As ever, I am with the busy.
This is, to be fair, because I like to clear certain swathes through the week to accommodate my own needs/wants/desires.
If I didn’t do this, and was just a total martyr to the cause, I wouldn’t be half so rushed and manic. On the other hand I would spend all day inside, weaving face cloths out of melon rind, and making my own entertainment whilst thinking about what delicious wheat germ laden goodness to inflict upon my children for their tea.
Then, after three weeks I would go completely fucking postal and burst out of the house to murder everyone.
So, I think I prefer the manic bouts, compensated for by moments of utter joy/loveliness/stupidity/friendship that make life totally worth living.
The pub quiz was fantastic. I drank red wine. I gesticulated and pontificated knowingly about things I knew nothing about. I was extremely on the ball about theme tunes from sit coms, pictures of famous comedians and thanks to Douglas Adams I did know that Norway has the longest coast line in the world. So more power to my elbow.
On the other hand I failed to know that there are about six and a half million people in Kazakhstan and that Hitler was born in the 1880s.
I shall remember for next time, or possibly not.
This morning I rewarded myself for not throwing myself under the dining table in despair as Tilly fell over for the nineteenth time this week (it is like living with Norman Wisdom at the moment), Tallulah made me sign her planner for the third time (you did it in the wrong places before), and Oscar discussed the sexual habits of the queen bee in graphic detail, by going to my second ukulele class.
I love our ukulele teacher. He has three names, which I always think is rather dramatic, and possibly an indicator that a person is a spy: ‘you can call me Simon, or Mark, or Toff.’ We settled on Mark this week. He also wears houndstooth check trousers with braces, and mislays his glasses with gusto.
On top of this, he is infinitely patient and always finds something marvellously encouraging to say, even if you’re plonking away like an organ grinder and his monkey. This week he cheerfully led us through ‘All Right Now’, ‘Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree,’ ‘Blueberry Hill’, ‘La Bamba’ and ‘Jolene’.
Jolene was my favourite. Mostly I played it in the chord of C because that is the only one I can confidently do when my fingers decide they’ve had enough. Sometimes I just put the uke down and sang with gusto instead.
I promise you, the best fun you’ll have in a Quaker meeting house for a fiver, ever.
After ukeing I went for lunch with my adored friend Kim. We ate posh sausage sandwiches which had the secret ingredient of hash browns in them. Oh. My. Lord. NOM.
I went home and did laundry, and dish washers, and food preparation, and posted letters, and worked very hard until it was time to go to granny’s house and blow things up.
Most years Jason manages to either blow a hole in the grass, set fire to a tree, burn down a picnic table, or cause a rocket to do dangerous things in close proximity to human faces. It is always exciting.
This year he did the rocket thing, and almost set fire to mum’s summer house, which was reassuring, because if he hadn’t it wouldn’t have been the same fine, family get together we have come to know and love.
And also we might have thought he had been snatched by aliens.
Which would never do.