They are back. The little dears. They have all gorn orf into the middle distance that is school life.
Back in the jug agane.
It has been surprisingly stress free. Oscar lost his PE kit, but only for about two and a half minutes, when cunning maternal questioning elicited the fact that when I asked him to look in the corner where they dump their school bags for it, he had actually taken this literally, and merely glanced at the corner, without even putting the light on, or excavating the pile of bags.
He was amazed to find it third bag down, but full of excuses: ‘Well. I couldn’t see it properly mama, because you see it was really very squashed deep down.’
The send off was so smooth, that I am now on tenterhooks, waiting for the phone to ring to inform me that a) one of them has been expelled, b) one of them has been run over by a bus and never made it to school or c) one of them has actually taken a bag of dirty washing to school instead of their books.
It is very nervous making.
No news of vital importance here, which is brilliant. I like that sort of life.
I have shredded the leg of one of my pyjamas, which is a bit woeful. To be fair, I stole the pyjamas from Jason ten years ago, when we met, and they drown me. I tread over the hems of the trousers, and it was only a matter of time. Problem was that when I ripped it, I ripped it good and proper, and now one side looks like bermuda shorts with raggedy ass hem, and the other like a giant’s leg. I might even them up and go for the Robinson Crusoe look for 2015.
I have had, for a few weeks now, a sore arm/shoulder which gets worse if I roll over in the night and sleep on that side. I have tried propping pillows round myself like a weird fortress/pillow miser person. I have tried co-codamol. I have tried gin. No avail. Some days I am hale and hearty and ready to do parallel bars with the best of them. Other days I am all ouch and argh. This combined with my erratic periods, migraines and sinusitis, makes for a fun time all the time at my house where I am, yet again, heading back to the Chaise Longue of Doom in the manner of feeble, consumptive heroines everywhere.
My good friend Claire suggested swimming as a cure for what ails me. I know she is right about this. I also know that hell will freeze over before I volunteer to exercise in any way, shape or form that doesn’t involve walking round the shops, or lifting a cup to my lips.
I am going to see a massage therapist next week, who will hopefully unknot me to the extent that I can carry on inflicting injury to my person in the same slatternly way as normal, without having to don a swimming costume.
The roast duck I cooked last night was very toothsome. I had no trouble roasting it at all, and everyone wolfed it down. I bought this one in the Ocado sale for £9, which is about what I’d spend on a decent, organic chicken, so I seized the duckish day. I got the duck for half price, and I have to say that although it was delicious and easy to cook, there wasn’t a huge amount of meat on it, and for £18 it wouldn’t be worth it for us to eat regularly, and not special enough for a fancy dinner. So duck will only be on the menu during sale times, or if I run one over in the car and need to dispose of the evidence.
The whole house still smells of roast duck, however. It is clear that, rather like kippers, ducks are very keen on outstaying their welcome. In between writing this and eating biscuits, I am scouring the kitchen. It turns out that the smell of roast duck is appealing at dinner time. Not so great at breakfast.
I am pleased that in the last few weeks I have learned to make trifle, made a chocolate beetroot cake, and roasted a duck. These are three things that would have been on my culinary bucket list, had I been bothered to make one. Maybe it heralds the fact that this year WILL be the year I grab the macaron by the horns.
Don’t tell me macarons are not supposed to have horns.