As this week rumbles to a close I would like to think that the powers that be might possibly pop a small medal in the post for me. Nothing too flashy, something simple and understated with: ‘Yay! You didn’t cry or murder anyone this week. Well done team Boo.’ on it.
I am absolutely done for, and am barely capable of stringing sentences together, but before I wrestle with homework and the promise of Gogglebox to come I shall offer you a few morsels from the week.
I have been to a very long Kids from Acorn Antiques rehearsal, saved only by the fact that I have discovered some renegade parents and we now sit, giggling on the side lines. We were so giggly this week we were actually told off. I felt that this was a huge achievement.
I have taken the cat to the V E T for her yearly MOT and jabs. Luckily for me she had forgotten all about the infernal cat basket of doom since last year and I managed to lure her inside and into the basket without loss of blood or limb. The other good news was that I had forgotten that I am now paying for the cat’s MOT by direct debit, and therefore didn’t have a big fat bill to pay up front. Hooray for me!
I am particularly pleased that the V E T visit went well, because I had forgotten about the singing teacher and Oscar’s maths tuition and everything was a mad dash this evening which would not have been helped by being lacerated by the cat or by having to chase her round the kitchen blinds for three hours.
My husband took me out on a date today. We get to do this about twice a year without interference from children, pestilence or natural disaster, so it was a real red letter experience. We ate lunch together. He bought me a locket which was what I had wanted for my anniversary, but I wanted to choose it myself which is why I didn’t get it on the day. It was lovely, the lunch and the locket together. He’s quite lovely too.
I have shovelled books for the day in the school library, disturbing several tonnes of accumulated summer holiday dust and finding eighty million copies of Berlie Doherty’s Street Child, which I am sure is a very worthy book, but I am not sure we need that many copies. I am thinking of building an annexe to the library with them.
I have written words every day. My book is progressing. I am nearly at 80,000 words now, which slightly staggers and frightens me simultaneously. I have participated in my first word race/sprints, thanks to my ace friend Kate who introduced me to them. It is helping enormously with getting information out of my head and onto the page. It is still not a thing of beauty, but it is a thing, and growing more thingy every day.
I have filled out many school forms and permission slips, most of which need to be accompanied by cold, hard cash. Tallulah is doing home economics this term. I weep dearest ones, I weep, for it is awful. This week she has made ‘sauce’ with spaghetti. The ‘sauce’ turned out to be a tin of tomatoes with some frozen pepper in it. She also made lasagne. It is like no other lasagne on earth. Firstly it had no béchamel sauce in it whatsoever. Secondly it was full of sweetcorn, and thirdly it tasted like a tupperware box with some badly grated cheese on it. I am not sure what she is learning, except to fear the home economics teacher. I have also had to fork out for two hair nets, because her first one fell into the ‘sauce’ and had to be abandoned.
Tilly is thrilled with college. She has met a child whose real name is Shaman, been serenaded, learned to distrust all hot drink vending machines and seems to spend quite a lot of time drawing pictures of Scott Pilgrim. So that’s all good.
Oscar and his new teacher are having slight disagreements with each other. She thinks his constant questioning of everything in the universe is a) quite annoying and b) done to irritate her. She also thinks his farting is evil and that he should take it outside. I may have to go and see her to tell her that a) yes it is annoying, but at least he is showing an interest and engaging with what she is saying, and b) he is just pedantic so she had better get used to it. I also think his farting is evil and he should take it outside, but this has not been of any use to me in the entire nearly nine years he has been in my care, so I doubt that one academic year with her is going to improve matters.
Really I should send her a note with what my grandad used to say to me written on it when I ‘thought’ something.
‘You know what thought did?
‘Followed a muck cart and thought it was a wedding.’