I’ve been being rather Victorian this week – a head cold, combined with a migraine (the two things probably linked. My sinuses and my migraines are having a love affair I strongly disapprove of), and then, bending down to pick my pants up yesterday morning, my back clicked out, and I spent the day hobbling round arthritically, emitting a series of low moans.
It was not my intention, as a child, to become a weak and feeble human being, or a poor substitute for one, but that is what seems to be happening.
The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.
Let me think about what you’ve missed:
I’ve been on a trip to the local synagogue with the school. I loved it. I don’t really care what the children thought of it. I found it fascinating and could have hung about for hours, asking questions and being hugely nosy.
I went into school one afternoon and talked to the children in Year Four about my grandad, Victor Harold Oxford, and his experiences during WWII, because that’s the topic they’re doing this term. WWII, not my grandfather. I have his RAF records and photos of him swanning about in Iraq when it was still called Persia, and lots of silly stories that kept the children from rioting for half an hour. I enjoyed myself immensely.
Our garden project is back on track, with our designers coming up with a way I can have my fence made of reclaimed doors. We won four doors on EBay for £15, which Jason went to pick up last night. He wasn’t best pleased, as due to my back, I was entirely useless being his glamorous assistant, and merely crunched about in the background in a rather hunch backed way, boiling the kettle in the manner of a distressed midwife. He has now purchased fifteen more doors from a reclamation centre in Nottingham, which he has to pick up on Wednesday. I cannot go with him, as I am chaperoning the choir to the Age Concern centre where we will sing carols at the elderly until they give in.
I am hugely unpopular with both Jason and the elderly, for this very reason.
I have started some Christmas shopping. It was not what I would call a raging success, but it has dampened some of the shooting tongues of panic that assail me every time I hear someone uttering anything remotely related to festivities.
I am hating Christmas with more of a vengeance than ever this year, and cannot wait for the time when I am able to have nothing to do with it but eating copious quantities of Panettone and drinking champagne until I fall asleep into a trifle.
I have read many books – including Eva Ibbotson’s gloriously wonderful, The Secret Countess, which, if you like ridiculous, Heyer like romances, you will love and should read immediately. I enjoyed it as much as the Cazalet Chronicles and it is the only thing that has lifted the gloom of the fact that I have finished them and there are to be no more.
I tried watching television in a casual, devil may care way, last night when my back was plaguing me and I was ensconced on the sofa. I have lost the art of it, dear readers. I just could not enjoy trash, Children in Need, quiz shows, or pointless telly of any kind. Jason tried to get me interested in this new Dracula series with Jonathan Rhys Meyers but turned it off after twenty minutes when I drove him mad scoffing at their utter failure to get any period detail right and lamenting the bastardisation of a perfectly good story. The art of staring at the box is now lost to me, perhaps forever.
Jason has spent the day hacking up large lumps of metal in the back garden, which he and his friend are now dragging through the house, leaving all the doors and windows open and churning mud along my wooden floors. It is a good job my back is still too knackered for me to even think about having done any cleaning today or I would now be weeping like a girl. As it is, I intend to throw a blanket over things, cook some sausage and mash and ignore the whole bally lot of them.
The girls are spending the weekend with their father in London. He has taken them to see Gravity already, and they are doing all kinds of activities that will mean they will return shattered and vaguely disconsolate to the homestead, totally uninspired by the prospect of another week at the coal face of education.
Much like Oscar and I, without the activities.