It's a Baby!

So, I do appreciate that this blog is so dormant that if it was a physical object it would probably have moss or lichen growing on it by now, but I did have grand ambitions to resurrect it as a “baby blog” to detail the trials, tribulations and exploits of my marvellous young son (suitably anonymised so as to minimise embarrassment for the wee fellow later in life). Such ambitions have so far been thwarted due to the fact that I have spent most of the six weeks since his birth either (a) holding a baby, (b) holding something else while Julie holds the baby or (c) investing in one of my periodic doomed efforts to catch up on sleep. So my baby blogging may be a tad sporadic, but I will try to get as many details of this extremely joyful but slightly exhausting time down as I can.

Junior was due on May 1^st aka Labour Day (which would have been quite ironic if it had come off). Coincidentally this is also my father’s birthday, which is even more ironic given that he is a lifelong Tory voter who would rather dig his own eye out of his face with a rusty shovel than vote Labour. On the subject of politics, incidentally, Julie and I took great pride in taking him (the baby, that is, not my father) out to the polling booth for the local and European parliamentary elections on May 22^nd (even putting him in his House of Cards themed onesie in an attempt to inject some fun into exercising one’s civic duty – although judging by his reaction to this year’s Eurovision winner, which involved copious amounts of projectile vomit, we’ll have to educate him out of any tendencies he might have to vote Ukip! Clearly our visit to the polling station was purely an attempt to get him into good habits while he’s young, and the boy won’t be able to vote in his own right yet, but the good news is that due to his dual citizenship, when he turns 18 he will be able to vote both in the UK and Massachussetts (just in time for the 2032 election between Chelsea Clinton and George P (“Son of Jeb”) Bush!)

Being our firstborn, and moreover a relatively placid, cheerful baby (with a penchant for baroque music, weirdly enough – anything post 1750 really didn’t float his boat while he was in the womb, though his tastes have thankfully broadened since), we were bracing ourselves for the likelihood that he would be arriving a few days late. Thus when we settled down to order a Thai takeaway and watch Les Miserables at 8pm on 26^th April, having just spent a pleasant afternoon in the company of some good friends followed by a quick stroll in Coldhams Commmon, Cambridge (near where we live), I was knocked for six when Julie calmly announced that her waters had broken.

What followed was my finest impersonation of Corporal Jones from Dad’s Army. “Right…don’t panic, DON’T PANIC!” I yelled. She wasn’t, and cheerfully suggested that I call to cancel our takeaway. I did so, although I managed to persuade her that it might be best then to call the hospital rather than wasting further time calling JustEat.com to secure a refund (we eventually did sort this out, but Julie did acknowledge that the baby was unlikely to halt its progress while we got our finances in order). At this point Julie’s contractions were tiny as well as few and far between, so by the time I had got us into the car and on our merry way to Addenbrooke’s Hospital (a short ten minute drive away, with not much in between except an absurd number of roundabouts) I was quite a bit calmer.

We arrived, and were greeted by a midwife called Christine (Chris) who promptly sent us home again (unfortunately Addenbrooke’s had lost Julie’s medical records, which did nothing to fill us with confidence). There followed a detour to Tesco on a hunt for maternity pads/underwear. By this time, however, faster and more painful contractions were already starting to kick in.

Navigating supermarkets has never been my strong point, and it was about 9:45 by this point so I do feel for the three Tesco employees, presumably winding down to go off shift, who were suddenly confronted by a panicking, red faced, arm flapping individual breathlessly insisting that they needed to help him as a matter of urgency because his wife was in labour. To her credit, the female assistant, who herself had 3 children, rose to the challenge admirably (while her male colleagues backed away with averted eyes) and I was in and out in about 5 minutes. By this time, however, it was clear that our plans for a sneaky McDonald’s meal would have to be put on ice and so it was that, before we’d even had a chance to get home again, and still distinctly dinnerless, we found ourselves driving straight back to Addenbrooke’s. This time, even the PG Wodehouse adaptation on the radio failed to soothe us (if the voice of Martin Jarvis doesn’t calm one down it’s a sure sign that something is really afoot), and by the time we arrived the contractions were agonizing, and coming every couple of minutes.

Luckily Chris was still on duty, and I can honestly say with hand on heart that I have never come across anyone before or since who is as good at their job as she is. She immediately took control and knew exactly what to say to Julie throughout the process (which is more than can be said for me…I erred on the side of “silent support” throughout the process, which Julie subsequently told me was all for the best!) and took us up to the Lady Mary Ward. We were not able to use the normal delivery units as Julie had been (erroneously, as it subsequently turned out) diagnosed with a mitral heart prolapse some years before, meaning that we needed to use the emergency unit to be on the safe side. In truth however we would not have had much of an opportunity to avail ourselves of the rather swanky (is that still a word?) facilities of the normal units in any event. It turned out this baby was definitely not messing about!

Julie coped remarkably well and there was not nearly as much “biting my head off” as I had expected there to be, in spite of the fact that labour progressed very quickly indeed, which was great in one sense but did mean that there was very little time to recover or take a breather between contractions (which were back contractions, and so were pretty unpleasant). Even more impressive wasthe fact that she managed to get through it all without any form of pain relief (she took one inhalation of gas and air and decided that any more would make her gag). She did end up plumping for a water birth (despite having been skeptical of these during most of her pregnancy) albeit that she ended up having to stand up at the last moment in order to get the baby out.  We would highly recommend it.

I am afraid that my first glimpse of my son was perhaps the most traumatic moment of my life. The poor little blighter, in his eagerness to get out and see the world, had managed to get over excited and turn over three times, meaning that the umbilical cord (a big thick one at that) had wrapped three times around his neck, which meant that he came out blue faced, in shock, and (as far as I could tell, at least) not making any sound. It turned out later that he was never in any real danger, as his heartbeat remained rapid and his initial Apgar score was a respectable 7, going up to full marks at 5 minutes and thereafter, but it was pretty frightening in the heat of the moment.

However, it turned out that all he needed was a bit of extra oxygen, which the paramedics quickly provided (swooping in from nowhere like Monty Python’s Spanish Inquisition and disappearing again just as quickly) and my most anxious moment quickly gave way to my happiest as the little lad got enough oxygen to scream and otherwise make his displeasure abundantly clear. Luckily Daddy was on hand, and the first thing I told him (after “Blimey, Junior, you really know how to make an entrance”) was that that was the most traumatic experience he would ever go through (which I understand is generally true of births) and that it was all “uphill from here” in the very best sense of the word. He calmed down remarkably quickly after his unpleasant ordeal, and by the time we had sung a few lines of “Anything Goes” (the ones we could remember) and he had had a bit of skin on skin time with his mummy, he actually seemed pretty cheerful.

We had not known whether it would be a boy or a girl, having decided to keep it a surprise, but once he was out and about there was certainly no ambiguity. As is often the case, Junior’s private parts (do they still count as private now I’ve blogged about them?) came out seriously swollen, and I am afraid that in the heat of the moment both Julie and I made slightly inappropriate comments – Julie’s was “those have GOT to be a pair of testicles” and mine (worse) was “Good God, they’re bigger than mine”.  Julie’s exhaustion was demonstrated by her not entirely accurate comment that “gosh, so he’s the first male Crockford since your dad!” Um…pretty sure you missed someone out there, my love!

Julie needed a couple of stitches but was able to keep baby on her chest for some bonding time while Chris saw to this. Junior, being a true Crockford, quickly decided that the best way to celebrate having come through that horribly traumatic experience was to have a big slap up banquet, and promptly started feeding. And kept going for most of the next 24 hours! He is clearly a comfort eater, but in spite of that he came out (and is still) very long and thin (like his parents) and although he weighed a chunky 8 lb 12 oz, the additional weight came from extra length rather than body fat.

After a few hours left on our own (which was very welcome) in the delivery unit with some toast and jam (also welcome in that we never had got our dinner), Chris came in, swaddled Baby and took us out into the main “recuperation area” with various other new mums. There we stayed from about 6:30am until about 8pm, which I have to say was not the most comfortable experience of my life (I was sat in an armchair right by the window being bombarded by the sunlight and feeling very overheated as well as extremely sleepy). Understandably, the Lady Mary Ward focuses on the well being of the mothers and babies rather than the dads, and whilst I freely admit that of the three of us I had had by far the least draining and traumatic experience, it was still a bit galling to have to buzz to be let back in every time I had to go to the toilet (which, as it was Sunday, meaning fewer staff, often took several minutes to be answered). Nevertheless, all had gone well and whilst we were exhausted and uncomfortable we were also extremely happy.

We took this opportunity to finally agree on the name. We wanted to wait to be sure until we had taken a few hours to get to know the little chap (although if we had based it on those few hours alone he probably would have ended up being called Snuffly Windypops Crockford, but luckily, being forward thinking folk, we had had a shortlist for both sexes, and it only took us a few hours to make a decision as to which one suited him best). We also told our parents the good news (but sadly my phone ran out of battery before we could disseminate the news more widely, although I just about managed to get a text out to my sister beforehand). And then we waited…

Personally I was very relieved when the powers that be at Addenbrooke’s finally decided that they had done all they needed to do to discharge us. We pretty much crashed as soon as we got home, but, as I suspect is the case for all new parents, the first few nights were pretty difficult, not because Junior was himself not sleeping (he is actually a very good sleeper, albeit a noisy one who likes to make animal noises in his sleep…at times it’s like sharing a bedroom with Gollum) but because as new parents we were not quite sure whether those noises signified breathing difficulties or whether (as in fact turned out to be the case) they were just “his thing”. I was particularly bad and had some extremely disturbing dreams – the worst one being when I woke up, handed Julie an object in a state of abject panic saying “This one’s really floppy! What’s wrong with him?” “That’s a cuddly toy, Alex”, Julie explained slowly, before gesturing in the direction of where the real baby was sleeping perfectly calmly.

Also, we had bought him a Moses basket to sleep in next to the bed, but it ended up being a bit problematic because we couldn’t see him so, especially in the frantic state our minds were in at the time, we had to keep getting up every few minutes and checking he was OK. We ended up hiring the NCT Bednest, which means that he is sleeping next to the bed at the same level as us so we can see him, but he is not IN the bed so won’t get squished when we roll over. I would highly recommend this fine contraption for all new parents.

My employers had very kindly allowed me three weeks off (my two weeks’ statutory leave plus another week of holiday) which went by disappointingly quickly but was great fun (albeit not terribly restful). Julie’s mother, Lucy, arrived from the US on the first Wednesday and stayed for over a month, which was fantastic both for her and for us (an extra pair of hands was a godsend and Junior got to spend some quality time with his Nana, which was lovely).

We didn’t venture very far afield during those weeks and still haven’t (his first trip to London is due this weekend) but we did get to the supermarket a couple of times in the first week and into central Cambridge a number of times in the second and third weeks (I particularly enjoyed showing him my old college about 8 or 9 days in). The baby likes travelling in our car (nicknamed “Father Jack” for reasons which I won’t go into here), or rather enjoys sleeping in the car (it is one of the few guaranteed ways of getting him off) but shares his father’s distaste for traffic jams and is not shy in expressing his displeasure when the car is not moving. 

Junior is a lively and affectionate lad, but it took him a couple of days to get the measure of me, I think, as I was clearly no help at all on the milk front and to start off with I was the one changing most of the nappies, a process he is not a huge fan of at all. But being a bright lad, I think he soon realized that there was more to things than the black and white picture of Julie as “the feeder” and me as “the manhandler” and that both of us were there to provide him with love and affection as well.

I cannot sing the praises of Cambridge NHS Trust highly enough and it was a huge weight off our shoulders to discover that we were to have midwives visiting us more or less every day during the first week to check on Baby. The midwives and health visitors have been uniformly excellent, and I am pleased to report that the little fellow is thriving and, after the standard weight loss in the first few days, started putting on weight again immediately and has now shot over the 5kg mark, and has overtaken our cat, Watson, in terms of weight (probably for good, unless Watson has a massive binge in a bid to stay competitive!)

Watson was initially a little nervous of the baby (probably smelling the blood from labour). He had been very fond of Julie’s bump, even allowing it to nudge and kick him while he was on her lap,  and I think his initial view was that we had made a poor trade in exchanging bump for Baby. I think he has probably now realized that the two are one and the same and whilst he doesn’t generally come too close to this strange noisy new addition to the household (thankfully), he has decided that the little chap needs protection and that Julie and I are decidedly not up to the task on our own. So he, together with his favourite toy squirrel sidekick (“Squeak”, a scruffy, blinded creature who has not actually been able to squeak for a couple of years but despite such shortcomings is the only person Watson would entrust with a task of this magnitude) camps out outside our room at night on “guard duty”. Fortunately he is now willing to actually let his guard down and go to sleep every once in a while – a sleep deprived cat is not a pretty sight (I swear there were bags under his eyes at one point!)

Now I am back at work, the rate at which Junior is growing is much more obvious to me (there are evenings when I have come home and could swear that he has grown an inch over the course of the day). Whilst he is still not a large chap, he has lost that “newborn” look, and it has become much more obvious at first glance that he is a boy. He still has a bit of jaundice but it was never serious and is now clearing up.

We have already got some smiles out of him (and something that sounded like a chuckle, although I think it was probably mimickry rather than a response to the rapier like witty banter you get in our house!) Even more fantastically, he is now able to roll over from his front onto his back, so he is nicely ahead of the curve on that one. Whilst I get the impression that he is more naturally “chilled out” than either of his parents, he is also a bit of a perfectionist and is already desperately trying to crawl, and bawling his head off about the fact that he can’t do it (I think “operation babyproofing” may need to be expedited).

In summary, fatherhood is fantastic, and I am hugely looking forward to doing more with the little fellow as he grows and develops. The wonderful thing is that all my favourite books, films, places etc are completely new to him (often I find myself wishing that I could forget reading books like Lord of the Rings so that I could experience them “for the first time again”, similarly with some of my favourite mysteries I would love to be able to forget the identity of the murderer and have another crack at guessing correctly). But at least I can experience at second hand his wonder and delight at experiencing all those things for the very first time (and no doubt he will enjoy many experiences of his own which I have never encountered myself). Exciting times! Watch this space for developments….

(Belated) review of The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug and Sherlock Season 3 Ep 1: The Empty Hearse

Hobbit

I can only assume that somewhere on the statute books there must be a convenient tax loophole which film directors can only benefit from if they cast Benedict Cumberbatch in absolutely every film ever (with an additional rebate if they also throw Martin Freeman into the mix). This is not a criticism of either actor, it has just struck me that they have been so prolific over the last year that they are starting to make Joseph Gordon-Levitt (or "Joseph Gordon blaaahdy Levitt" as I heard him described by a filmgoer weary of that fine actor's numerous appearances on a bus once) look like Daniel Day Lewis.

Cumberbatch's increasing fanbase among the young female filmgoing community also amuses me slightly bearing in mind that I still always think of him as the uptight quizmaster Patrick in "Starter for Ten" (still my favourite of his performances to date - his array of jumpers in that film are a darn sight scarier than anything you'll see Smaug do). But anyone who read the comments on youtube underneath the various Desolation of Smaug trailers would have to conclude that he is now a bona fide sex symbol. One particularly enthused "talk backer" announced gushingly that "Orlando is no longer the hottest person in The Hobbit". Poor old Orlando. Little did he know, in his LOTR heyday, that ten years hence his former fans would be dropping him like a stone in favour of a fifty foot scaly reptile with extremely dodgy breath!

Luckily Cumberbatch is as talented as he is busy, and his vocal performance as the gleefully malevolent dragon Smaug in The Hobbit 2 is one of the highlights of the film. A number of reviewers have compared him to George Sanders in The Jungle Book, but in truth Smaug is so gloriously evil that he makes Shere Khan look like Garfield. I suspect that in years to come his performance will be viewed alongside Sanders as Shere Khan and Jeremy Irons as Scar in the Lion King as one of the great villainous voice performances in film history (I have no idea why it is that an African lion, an Indian tiger and a dragon from another world all speak with silky posh English accents but anything else would seem somehow inappropriate).

Looking back on last year's review of The first Hobbit film, An Unexpected Journey, I think that because I felt that the savaging the film received from a lot of critics was unfair, I probably erred slightly too much on the side of putting a positive spin on the film's undeniable faults. So (says he, indulging himself in a pretentious rhetorical question), has Peter Jackson now fixed the various aspects of the franchise which the critics felt to be "broke"? The answer is "up to a point".

Firstly, the negatives. Leaving aside my mother's (entirely fair) criticism that "the dwarves could do with getting themselves haircuts", my biggest irritation with the film is that there are still too many sodding Orcs milling around. Moreover, the script is still pretty heavy handed, and Jackson & co's spatial awareness appears to be getting worse and worse. I have lost count of the number of times Bilbo and company should have died by this point, although at least we haven't had as many gratuitous "he fell off the cliff so he must be dead...waily waily waily...oh no, there he is" sub-plots which LOTR was riddled with (only one of which appeared in the book).

I was also underwhelmed by Gandalf's sub-plot (OK we get it, Sauron is coming back, we know that because we have already seen the trilogy set 60 years later in which he...comes back!) Ian McKellen is never anything less than a joy to watch (and I am particularly enjoying the fact that his pronunciation of "enemy" sounds more like "enema" with every passing film, which may go some way to explain his pained expression when he comes out with lines like "the enema is gathering in strength"). But basically all the poor chap gets to do in this film is wander around various ruins until he finds one which is haunted by an angry blob of darkness, which then proceeds to kick the crap out of him.

The Azog the Defiler storyline was surplus to requirements in An Unexpected Journey, but I was willing to forgive it on the basis that Jackson at least allowed the storyline fit around the bits that were taken from the book (which stuck pretty close to Tolkien's original work). In DoS, by contrast, entire sequences of the book are being rewritten to fit around the extra "Orc-y" bits.

In particular I felt that Beorn, the chap who lives in the woods and turns into a bear, was rather hard done by by the script. I didn't mind that his look was rather different from the big burly black bearded character in the book, presumably to avoid too many "Hagrid" comparisons. His new look was, er, creative (think Chewbacca if he decided to go for a full body shave but was interrupted halfway through and whisked off to an 80s era David Bowie concert) but I didn't mind it too much and I LOVED the design of his house. I also liked the fact that actor Mikael Persbrandt gave the character an interesting Nordic feel. Persbrandt is quite famous in his native Sweden for playing maverick cops and sharing a snog with Le Chiffre from Casino Royale in the film "Nu" (which is definitely not a biopic of the Teletubbies' vacuum cleaner, and if you thought you would never get to enjoy the spectacle of a Bond villain kissing a were-bear, you were sorely mistaken!)

But the poor chap only gets one scene in his human form, and not a single line taken from the book (all jettisoned in favour of yet more..."ooh, that Azog the Defiler's a bit of a dick" dialogue), which seems a little stingy when one considers how many dwarf songs we had to sit through in the previous chapter. True, that is still one scene more than Tom Bombadil got, but whereas Bombadil was always going to be a tricky character to translate onto the big screen (think Sir Harry Secombe on LSD) Beorn is a character who can really cut loose and kick ass (which is why it is so surprising and disappointing that he is reduced to sitting around and pontificating on the merits of veganism instead). Hopefully this is something which will be remedied in the final film.

There are also various new characters who get a bit more to do, played by up and coming young actors such as Lee Pace (Thranduil the Elven King, an intriguing and more morally ambiguous character than any of the other elves we have come across to date but handicapped slightly by a totally unnecessary disappearing scar and mannerisms which are uncannily similar to those of Matthew Macfadyen as Mitchell and Webb's pompous boss in the recent excellent BBC series Ambassadors) and Luke Evans (Bard the Bowman, who speaks with a Welsh accent just as he did in the BBC Radio version). One review I read got slightly confused between the two of them and indicated that Lee Evans had been cast as the Elven King, which would have been a sight to behold, but fortunately we are not completely bereft of British comedy legends, as Stephen Fry does make an appearance, as an STD-riddled version of Lord Melchett from Blackadder. Apparently next year's film will also feature Billy Connolly riding a giant pig!

Then of course there is Tauriel, the female elf who was conspicuously absent from the book. This is one of the "new bits" which I actually don't have a problem with and Evangeline Lilly manages to shine in the role despite the inclusion of an extra "elf-dwarf" love storyline with Kili, which is dealt with extremely clunkily, including a not particularly Tolkienic line about the contents of a dwarf's trousers (Romeo and Juliet, this ain't).

Notwithstanding the above I did thoroughly enjoy the film. The pace, which was perhaps the biggest problem of all with An Unexpected Journey, has picked up considerably here, as has the palpable sense of excitement and danger. The performances are pretty much universally excellent. The barrel sequence is an Indiana Jones-esque delight, especially when Bombur briefly turns into a "ninja Obelix". I didn't even mind Orlando Bloom shoehorning his way into it, in fact this is the first time for a while when I have actually been glad to see him. He still does that constipated face whenever he tries too hard to act, but he is clearly glad to be back in the green and "stunting around", and his enthusiasm is infectious.

And I have to come back to Smaug, for it is he, not Martin Freeman's increasingly heroic Bilbo nor Richard Armitage's grumpypants Thorin, who is the true star of the film. The final sequence, where he chases the dwarves around the Lonely Mountain before they mount the most expensive assassination attempt in cinema history by trying to melt a several hundred foot high solid gold statue of a dwarf onto him (think of how many schools and hospitals could have been built instead!), is both completely preposterous and utterly thrilling. Can't wait to see the dragon wreaking some serious havoc next year. And Billy Connolly riding that pig, obviously.

Sherlock

One thing I was hoping for in the scenes between Martin Freeman's Bilbo and Cumberbatch's Smaug was some sort of Sherlockian in-joke, bearing in mind that both actors appear in both "franchises". Peter Jackson is no stranger to the in-joke, as one of Sean Bean's first lines in LOTR was "still sharp" (or "still Sharpe" - there are also four or five references to Alec Trevelyan from Goldeneye seamlessly incorporated into the extended edition!) But if there was an in-joke I didn't spot it.

There was however no shortage of in-jokes in the first episode of Sherlock Season 3, the episode in which we finally, after an extremely tense two year wait, found out how Sherlock managed to fake his own death by plunging off St Bart's hospital. In fact, the whole thing could be argued to be one big in-joke at the fans' expense. Part of me was hoping he would just announce that he had been wearing a bouncy rubber suit, wink at the camera and get on with the show (or announce that he was in fact an indestructible scaly dragon in a Benedict Cumberbatch mask) just to hear the howls of online outrage.

As it happens, not all of the fans were satisfied, as the show's writers teasingly offered us not one but three possible explanations. "Which one is true?" screamed the fans. The fact that two of the explanations were clearly intended to be ridiculous joke explanations and the third was the only plausible one (I use the word "plausible" in the loosest possible sense, obviously) would lead me to throw one of Holmes' most famous lines back at those who are still confused: "When you have eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

So Sherlock is back with a bang, still as brilliant, clever, hilarious and infuriating as its lead character. The opening episode was not without its faults and occasionally went for the cheap laugh at the expense of believability (even by the standards of the exaggerated universe in which Sherlock and pals inhabit). Even if Mrs Hudson did think John was gay, would she necessarily blurt this out, bearing in mind that he clearly brought several girlfriends back to Baker Street in the first two seasons? And whilst it is nice to see the writers acknowledge that Mycroft is actually even smarter than Sherlock, something which was not made clear in seasons 1 and 2 (there was some great dialogue between the two brothers which neatly conflated some exchanges from two of Conan Doyle's original stories, namely The Blue Carbuncle and the Greek Interpreter), surely learning Serbian in a couple of hours would be too much even for that supercilious government operative?

I also felt that, while the original story on which the episode is based (The Empty House) devoted itself more or less equally between Sherlock's return and the actual mystery he had come back to solve, The Empty Hearse concentrated too much on the former, meaning that the ostensible plot of the episode, which consists of foiling a plan by a rogue government minister, who is in fact working for North Korea (as one does) to blow up the Houses of Parliament, was a fairly sketchy and uninvolving affair (not to mention a colossal waste of one of Conan Doyle's best villains other than Moriarty, Colonel Sebastian Moran, who was a sufficiently interesting character to make it into one of George Macdonald Fraser's fantastic Flashman novels, but who is rather boringly reinvented here as the aforementioned rogue minister).

But when there was so much to like, who cares? The script was laced with rapier sharp wit, there were some genuinely touching scenes not just between Sherlock and John but also between Sherlock and Molly and even Sherlock and Lestrade! The TV Sherlock has always been a more amoral, sociopathic character than his literary equivalent and at times I have felt that they have gone a touch too far in that direction, but it is clear from this episode that they are planning to develop the character over time so that he grows into a kinder and more emotional character, in other words, something more than a post British version of Sheldon from the Big Bang Theory. All of which promises to be terrific.

Amanda Abbington is extremely warm and believable as Watson's love interest (as well she should be bearing in mind that she is Martin Freeman's real life girlfriend) and I like the fact that they have allowed her character to be sufficiently generous to share her fiance with Sherlock (the last thing the series needs is another grump like Sergeant Donovan). The cameo by Cumberbatch's parents as Sherlock's surprisingly ordinary mum and dad was also great.

I am a little concerned that the series will struggle to find another villain as enthralling as Andrew Scott's unpredictable (and ever so slightly Graham Norton-esque) Jim Moriarty, but let's see where the next two episodes go. Let's just hope we don't have to wait quite as long for Season 4 - just three episodes per season is practically a form of torture (and I am sure that Messrs Cumberbatch and Freeman could find time in between filming the four hundred other films that they are signed up to in the next few years to squeeze in a bit more Sherlock!)