A fictionalised
account of the life of Bill Shankly. Took a while to get into the repetitive
rhythm used to convey shankly's single-minded obsessions. Sometimes descended
into lists of fixtures and scorers and there's a danger of being taken in by
the emperor's new clothes, but I loved it and it kept me gripped, even more so
than The Damned United. Given that Peace's football novels are meant to be his
weak link, his other work must be pretty special. It's on the wish list. . .
Libby's had chicken
pox recently and got used to me sleeping on the floor in her room to comfort
her, which is now standard procedure! If I try and move she shouts 'Daddy
Sawyer! Daddy Sawyer!' until I'm back in my place. She won't let me call her
anything other than Libby or Elizabeth at the moment. A few days ago I called
her 'Boo', and she indignantly declared. 'No! not boo! Libbymarysawyer!'
Fred has competed in
his first running race too, he did a 1K at Alice Holt as I was there for a 10K.
He seemed to really enjoy it, and I want to encourage it without pushing. I'm
so proud of him for how he manages to cycle back through a busy town every day
with only the occasional wobble. He's getting fast though - and tall. He really
does look like an amalgam of Gareth, me, Steve and Kev. I still get confused
and call Kev 'Fred' whenever the two of them are in the same area.
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