23 Feb

It never ceases to astonish me that a simple trip across the village to drop my son at school and my daughter at pre-school can feel as though it has lasted about 5 days. In my rural-Mummy fantasies, this is a daisy-picking, squirrel-spotting, chatting hand-in-hand time of day. The reality, of course, is ever so slightly different; mad harridan mother (any guesses?) races round the house screaming that we’re going to be late, whilst the children resolutely ignore me, keeping at their own, fixated in the present, very s-l-o-w speed. There follows an extremely wet (I couldn’t find either the coat hoods or an umbrella) and muddy dash to deposit my eldest at the village primary. Naturally, I’ve forgotten his PE kit. My son, being a thoughtful, sensitive child, shames me by being full of concern that I will have to go back home to retrieve it. My daughter, on the other hand, is somewhat more in touch with her own needs and wants, and lets me know in no uncertain terms that I have failed as a mother by not realising (telepathically) that she wanted to bring her favourite doll with her. Still, at least she trots in very happily to pre-school, and I am able to retrace my steps across the quagmire that is usually the village green without too much angst. This makes a huge change from her early days at pre-school, when she would scream blue murder when first left. This was despite the assurances from the staff (who she has known from earliest babyhood) that she always settled down very happily, and my own instincts when collecting a happy, bouncy, child at the end of the session who couldn’t wait to go back again. I have particularly vivid recollections of walking back across the green (the pre-school building is about 300 yards from our house) and hearing her scream ‘help, help’! Before the world rushes in to accuse me of abandoning a distressed child, I did rush straight back to comfort her, a knot of anxiety practically making me retch, only to find her giggling with a gaggle of little girls. She has had a high sense of drama since she entered the world.

I’ve just been down to the stream that runs through the bottom of our garden. During the summer it’s a muddy trickle, but at this time of year it really picks up pace and can turn into a torrent after rain. Even a tiny insignificant stream like this can have such a power sometimes, you can see why people worshipped water gods. Standing in the garden after rain is one of my favourite things to do, particularly at this time of year. You can really feel the life force bursting out all over. I know it’s quite worrying to have daffodils and primroses out already, and tulips in bud, in my north-facing garden (and the primroses have been out since January), but you can’t help but be cheered by signs of the unstoppable, relentless march towards summer. The light seems to take on a different, cleaner sort of quality at the end of February too.

Back inside and I put off doing all the things that I should be doing – like paying bills – to write this. I am one of those people who are usually too terrified to open bank statements. A financial advisor would despair of me. It’s scary really that, as I said yesterday, we moved here for a better quality of life and to keep the wolf from door – yet that must be him I still hear scratching …