I've already established that I cry when we go to the movies. I cry when we watch movies at home. My personal record is the afternoon we watched 'Up' and 'Toy Story 3' back-to-back.

I LIVE the film, the novel, the rolling saga, the trilogy in seven parts, I live ALL of it; it's the only way I know to approach storytelling.

Well, it seems that there's a second medium to add to my waterworks-provoking repertoire: the novel, spoken out loud.

I've been reading J.R.R. Tolkien's 'The Hobbit' to my daughters for a while now; this evening we reached the chapter of this blog post's title.

Boy, is this good stuff! I'm there within the cosseting gloom of bedtime, doing all the voices and then… I simply could not continue. The emotions of the tragic scene unfolding before us, after LIVING the preceding tale spilled over and…

After a few false starts, and Just as I'd managed to compose myself, my youngest daughter, oh-so-nearly 7, wondered aloud if maybe I didn't know how to pronounce the words on the page, and offered to read on my behalf.

And yes, that kindness again stopped the story reading in its tracks; I had to excuse myself, promising to restart the chapter following evening.

And so I shall.

On Monday evening I participated in my first Trick-Or-Treat outing. Important: that's Trick-Or-Treat, not Hallowe'en.

I'm over forty-ten years old and have a young family, so it might be appropriate to mention I'm English, living in a country that borrows the very best from the cultures of the world. Well, it makes a change from attempting to take stuff by force, right?

So I took the girls and Ruby dog and we walked the streets, the girls knocking on doors or ringing doorbells in the hope of getting sweeties. ok, candy! They did really well; I'm proud of the way they conducted themselves.

Knock/ring once, wait a respectable length of time, leave the eggs at home in the fridge, you know?

Our neighbourhood did the modern tradition proud. Loads of homes decorated with pumpkins, ghoulish apparitions swaying at doors, even a smoke machine to add, yes, authenticity to the proceedings. There were people of all ages dressed in suitably scary attire and make-up (though my costume and features on the night would win competitions anywhere!)

This year (hopefully the foundation for next) my girls got dressed, applied make-up to appear even scarier than normal, and we went out in what turned out to be the perfect evening, spending that very enjoyable hour-and-a-half going from door to door.

I'm sure my two brought genuine pleasure to at least 2 households others had passed by, it was really great to see.

And to think this curmudgeon didn't want to go out, to be sociable. Indeed I'd been dreading it all day.

Eeeee, when I were a lad we never had owt worth mentioning. We got wood once a year and…

… we collected bonfire wood for weeks before Bonfire Night and secreted it away, hopefully out of sight of our rivals. We'd ask for a "Penny for the guy" – a vaguely-humanoid shape supposedly representing Guy Fawkes, but in reality a pile of rags and stuffing to be tossed on top of the woodpile and burnt with as much ceremony as young lads could.

To be honest though, I can't remember if we ever burnt a guy. I recall us burning wood but the predominant memory is the disappointment of having our stash robbed from under outer noses.

Happy days!

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The post title is necessarily apostrophe-short, I can't remember how to add one in the post header.

After breakfast today the girls and I again went to the cinema; we watched 'Trolls' and, for a refreshing change, I didn't cry at the end.

I cried NEAR to the end.

As with most, ok ALL films we go to, I got involved with the characters, had my sense of disbelief well-and-truly suspended, so yes, of course I cried. I cry at every children's movie we go to see.

Thus, the movie 'Trolls' easily gains Baz's Seal of Approval.

There's just one thing, and I HAVE to SAY this. One thing, aside, that is, from letting you know how eerily similar most of this post is to 'Storks'…

I have a problem with 'Trolls'. Sure they live underground. Or in a tree. Or a forest, well away from things that would disturb their way of life. And yes, they come out into the sunlight too. Yeah, emphatically NOT my view of a classical Troll, not the stuff of myths and legends, not the dull-witted lumpen beings that eat Dwarves and Hobbitses…

(We're currently over 69% of the way through Tolkien's 'The Hobbit', me reading to my girls at bedtime, so this sort of stuff resonates deeply at the moment. Or is at odds with the stuff in my hindbrain?)

But anyway, this film, it's a delightful story of hope and redemption and therefore earns…

Ah, but I did that bit.

Pizza is on its way.

Late yesterday one of the girls asked to go see 'The BFG': the film adaptation of Roald Dahl's excellent book. My wife has read it to my daughters, and I remain part-way through a similar reading.

Everyone should read the heartwarming tale of a…

Ahhh, but I don't do spoilers.

Suffice it to say we enjoyed the film, I saw enough of the story in my head from the book to be pleased and entertained…

Under normal circumstances the suspension of my disbelief isn't a problem; I'm not massively critical of films I pick or take the girls to.

Rewinding to a point halfway through The BFG though, the insistent pressure on my bladder became utterly intolerable; we had to leave our seats and visit the gents. Awkward with 2 girls in tow. Not that I cared! (We didn't miss much.)

Every time the go out I counsel my two to make sure they've been for a pee. We've done well so far. This time I'd actually taken my own advice and had one just before we left for the pictures.

(sighs) Getting old?

My youngest daughter simply doesn't understand the concept of a surprise. When asked to keep a secret something seems to build inside her, a something which simply cannot be contained, a something which must be voiced – albeit in a manner a 6 year old thinks is obtuse, elliptical, not-at-all likely to let the recipient know there's a thing awaiting…

She: "Daddy, we have a surprise…" and I rudely cut her off, explaining why she must STFU.

She's unstoppable though, learns nothing from recent history. It's easily forgivable at 6.

Facebook is the same. I post a link to something, Facebook simply cannot contain itself and produces a helpful preview of the page header, YouTube movie title, whatever… I'm not sure I can forgive Facebook as a 12-year-old though.

I suppose I could obscure the content behind a custom URL added at either my web site or via an URL shortening service (presuming Facebook doesn't automatically expand those.)

But why should I have to‽

I 'get' that security is an issue these days so having some indication of what's about to happen is 'safety-conscious'; I know, as the average attention span diminishes towards zero, that people like to see a preview of what they're about see (especially previews.)

But from where are our future Rickrolls likely to come – if Facebook first shapes then reinforces our habits?

As a parent of a lovely girl diagnosed as being on the autistic spectrum, and being pretty sure I'm somewhere on it myself I've yet another moan coming up.

If you read my blog regularly enough you'll understand a little about me. It's not all bad, right?

National (insert something here) day, week or month usually means the USA have picked a day and ascribed special meaning to it.

Fantastic. Really. We need more awareness of (insert something here)!

Sarcasm has no place here, and you'll be glad to know I'm being deadly sincere. Or at least 'ordinary' sincere.

Sincere.

National Autism Awareness Week just ended here in the UK. Its UK organisers, the National Autistic Society organised, or suggested lots of fun things for individuals, groups of people and especially schools to do during the week.

Schools.

Ah.

My 2 girls, including the one whose classmates would benefit from a better understanding of her condition (supportive as they already are) have been on Easter holiday for the past 2 weeks. I know for a fact that a local authority on the other side of Manchester is starting it's second week off tomorrow.

Oops!

If we can organise Mothers Day and Fathers Day to a differing schedule to that in the USA, surely we can do the same to help raise awareness in our young.

Onesie Wednesday would have been nice to participate in, if we'd known about it.

I've got past the feelings of guilt by the way, for letting down my girls, the oldest in particular; I can't be expected to know everything, right?