In the end I got to see neither Philip Glass and Leonard Cohen nor the England v South Africa rugby final. Instead, I spent Saturday evening inspecting the special care baby unit at Dorchester County Hospital (it passed).
My daughter Rachel went into premature labour while on a weekend away to celebrate her boyfriend's birthday, which he will from now on have to share with his son. All three are doing well, with the help of a bright, spanking new NHS hospital and its staff in Dorset, and I am now the grandfather of a bright, spanking new Wessex Boy.
I haven't yet managed to persuade Rachel and her boyfriend to name him Phil, after Time Team's 'King of Wessex', Phil Harding, or even Tolpuddle, after the martyrs who came from just up the road. At the moment, for some reason, they're favouring Stanley, which I've warned them will get abbreviated to 'Paki' in the playground (think about it) but they're too high on parenthood to care.