Booicus Domesticus

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.’

 

 

4 responses to “Booicus Domesticus

  1. ‘I refuse to believe Mo Farah became a world champion solely because he insisted on having white ankle socks for all sporting activities’

    Damn straight. He wore red or black knee length socks (and if he was anything like my younger brother at the same school, his mum had to keep them in the garden shed because of the smell)

    • I suspect his mother also had to use the shed method of containment too. I shall bear it in mind for Oscar’s future sporting endeavours.

  2. If it’s any consolation (actually it probably won’t be) I’ve been trying to crochet for decades. I’ve been knitting since I was eight and have been trying crochet for almost as long, but it was only last year that I managed to get as far as the bog-standard granny square (at the age of 42) and I still have great trouble going backwards and forwards in crochet without producing trapeziums. It’s very frustrating, unless trapeziums are your thing. I did discover though that aside from the endlessly-going-wonky issue, once you eventually get into the swing of it, crochet is quite relaxing (try to leave the loops quite loose, my problem was pulling them too tight). So hang in there, in another few decades… 😀

  3. It is a consolation. I too am 42. We learned two more stitches yesterday. I have a week to practice them before we embark upon granny squares. I remain unhopeful in the face of adversity.

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