I dream of gin

In the back of my mind there are many ‘hilarious’ posts queueing to be written about the state of the nation, my wryly amusing take on the universe, jam, tax laws etc. But mostly in the front of my mind I am like the White Rabbit from Alice, and I do not seem to have stopped scurrying about at death defying speeds for about a month. This means there is no chance that I am going to amuse you this morning, and every chance that you will leave this post as bored as I am by the endless, random domestic trivia that surrounds me at the moment.

Tallulah’s actual birthday as opposed to her birthday feast, went as well as could be expected on a school day filled with exciting chores which involved me and the children stuck in a Spec Savers in a deserted shopping precinct at six o’clock in the evening. I suspect that should a zombie apocalypse start any time soon, it will start at Spec Savers.

Regardless of any impending zombie apocalypses, Tilly now has new glasses and even, heaven help us, prescription sun glasses. Prescription sun glasses that she has only taken out on a jaunt once,and has already managed to leave at a friend’s house. I fear we will spend much of our summer holidays rounding up lost sun glasses like an optical One Man and His Dog.

Tallulah is going through the routine of endless plays, counter plays (hons in the airing cupboard), awards ceremonies, assemblies, etc that make up the life of someone who is about to leave primary school forever. I could attend all these events, were I of a mind. I am resolutely not of a mind. She is wound to such a fever pitch now by varying massive emotions that are battling for control of her tiny frame that it is like living with the bastard love child of Pol Pot and JLo. The less time we spend together at the moment, the better it is for the both of us, and the more chance she stands of living to be thirteen.

On the other hand she has done us proud in her SATS, achieving high level fives all round. We are all thrilled. She more than anyone, particularly with her maths results, as she worked so very hard for those.

Oscar attended his new school yesterday for the morning. Things went better than predicted, which is good, because they were predicted to be about as bad as it gets. The constant reminder of enormous bribes in the shape of a visit to Pizza Express and a dessert as big as his face seemed to do the trick and he got through this morning with only a cursory weep and came out looking rather brittle but much more like his normal self. It has given both of us hope that September might not be such a gigantic steaming turd as we thought.

I have tested my new recipe book to the limits of human endurance. The wheels did not fall off. Yesterday morning saw me cooking up a storm while Oscar was at his new school. It was the summer festival at his old school in the evening. The summer festival is a tradition where parents sit on a damp school field for two hours while the children perform solo and ensemble pieces and eat soggy tomato salad out of tupperware containers. We have been going now for several years since Tallulah took to the stage. We have never picnicked until yesterday when I decided that we would go out on a high.

I made baba ganoush, fattoush, potato salad, radishes marinaded in oil and lemon, spring onions with coriander and chilli, broad bean, mint and pea salad. I made frittata stuffed with paprika fried potatoes. I went picnic crazy. It all tasted lovely and it kept me suitably busy and stopped me wringing my hands with woe all yesterday morning. Top marks.

The festival was the best one yet, largely I suspect, down to the fact I had a full belly, and it did not rain, and the grass was only a bit damp. Oscar’s cheer leading routine went down very well and he only failed to be in time once or twice. He had a blast up on stage and it was nice to see him with a smile on his face instead of his current, slightly anxious grimace. Tallulah sang like an angel, but the sooner the Taylor Swift obsession finishes, the happier we will all be.

Jason arrived from Berlin last night looking slightly harum scarum due to the fact that it was 39 C with 95% humidity and thunderstorms so bad he was grounded at the airport for several hours while everyone worried about turbulence and what to do if you’re hit by lightning. He is working from home today, which is good, as Tilly woke up with an upset stomach and is not fit to come on the school run with me.

The cat brought in a baby bird one evening this week. I cannot recall which one, evening – not bird. It is all so high octane every day blurs into the next. The rescue operation involved Tilly flapping as much as the bird, lots of avian crap, and a tornado of feathers and fur. A filing cabinet was involved. Filing cabinets always seem to be involved with the various pet rescue operations that take place in our house, mainly due to the fact that the cat always brings what she catches into the office. I think it is an offering to Jason, even when he is not there.

We came third in the pub quiz this week. I have learned that there are eight states in the USA that begin with M. Do not ask me to name them all now. I have learned that your thirteenth wedding anniversary is lace (I do not want any, should our marriage survive this long), and that a catawba is a type of grape. This will be invaluable to me in the future, possibly in the zombie invasion, should there be a sudden death quiz question over who to eat next.

I have started flinging clothing into desultory piles for our holiday. I have not really grasped the concept that we are going on holiday tomorrow yet. There is too much else to think about. Mostly the universe has grasped the fact that we are going however. My period started last night and I have the most horrendous stomach cramps this morning, and am so bloated I look like I might actually have swallowed a child at the summer festival yesterday by mistake. There is nothing like the prospect of five hours in a car on the M25 to make you feel good about this state of affairs.

To add to this, I put the washing machine on last night before we went to bed, and woke up this morning to find that it was flashing some error code and had all the washing trapped inside it. I was, as you can imagine, intensely relieved about this. I do not feel a morning has sufficient drama to it until we have had some kind of domestic tragedy which will only add further layers of complication to an already frantic day. Having your washing machine fall apart less than twenty four hours before your holiday commences is surely one of the best domestic tragedies money can buy? Jason is currently trying to wrestle the clothes out of the machine. I have tried, and failed. This is not unexpected.

I am writing copious notes to my poor, dear mama, who it seems will be moving in with a tortoise, a cat bent on the destruction of all winged beasts in a ten mile radius and a washing machine which is becoming an anarchist and refusing to do as its told. I feel very sorry for her.

Sorry mum.

To keep you up to date on further domestic issues, we are slightly nearer resolving the issue of someone coming to tile the shower, although we still have no shower, and it will take at least another fortnight before anyone vaguely competent may or may not show up. We are not speaking about the front door any more. Apparently there might be a door restoration man coming today. I do not believe this for an instant.

Now I must go forth and juggle my life, and drive and drive, and sneak off for at least an hour to have a Swedish massage, which may be the only thing that stands between me and a nervous break down between now and four o’clock tomorrow, when we may or may not end up in Camber Sands.

2 responses to “I dream of gin

  1. Your life sounds almost exactly like mine about five years ago. Things have definitely got easier as children have grown older and I have grown lazier. Always enjoy reading your posts, but hope you have a lovely break from everything at Camber Sands.

  2. We had a fabulous time. Thank you. x

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