! Well, actually, I don’t think the whole hotel is directly on the flight path… just my room. Fuck, but it’s noisy!

Anyway, today, for something to do, I caught the train (the station is right next door, only 65 metres away, but thankfully one can’t hear the noise of the trains, as the planes drown them out) into Didsbury and went to the pictures to see Inception.  Normally, when I go to see the Wednesday matinee, there are about 6 of us in there. Today, for some reason, it was packed out.

And the film? Well, I think it has to be one of the most original, conceptual, thought provoking, interesting and downright confusing films that I have seen in a long time. But it was one of those films that, to me, felt like it had cut out lots of details from the book, that it just couldn’t fit in. Details that probably would have answered the questions it left me with.

Maybe next week I’ll go see The A-Team.

Yesterday, Amelia was taken out again for the day - this time to Gulliver’s - and so I resolved that Harry and I would spend some quality Daddy/Son time together. But where to go?

Now, I’ve always wanted to go to the Science Museum in London - but for some reason, I have never been. I wondered whether it might be a bit much for a five year-old though. However, their website proclaimed that there were things of interest for all ages from 5 upwards. So, the Science Museum it was then!

We caught a train into London - which he thoroughly enjoyed - and then the Underground to South Kensington.

Once in the museum, he was enthralled straightaway, when the first section we came across was Formula 1 and it’s innovative contributions.  There, hanging from the ceiling was Lewis Hamilton’s race car (last season’s, I suspect). “Look daddy!” he shouted, loud enough for all to hear, “It’s Hamilton’s car!”  I was pleased he seemed excited by it all.

After looking at the F1 exhibits, we moved into the Space hall. At first he was excited to see the rockets, but after about five minutes, he started to lose interest. When we saw the life-size model of the lunar lander and I told him how it had carried men all the way to the moon, I thought it might pique his interest… but, no.  “I’m bored”, he whinged.

Funnily enough, he was also fairly non-plussed when we saw the solar sail exhibit and I tried to explain the concept of using mass-less photons to move things through space. “Can we go now?” he asked.

“Go?!  But we’ve hardly seen anything yet. Let’s try in here.” I enthused.

The next room had some very old locomotives… including Stephenson’s Rocket. I was somewhat awestruck, looking at this fabulous piece of history that was so close to me that I could touch it. In fact I did. Several times. With it in front of me like this, I could almost imagine the history being made as it thundered along the tracks at a massive 29 mph.  “I’m bored. Can we go now?”  It was obvious that my initial instincts were correct and this was all too much for a five year-old Harry.  Personally, I could have happily stayed there all day long.

But this was supposed to be Harry’s day and so we left and headed to Leicester Square, where I ended up paying a staggering 30 quid for two cinema tickets to see Shrek 3.

This was the first film I’d seen in 3D and I’ll admit that the effect was pretty good and worked well. However, I don’t think it contributed enough to the film to make it worthwhile wearing those sodding glasses throughout. I think I’ll stick with good ol’ 2D for now.

But Harry loved it and once combined with a burger from BK and the train journey home, he was well happy with his lot.

As we walked back to the car, he looked up at me and said “I’ve had a lovely day, daddy. Thank you for taking me out.”

I nearly cried.

Somebody smashed the side window, emptied the glove box and had a good ol’ rummage amongst all the crap on the seats (Mrs M doesn’t keep the tidiest of vehicles - I often refer to her car as the new Vauxhall Corsa Landfill).

So, what did they get away with?

• The vehicle handbook and servicing manual
• A half empty tin of de-icer
• And a whole packet of Wrigley’s Extra Chewing Gum

The Police forensic man (CSI Luton) who turned up to try and solve the crime, said there was nothing he could do. He did, however, explain what the sods were looking for: Sat Nav.

Although Mrs M’s Sat Nav wasn’t in the car, she had left the window mount for it, still attached to the windscreen - indicating that she owned such a device.   So, there’s a warning for you all.

So, they get away with some chewing gum and de-icer, leaving us to have to fork out 75 quid (insurance excess) to get the window replaced.

Bastards!