None of us can quite believe we are into the second week of term. There is, it seems, still that residual, sneaky feeling that a week should surely be enough of anyone’s time spent in school. Anything more than that is really pushing it.
Oscar was reluctant to go this morning, complaining of tummy ache, and not even a glorious Autumn morning, and swishing through leaves on his scooter cheered him up. As has been the case every day, however, he had a splendid day and got his first party invitation. He is most pleased with himself.
Tallulah is exhausted. She is still enjoying school, although PE is her bete noire and she loathes it with a passion undimmed. This is not helped by having two old school style PE teachers who give out detentions for things like not having the right coloured socks. I foresee that I may be having to don the old ‘Outraged of Knighton’ cloak and going down there to do battle in future. I refuse to believe Mo Farah became a world champion solely because he insisted on having white ankle socks for all sporting activities, and nothing anyone can say, short of a signed affidavit from Mr Farah himself is going to sway me on this.
Tilly had lots of double lessons today, which is never her favourite. Relief came when the fire drill broke up the monotony of double business studies. Huzzah!
Good things that the girls report include a new teacher who is apparently ‘very cool’. He has been christened Satan Jesus for some indeterminate reason. He is known to steal crisps from pupils, and according to Tallulah he walks rather like Mick Jagger. I am agog. Sadly neither of the girls have lessons with him, so it is not worth going to parents evening AGAIN. Rubbish.
The last time I voluntarily went to a parent’s evening was to go to see a teacher improbably named Mr. Barnacle.
I am ‘that’ sort of parent.
On the domestic front, I have buckled down to domestic servitude today. It had to happen. I realised the last time I seriously cleaned the house was before we went to London. I revolted even myself.
The house is now sparkling. Even Tiberius has been given clean sand in her tortoise table.
I am still battling the crochet. I nearly broke my crochet hook I am crocheting that fiercely. So when I went to the wool shop for advice on my difficult, difficult, lemon difficult hat that I am knitting, I bought a spare crochet hook just in case. I am better at crochet than I was. I say this like it was difficult. A Pobble who has no toes was better at crochet than me five days ago. I have now managed to crochet things.
When I say things, that is the best description I can come up with, and I have quite a wide vocabulary. Usually I like to make things with all my practice pieces of craft, but imagination fails me when I look at the sad and sorry scraps I have accumulated. It will probably be some kind of installation which I will call; ‘Sweat and Despair.’