Winter Draws On

I didn’t blog yesterday.

By the time I realised I hadn’t done it, it was already today.  I thought about it (the guilt fairies came out to play and were whispering about me kneeling on pencils etc), but it was 1.30 a.m. and I could hardly see.  I decided to give in to my tiredness and go to bed.

It was a weird feeling.  I hardly ever don’t blog, even when I’ve got nothing to say, as I’m sure you know.  I woke up this morning feeling oddly bereft.  So, fortified by some rocket fuel coffee I am here, beavering away, assuaging the guilt. Mainly avoiding the pencils.

I got a big up yesterday in a Post of the Day over at Authorblog.  Mrs. Jones, who also got a mention for her rather wonderful Autumnal post, nominated me.  I am very grateful.  It’s rather nice to be mentioned in dispatches.  It gave me a bit of a warm and fuzzy glow for most of the day.  Which was good because I had another hideous driving lesson in my free hours yesterday morning and then cooked for ten people, mowed the lawn, weeded the borders and sewed up the giant hole in the trampoline net, all before bedtime.  It was not good. Not good at all.  I have decided that one of the things that pisses me off the most about the driving lessons is the fact that I am paying for the privilege of having my free time eaten up by something that reduces me to tears.  Why? Why? Why? I am insane.

In my free time I did some family tree.  Word has gotten around that I am now the official family chronicler, which is good.  People keep giving me bags of papers and photos and telling me things.  This is also good.  The problem is that there is a lot of it.  Unbeknownst to me my family is bloody huge and kept lots of things, all of which are fascinating and relevant and absorbing, but which need sorting out and logging and scanning and thinking about.  It is incredibly time consuming.  I am beginning to be swamped by paper.  If you hear that I have suffocated in an avalanche of musty old papers, please don’t be surprised.  I will have died happy.

I love the randomness of the things people keep.  At my mum’s house this week I found a wooden box full of my gran’s papers (my mum’s mum).  I took it downstairs, and my mum said; ‘Oh yes! That’s the box your gran said had to come with us should the house burn down.’  As you can imagine, I was expecting treasure.  And there were some important things, documents etc, as well as my grandad’s watch and some medals.  But there were also some old betting slips with racing form written on them, and some menu sheets from when he was in hospital (he ate a lot of stew), and a newspaper clipping about Leicester in the Blitz.  It was all very bizarre.  I’m glad I didn’t have to risk my life saving it in the fire.  I’d have been very annoyed about the betting slips.

It reminds me a bit of when I decided to be an anti archaeologist.  I used to collect shells and stones and stuff from beaches when I was on holiday and then dig them into our back garden at home in a deliberate attempt to foil future archaeologists into thinking that there must have been a small, coastal lagoon in the middle of Leicester.  I’m sure they would have been completely taken in!  And yes. I was a very strange child indeed.

Right.  Enough of the distant past for now.  On to the very much alive and kicking members of the Boo clan.

Tallulah lost her second tooth the day before yesterday.  She made me pull it out for her.  I hate doing it. I hate the crunching noise they make. I am really hoping that as she gets braver she will be able to pull her own teeth out (only when they’re suitably wobbly of course), because after the last one I had to have a sit down for twenty minutes until I stopped feeling suitably green around the gills.  And the tooth fairy did actually remember her lines for the second time running, so much kudos to her for being alert and on the ball.  It will not last.

Oscar’s abiding love for his granny deepens.  He has been asking every morning this week why I have to get him out of bed, and can’t granny do it instead?  He is very disappointed that she has to do things like live with Grandad, and have a job.  It does not fit in with his plans for her at all, which seem to be that they be joined at the hip constantly.  I think he kind of visualises her as a cross between Jesus and the queen.  Hence our conversation of yesterday morning:

Oscar: ‘Mama?’

Me: ‘Yes Osky?’

Oscar: ‘Does granny trump?’

Me: ‘Yes Osky. Granny does trump.’

Oscar: (In a tone of total incredulity) ‘NOOOOOOOoooooo she doesn’t.’

Me: ‘Oscar. Everybody trumps otherwise they would explode.’

Oscar: ‘No. Granny doesn’t. She does not.’

Me: ‘O.k.’

Pause….

Oscar: ‘Mama?’

Me: ‘Yes Osky?’

Oscar: ‘Does granny fart?’

Me: ‘Yes Osky.  Because farting is the same as trumping isn’t it?’

Oscar: (outraged) ‘She doesn’t! No. She doesn’t.’

Me: ‘Alright then Oscar. No she doesn’t. O.k.?’

Oscar: (satisfied at last that his utterly stupid mother had provided the right answer) ‘Yes!’

Why, why, why do children ask you questions to which they have already decided they know the answer, even if it’s wrong? It must  be some kind of test, and I fail it all the time.

Later he asked me what Granny’s name was.  I told him.  He was amazed. Clearly that couldn’t be true either.  He asked me several times and then went away to think about it.  He came back with a resolute look on his face and announced that it just wasn’t possible and didn’t I know that her name was Granny? Duh!

Constant testing.  That’s the thing.

Autumn draws on apace.  I am delighted. I am not a blistering sun type person.  I love Autumn the best of all, and if I ever emigrated to sunnier climes it would be one thing I would pine for, along with a decent cheese sandwich. We have had a run of clear blue skies, crisp air and that lovely smell of rotting leaves.  I am wandering around muttering; ‘Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness’ and the children think I am madder than normal.  Delicious.  Oscar is also very pleased, he has dug out his Bob the Builder hat and the scarf that Aunty Squirrel knitted him and is all kitted out.  He announced that he hates the sunshine.  So there!

I have a whole day without the children.  I do not have to drive. I do not have to cook until tea time. I am going to eat crisps and  chocolate and mooch about amongst my musty old photographs.  I may even put my pyjamas back on and lounge decadently among the musty old photographs.  Who knows? I don’t have to decide.  That’s the joy of it.  No planning, no forethought, just idleness and pleasure.  How nice.

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