On the Tenth Date of Christmas…

…Timothy was brilliant, that’s what.

I got a phone call at 4.30pm, while Henry and I were collapsed in the grateful silence of a feed (it had been a colicky sort of afternoon), to say ‘I’m coming home. I’ve got Henry a babysitter. Let’s go and watch Sherlock Holmes’.

May I remind you that this was the first time Henry had been left with a babysitter so the two of us could leave the house together? And that he’d just cried all afternoon? Holy heart-attack, Batman. I was so flustered I forgot to pack the gripe water (an elementary mistake, my dear Watson).

You're doing what?!

We dropped him off with our lovely friend Meg, drove to town, parked the car, and ran full-tilt all the way to the cinema.

Tim: You know what this is, right?

Me: *pant. Pant. Pant.* What?

Tim: Speed-dating.

Me: …

Thankfully, we arrived during the adverts and they let us in.

It was great, actually: less novel than the first and with some redundant characters (Noomi Rapace gets little more to do than wear a cool hat), but considerably better plotted. Jared Harris is spine-shivery as Moriarty. He has a creeping kind of intellectual menace that makes you think he could kill you ten ways with a piece of chalk.

Anyway. We loved it. And then we called in for a – you guessed it – festive pie, which we loved even more. If we eat many more of them we’re going to end up with especially festive double chins for Christmas.

(Henry was very good, apparently, apart from the projectile vomit and the last ten minutes. We’ll make him people-friendly yet.)

(Thank you Meg!)

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