So last night we had an earthquake! Well, we were miles from the epicentre, and M slept through it, but I've not been sleeping at all well lately (because of various pregnancy-related delights) so I was barely dozing off. The wardrobe rattled as the bed shook, so I sort of knew I wasn't imagining it or having some sort of dizzy spell.

Yesterday (Sunday) Mum and I went for my birthday treat (yes, five months after the event) - the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment doing the Markus-Passion at the Queen Elizabeth Hall. It was wonderful, they're my favourite ensemble and the performance was very intimate. Mark Padmore's Evangelist had such a conversational quality (but still a beautiful tone), it set the atmosphere for all the other performers, who stepped forward in turn without flourish, giving the music and the period instruments room - the whole thing felt balanced and fervent at the same time, if that makes sense. They finished with the unaccompanied Handl Ecce Commodo, which is up there with Purcell in my list of top music for a funeral.
Oh, this is uncharitable, but the people behind us were right morons. As we walked out they complained that they didn't like the T.S. Eliot reading (fair enough), hadn't been able to work out which one Mark Padmore was despite his obvious centrality ("well, he's the leader, but that seemed to be the person playing the 'cello"), and decided that, although they supposed that the performance had been "authentico" (yes, they really did say "authentico") it could have done with being a bit louder.

I found this terrific, slightly mad American online slideshow comparing fetal size to a range of fruit and vegetables. As many of you already know, but some do not, the reason I was looking at such things, and the reason that the old social life (and indeed this blog's documentation of it) has been rather lacklustre of late, is that... we're expecting a spaghetti squash. How's that for a circuitous announcement? We had a scan last week and all seems to be well, and I am getting frequent reassuring boots in the ribs, so I've decided that Now It Can Be Told on here. The little frog ticker at the top of the page will keep track for us, in case the fruit and veg similes grow wearisome, although I cannot promise not to mention rutabaga week when it comes around. (Incidentally, the blue is of no significance, as far as we know.)

Bah, went to the opticians all ready to splash out on some shiny new specs (these frames are three years old and one of the lenses is chipped) and came away empty-handed because (a) my prescription has only changed slightly, and (b) I didn't like a single pair in the shop. M needs new ones too, more urgently than me, but he also failed to find anything that suited, as all the modish rectangular shapes are out of the question for a prescription as high as his. We will have to keep looking. R and O came over for dinner, and I made a surprisingly successful veggie lasagna.

This Saturday we pottered around a bit in the morning, then Ry called over to visit me. On Sunday M's family drove up together from Kent to visit. M made curries for everyone, then Niamh (our niece) helped him play the guitar and took him for a walk. In the evening we met up for a Turkish meal and a drink with my cousins, down in London over half-term.

No Country for Old Men was beautifully made with some lovely performances, but didn't really stay with us and certainly hasn't knocked The Big Lebowski off the top of the list of favourites. Since then I spent most of the week having a rotten cold, and then at the weekend we went to the legendary village music hall show, which this year featured mum playing the piano, dad singing "My heart belongs to Glasgow" and most of the audience dressed up (at left, my cousin done up as an Edwardian schoolgirl complete with anachronistic beverage - more pictures here).

A day in SW London today - visiting Picul and Jim in their new pad for musical, er, treats, birthday lunch with Lizzie and friends, then we called round to see Nana at Gunny's in Stockwell.