London yesterday was splendid. Even in the grey, wet, freezing March weather which the word ‘brisk’ does not really do justice to, and even though we were in a tearing hurry for the majority of our trip, it still has the power to delight me.
The play was indeed wordy, and I do confess to nodding slightly in the dream sequence scene, but on the whole it was good fun, and had a strong ensemble cast. It’s always a pleasure to see Ralph Fiennes on stage, despite the fact that Andrea’s mum thinks he’s getting to look more like Rigby from Rising Damp with every year that passes. I can sort of see what she means, but not enough to dampen my enthusiasm, which is good.
Mother’s Day went well. There were no alarums and excursions, and we spent most of it at home, which is exactly right. I got to sleep in, which was blissful. I was showered with gifts; a new Kindle, an Amazon voucher to fill the new Kindle with things and a gorgeous print of the Helen Oxenbury cover for Michael Rosen’s Bear Hunt.
In between domestic chores and homework, including me attempting geometry, which was not a pretty sight, I got to watch the Hockney documentary which had been on BBC2 the day before. I thought it was magnificent.
In the afternoon we went to visit some friends who cooked us a terrific roast dinner with all the trimmings, and plied me with Prosecco, and all in all it was rather lovely. The Prosecco meant I was rather more relaxed about the remainder of the homework when we got back, for which the children were grateful, and I slept like a log, for which I was grateful.