Vapnartak

On Sunday 7th I left best beloved in charge of bugglesnuff and went to Vapnartak, a wargames convention at the York race ground. It's far from the biggest con in the country, with less than two thousand visitors and only lasting a day, but situated in the five story race track building with vast glass windows overlooking the expanse of grassy track (turned by recent weather into a flat of glassy ponds) it is perhaps the most opulent.

Though I would ordinarily spend a convention leisurely drifting from stall to stall abusing the plastic in my wallet, I was taking part in a wargames tournament. I'll save the details except to observe - if you are a UK Warmachine player, Vapnartak is a one day event well worth travelling for, brilliantly organised and judged, with great tables and a broad standard of competition for players new and experienced. I lost three games, won one, enjoyed them all immensely, and to Greg from Newcastle - that last game was a blast. A well deserved win to you.

(Of further note for UK Warmachine players - Guildball, the English designed skirmish minis game made by former Warmachine tournament veterans, had at least as many players, maybe twice as many, and I would be very interested to know whether this pattern is repeated across the country).

Shopping wise, I picked up some new airbrush paints, cleaning fluid, cleaning pot, and some tiny wee flowers to make my models' bases all pretty. Only the very best for my metal dollies. The trade halls burgeoned with demonstration, participation and show games on a huge scale. Recreations of the battle of the Alamo, Stewart pacification of the Scots, a French foreign legion siege, dozens more, all on tables 10 feet or longer lovingly layered with miniatures and terrain. The sort of thing that would have a formative impact on a child.

Two weeks from now I'll be in London for the epic Smogcon tournament. Thank Christ for grandparents. Best beloved, you're a star.

We took the "Make more meeples" action

Eleven months ago, on the train to Manchester, my girlfriend called me and told me she was pregnant. This was unexpected. I was travelling to Manchester for a two-day training workshop on public sector commissioning protocols as they applied to arts organisations, and to meet with a Mancunian theatre with a particularly excellent approach to youth engagement, and for another meeting with an artist-led company with a great reputation for participatory arts practise, and then a daylong meetup of the This +5 Sceptered Isle OSR community. I was not prepared to hear about our fecundity. I skipped out on the OSR meetup. Then (if you've done the maths you'll be way ahead on this one) about two months ago we had a baby.

I say "we". My girlfriend did most of the work. The terrifying, mind-shattering work. I'm surprised that more of the bible isn't about childbirth. Or the Iliad. Literature in general. The canon. Anyway, two weeks postpartum, as if to prove that she is a mad hard bastard who could put a Glaswegian longshoreman into a coma with just her outgoing personality, my girlfriend applied for and got her dream job. Now we're moving to York.

We have a baby, who I alternate between calling Bugglesnuff and Professor Wiggles, and we're moving to York, and I'm going to be a stay-at-home dad. It's all a bit new. All a bit... original. I suspect I might have a thing to write about.