The morning is upon me like a wet dog who wants to shake himself dry all over my sofa.
Whatever. It is reasonably unpleasant.
The weather is just terrible. The rain is falling without cease, bouncing off of the decking and making a mockery of a sham of my beautiful garden. Even the cat does not want to venture forth and she likes the rain.
My son is still not 100% well. He cannot shake an intermittent cough and is miserable this morning with a stuffed up nose and a sore head. I am sending him to school because I am an evil mother. He is not best pleased with me. He is bundled in a blanket on the sofa, sighing and coughing and occasionally rising out from the depths to regard me with a baleful eye and a gigantic dollop of reproach.
I will spend the day in anticipation of a phone call berating me for sending him into school while he clearly has pneumonia.
Despite the rain it is not cold. It is humid and clammy and just the sort of weather to make my sinuses run a small flag of surrender up the flagpole. My face hurts.
We got a letter to remind us that Tilly is due for some immunisation boosters. I called the doctor’s surgery and explained that she could not have the boosters as she had not been immunised. The chap on the other end of the phone sounded a bit like Peter Kay’s impression of his dad when faced with the alien concept of garlic bread. Garlic? In bread? etc. It took me about ten minutes of patiently repeating the same single sentence over and over again for it to sink in. He then said: ‘Oh’ very abruptly and said: ‘I’ll put down you declined then shall I?’
I went to Pilates for the first time in eight weeks on Monday. I thought I was doing quite well until the last five minutes when Rosella threw in two new moves that left me broken upon the wheel. I have felt slightly like I have been run over by a tram ever since. I think it is her subtle reproach to me for not being more regular in my attendance. If I went every week I would have dealt with those moves with ease. As it is, I creak, I groan, I die.
In better news:
We came second in the pub quiz last night. I learned that they speak Dutch in Surinam and that Roberto Calvi, the Italian banker who was hanged in London, was hung under Blackfriars Bridge, not Westminster Bridge. It makes sense. I’ve never really warmed to Blackfriars Bridge. I like to come away each week with another random piece of trivia to drive my husband bonkers. ‘Why?’ he says: ‘Why do you know things like that? What is the point of knowing all that stuff. You are so random’. I always say: ‘It might come in handy in a pub quiz later.’ Turns out, up to now it is turning out to be quite handy. Brief thanks to my father for his Cliff Richard obsession and years of making me listen to Sir Cliff’s croonings. We did exceptionally well in the music round yesterday. We were Wired for Sound.
Also thanks to my dad for suggesting we go to Melton market yesterday to look for treasure. No treasure was forthcoming but I did buy a very nice rye loaf which the man on the stall told me was called Donker bread. Mainly I bought it for the name, but it turns out to be a very fine loaf. All hail the Donker.
And top marks to me, when thinking of somewhere to go for lunch, for remembering we were not too far from The Chequers at Woolsthorpe by Belvoir. An extremely delicious lunch was procured, and having looked at the inspired cocktail menu I have decided it might be a good place to go for a weekend with my husband some time, so I can spend the weekend sampling the delights of rhubarb bellinis and lounging about with the Sunday papers.
Jason has finally ordered the play house for the children’s secret garden. It is coming in two weeks. To say they are excited is an understatement. i think Tilly is imagining it as a safe haven where she can knit and tend tortoise. Oscar and Tallulah are imagining it as Alcatraz and are already planning where to put gun turrets.
If this weather continues it’s more likely to be an ark than a play house, but we shall cross that no doubt watery bridge when we get to it.