It is Monday. At this stage in the week I feel I am capable only of random, disjointed stuff:
Oscar is having a Tudor dress up day at school in a fortnight. I will be away in furrin climes, thus necessitating me thinking about what the hell I am going to come up with now, so that I can prepare the necessary for granny. Jason said: ‘No expensive clothes!’ which is fair enough, and I’m not entirely sure where I’d buy a Henry VIII fat suit for an eight year old boy even if I did have the money.
The Tudoring of small boys requires imagination. And considerably more coffee. I shall call it a work in progress.
Tallulah is outward bounding today. She is more resigned than of yore, which is good. I had envisioned her wrapping herself round her chair like a boa constrictor and refusing to budge. I think she has weighed up the outward bounding versus whatever a cookery teacher who thinks eleven year olds who embrace cous cous salad might like, and decided on reflection that rock climbing is the lesser of two evils.
I went to a craft and textiles fair yesterday in a rather posh little village not too far from here. It was at the Leicester Grammar School which has now moved from Leicester to said posh little village, and set up in rural splendour and acres of educational excess funded by wealthy parents. The thing I was most jealous off was the fact that there was a coffee shop for parents and visitors in the grounds. It has always been my firm belief that all schools should have a coffee shop in the grounds. It would be spectacularly profitable and do away with the need for Christmas raffles forever.
The craft fair itself was like the curate’s egg, good in parts. It was £8 for adults to get in and a fiver for students. There were no cash machines, no internet access and therefore no ability to pay for anything by card. One thing anyone who dabbles in textiles will know is that materials/wool/yarn etc is not cheap. I wonder how the stall holders fared, given the fact that temptation to overspend was clearly not going to be indulged by anyone unless they were willing to drive a mile and a half to the nearest cash machine.
The steep entrance price covered a series of workshops which ran through the day, and which had I been better at crafts, and not had children in tow, I might have enjoyed. As it was, I thought it was rather steep for people who were effectively browsing and rubbernecking like we were. Plus points were that we saw some absolutely stunning quilts, there were some gorgeous silks from Japan and everyone was very friendly. Minus points were that although there were quite a few people spinning yarn, there were only a few wool stalls and most of the wool on offer was not for me on aesthetic grounds rather than anything else.
Jason was relieved I walked out having only bought three raffle tickets. He was even more impressed when Byron in Leicester made good on their promise of a free meal this weekend, to make up for the fiasco of the one we had there last weekend. I have to say that everything they promised and failed to deliver on last weekend came good this weekend. We had a fantastic meal, served by a brilliant and helpful waitress and were properly impressed.
The money Jason was able to save on my failure to buy wool/drain his bank account in other ways, will now be spent hiring a plumber to fix the toilet in the children’s bathroom, which after months of behaving in a temperamental manner, and having been blocked twice by the children last week (do not ask), finally died yesterday. This is judgement on us for finally having sorted out the freezer, and having managed to go to the tip last week. You take things off your list, the universe just adds others. Karmic bastard that it is.
We watched Dr. Who. We did not love it. None of us loved it. We had hoped for great things after the last two episodes made us feel that the Dr. was back on track. This time we felt the story was weak, and really just a vehicle to set up the Dr. meeting Clara’s boyfriend. We are getting more disillusioned by the week. Meh. It was my one consolation for the fact that Bake Off finishes in a fortnight. I shall have to embrace the new series of Grand Designs instead. Which is just not the same. Kevin hardly ever meets the Sontarans.
I am finally feeling mostly human after four days of feeling like an aged badger’s rear end. I can walk without making hissing, indrawn sounds. I can bend without going ‘oohyah’ and I no longer wake up believing someone has kindly decided to rearrange my pelvis in the night. I still, however, have incredibly sore bosomage. As my friend so aptly put it once when we were discussing the rigours of hormonal slavery: ‘It feels like I’ve trapped my tits in a drawer.’ I can express it in no finer way than this.
There will be no hugging today.