Crikey O’ Reilley’s trousers, the days are going nowhere aren’t they? I cannot keep up.
In an effort to pin things down. Here is some stuff:
A large gang of mums and kids went to the pub after school on Friday, including me and mine. It was supposed to be a glorious celebration of spring in the style of Fotherington Thomas, but with more beer and crisps.
The weather had been beautiful earlier on, but as we processed in a messy gaggle to the pub, it got steadily colder and colder. When we arrived, the grass in the garden was off limits due to the fact that it was mostly mud with grass seed on it. Things went down hill from there.
Instead of a lazy late afternoon of warmth and relaxation we had about fifteen children crammed on two benches covered in bird shit, coats wrapped around themselves, moaning because they were cold. We corralled ourselves from the stalwart outside smokers and sat shivering with lemonades in a truly British fashion. Any European worth their salt would have sodded off home by this point and cracked open a bottle of Merlot, but no. We persevered.
By the time we left, I literally had no feeling left in my fingers, which was terrific.
Jason cheered us all up by taking us out for dinner, which was good, as I probably would have sliced my own fingers off had I been required to cook at that point.
The weather was quite nice again on Sunday and we took the children out for a walk. Luckily, Jason finds walking about as appealing as I do, which meant that our walk was enlivened by a side trip to Tesco, where we bought lots of picnic food which we took home and ate at the kitchen table because we were utterly bored of nature and half frozen by then.
Did we marvel at the bird on the wing, tra la? Did we spot the precious shoots of new life in the hedgerows? Did we let our hearts soar in exultation of the bird song, etc?
No, we had a huge family argument about the nutritional value of dry roasted peanuts.
Ray Mears would be very disappointed in us.
In other news:
We spent the weekend watching series one and two of Moone Boy, on the recommendation of our friends Ann and Claire. We loved it. If you like Father Ted and The Mighty Boosh, I’d go for it.
In an attempt to be down with the kids, I’m reading Lena Dunham’s: ‘Not that Kind of Girl.’ It’s o.k. I don’t think I’m the right demographic. It makes me feel rather old, and like reaching for a bar of soap and scrubbing stuff. I’m not that kind of girl, clearly.
I made Jamie Oliver’s Chinese pork ribs from his Comfort Food recipe book yesterday. Apart from the fact that it took three and a half hours to make, it was a great hit, which is good, given the proportion of my life I’ll never get back after having stared at ribs for three hours.
It is the last week of term. It has been an incredibly short, incredibly busy term, and this week is going to be even busier than usual. I am trying to take it one, tiny chunk at a time, with the end goal being a large glass of wine on Friday night when I can turn the alarm clock off for a fortnight.