Grandad arrives.

The GR's father is in town, he is lovely. He is also what’s commonly known as an academic, only like sense, not so common, but this puts me in an awkward position, being baby braindead on top of normal blondness. How am I supposed to hold my own in a conversation with someone who has just published a book about, 'how capitalism survives crisis and the absorbtive class'.

To avoid conversations which involved me having to use my brain, I conspired that we shoud buy The GR a classical guitar together. Neither of us having any knowledge on the subject we spent a happy afternoon together researching the local guitar shops, from Hanks on Denmark Street (tin pan alley) to the Classical Guitar Shop above Leicester tube to Ivor Mairant's Music Centre on Rathbone Place.

We deduced that a classical guitar is slightly smaller than an acoustic and has nylon strings as opposed to steel giving a warmer, rounder sound. Most are handmade in Spain, some are cheap and made from laminate. Some are very expensive and are made from solid pieces of wood. The middle ground ones have a solid front, the harder the wood, the more they improve over time. So flamenco ones can be made from spruce or cypress. Traditionally they are made from cedar and rosewood.

We wanted one that The GR could pass on to Erbie when he's old enough, so it's kind of a joint present for them both. Most of the shop assistants on Denmark Street advised us to go back to Mairants, saying it was the best place if we wanted a keeper.

We ended up with a beautiful Spanish Prudencio Model 8 cedar front guitar with walnut back and sides. The lovely guys that work in the shop even took some money off and threw in a guitar case for free. Credit crunch we love you.

The GR was touched.

I said he would have to touch me back.