As I sit at our dining table, staring out of a rain-spattered window, listening to the wind whistling at forty-plus miles an hour and the television blasting out historical cricket matches watched by my indolent son, I am struggling to recognise the pleasure of Half Term. A suggestion to go Ten Pin bowling has been met with derision by the fourteen year old sloth. Earlier, he briefly ventured up to the Golf Club but was beaten back by the stormy conditions. “Wanna go to a movie”. “Nah, nothing I want to see”. “How about cards?”. “No, done that”. “Are you just going to sit there all afternoon doing nothing?” “Yes”.
But wait, a development even as I write. “I’m going to the astro to play hockey, despite the atrocious weather, I need to get out”. Eureka! I will now feel so guilty that I will probably have to go and join him. Meanwhile, daughter Tiggy has a friend over for the afternoon and a “sleepover” tonight. Somehow just the word fills me with gloom and despondency, knowing the battles that lie ahead to get them to go to bed, to go to sleep, to stay asleep and to wake up early so that our guest can be returned to her working Mother by 0815. I fancy there’s a lot to be said for youthful parenthood and hence youthful grandparenthood. I might try that next time round. Sadly, it seems the slate is wiped clean when we depart this mortal coil and all that useful intelligence is unavailable for the next visit. I have gradually come to think that reincarnation makes more sense than most other religious/scientific theories. Despite a lack of brain transportation from one episode to the next, I would like to think that there is a gradual progression. If I started out as an amoeba, progressed to snail, rabbit, golden eagle and chimpanzee, before attaining Homo Sapiens status, then hopefully I will not now regress. Presumably there is a greater purpose, whereby we subconsciously apply previous lessons learnt to our current brief tenure, which is gradually deepening our soul’s knowledge and understanding. Alternatively it could all be complete baloney. I am just hoping the next visit doesn’t start in China……or North Korea.
I am stuck painfully on the horns of a dilemma. My grass, which has had so much loving care and attention over the past two years, is now of a length that if transplanted onto Oliver’s head would require an instant visit to the barbers if the fearsome wrath of school discipline wasn’t to descend upon him. The problem is that the ground and grass is so wet that if I launch the mighty John Deere, with it’s heavy roller, it will merely turn the Wimbledonesque turf into an arena suitable for mud wrestling. What to do? With an outlook of continued violent weather it is a problem with no imminent resolution. Still at least the house isn’t flooded. Yet.
ADayInTheStrifeOf 