A simple, domestic day today.
One of those other days that don’t make good blog fodder. A day in which your life gets on with itself, and you show up and do what you’re supposed to do, and things fall into place nicely.
They’re pretty rare if I’m honest.
Worth noting then.
Another alarmless lie in. Nobody could have predicted how much I treasure these moments, fleeting though they are. There is a visceral pleasure in waking to your own rhythms, and indeed, falling back to sleep by design should you will it.
A colder day than yesterday, but still sunny. A day when we could keep the French windows open, even though it meant putting on a jumper as the day progressed and the shadows lengthened.
Homework got finished this morning, sitting around the kitchen table in companionable heaps. Me overseeing things whilst doing a bit of knitting. Tilly revising for four hours of pre mock , GCSE mock maths’ papers she has to sit tomorrow, poor soul. Tallulah catching up on some reading. Scrabbling together enough money for tomorrow’s domestic science lesson which will improbably pair hair nets with cous cous salad.
Our adopted son, Lee popping by mid morning, sitting with Jason in the garden, catching up with the things men who like dressing up as goblins catch up on, eating biscuits, drinking tea, smoking naughtily.
Lee pointing out that my blog posts are much less stabby now that my husband is back from the wars. Could the two things be related?
Sharing lunch together. Proper Autumn grub. Beef stew, cooked long and slow in the slow cooker, buttery mash, and heaps of veg.
A trip out in the car in the late afternoon, just for something to do. Aimless, nowhere in mind, we explore a bit. We find an interesting looking cemetery. We like a good cemetery. We crunch round the paths, scrumpling leaves. We spot many Ethels. Clearly once a hugely fashionable name. Now largely shunned. We find a Hepzhibah. We like this. We find an Alonzo. We believe Alonzo may have been a circus performer. His sensible gravestone gives nothing away.
Not even a twinkle.
We take a picture of Oscar, reading, propped up on a grave stone.
His class are having a competition to see who can be photographed reading in the most unusual place.
We think he might have it in the bag.
We drive on in the late afternoon sunshine. We decide, on a whim to go to Peatling Magna and Peatling Parva. We decide we will compare them to see if they deserve their ‘Magna’, ‘Parva’, status.
Parva wins hands down. We feel it probably should have been given the ‘Magna’ status. It woz robbed.
We discuss zombies as we eat up the miles of country lanes.
We always discuss zombies in the end.
We go back and visit a house we once lived in, as we are passing by. We discuss whether we miss it. Oscar says he does, but fails to recognise the house, or indeed, once the house has been identified, which window was his bedroom window. The girls say they do. Jason and I resolutely don’t.
We go further, to a hill where we used to take the kids to roll, sledge, bike down. It looks weeny, teeny, like a new born chick. None of us can now imagine getting excited by rolling down there.
We go the long way home, stopping for junk food and very bad for you milkshakes, which we devour with unashamed gluttony when we get home.
Jason and the children pyjama up and settle down to watch Shaun of the Dead.
I’m filing it away as a pretty perfect Sunday.