What news on the Rialto I hear you cry?
Because we all love Shakespeare and any chance to say ‘What news on the Rialto?’ is a happy moment, or indeed, my long felt, but as yet unfulfilled desire to ‘Exeunt pursued by bear.’
I digress. This is what I do. It will be the title of my autobiography: ‘Digressions of a middle aged nobody.’
Let us do bullet point stylings:
Stress levels are high, veering from hysterical to that awful calm that means things are so stressful you just give up trying to express how stressful things are. If I were the shipping forecast, things would be getting very choppy around Fastnet right now.
I have given up trying to manage things, expect things, or indeed think further ahead than what we might have for tea (probably toast based items), because anything other than that is totally beyond me at the moment.
I have guests on Monday. Instead of cleaning my house, which is a hell pit, I have been digging ground elder out of the borders and planting hydrangeas in buckets. The hydrangeas will probably die. I love them and buy them regularly, and kill them just as regularly, but there are some mistakes in life we are destined to repeat ad nauseum, and my inability to resist a hydrangea is one of them.
Despite stress levels rising, I fitted in a jaunt to Ikea yesterday with my friend Nicki and mum and dad. I actually like going to Ikea. I find it quite soothing following the little path and guessing what the Swedish name for some outlandish thing that might be a hat stand is. I also love the Market Place which is full of things I decide I really need. I did very well to only come out with a galvanised bucket and two hydrangeas (see).
The girls have gone to their dad’s for the weekend. I am hoping Tallulah gets some sleep while she’s there. She starts SATS on Monday. She is looking forward to doing them, which is good. I am looking forward to them being over. Oscar also does SATS this term. His teacher doesn’t tell the class they have SATS so they don’t worry about them. This is good, because Oscar is a worrier. As it is, he is in blissful ignorance, and long may he remain so.
Tallulah has her first holy communion on Sunday 18th. Instead of the once a week practice, there are two practices next week, and then the big event. They have been working up to this for months. I do not understand what there is to talk about, given that they have been meeting for an hour, once a week since the beginning of January. Is there really that much mileage in it? Really? Or is it just another one of those things where they think that if they get you to hover around the church long enough you will eventually join due to the fact that they have worn you down until you can no longer fight the good fight?
I am trying as hard as I can to blot all of this religion stuff out. We have the dress, we have the shoes, I will go to church to see the deed. Jason will not. He point blank refuses to go. Given his disgraceful behaviour at the Christmas concert where he tried to poke a glow stick in granny’s ear and made very loud comments about farting, this is probably for the best. Tallulah will be grateful he isn’t coming, as will the rest of the congregation. Once it is over we will all go and eat a celebratory lunch somewhere, not necessarily to celebrate what they would like us to celebrate, i.e. that Tallulah is in some way now wedded to the church, but the fact that we as a family have survived yet another ordeal without killing anyone. After that I am hoping she turns to the dark side so we don’t have to worry about impending confirmation. I find the rules of Catholicism so punitive. It’s like being on a very fierce committee where you are always put in charge of the bottle stall and can’t see any way of getting out of it.
Finally, my grated thumb is on the mend, although it did its best to cover me in blood on Thursday night when I did it, and Friday night when I got up. You wouldn’t think a grater could do that much damage, but it is a pretty impressive wound, albeit received in an unimpressive way. I hope I don’t die of it. It would be mortifying to have to explain the cause of death.