27 February

My aura today is not that of a happy camper. My son belongs to Cubs, and please believe me that I yield to no-one in my admiration of what they provide for boys (and girls these days), and I am equally full of admiration for the volunteers. It’s just sheer bad luck, I suppose, that our local branch seems to be run more along the lines of Hitler Youth. Obviously not, I hasten to add (in case anyone from the organisation should ever see this) in terms of their philosophy, but in the discipline sense. Perhaps a boot camp would be a more appropriate and less potentially offensive comparison. The woman in charge makes rules and sticks to them, and does not do flexibility. My boy is due to attend an overnight camp soon (he’ll be the one with an over-anxious mother peering through the tent-flaps and stalking the camp late at night), and we had to present the permission form, duly signed, last night. My mental faculties seem to be swiftly deserting me these days, causing me to no end of worry in the small hours, and, despite having left myself post-it notes reminding me to take the form stuck to every available surface and even on the door, of course I managed to forget it. I realised half way there, and clutched my hands to my head and groaned like a character in a French farce (never a good idea to clutch your head when driving down country lanes in the dark). I rushed in full of apologies, and I confess I was envisaging some friendly, light-hearted banter about Mums who forget things, and we’d agree that I’d send the form next week. Fat chance.

“No form, no camp. Perfectly clear.”
Yes, and I’m truly sorry, but if you really need it before next week, how about you let me have your address and I’ll post it to you first thing in the morning?”
“No form, no camp. That means form here today.”
“But it’s only on the kitchen table …” I was sorely tempted to say I’d go back to get it, but I had a sleepy toddler in my arms, which she could see perfectly well, and no-one at home.
“If you’ve got a spare form here, why don’t I just sign that one here, in front of you?”
“No spare forms, sorry.”
I then had a moment of inspiration:
“Why don’t I just write that I give my permission for him to camp with you, on the agreed date, and sign and date it in front of you? You can then use that as insurance until you get the correct form.” I could see she was dying to say “No form, no camp” but I think the fact that we were holding up procedures forced her to acquiesce with a curt nod. HONESTLY …I’m beginning to wonder if I want to entrust my boy to her tender care! It wasn’t as if the journey there had been a breeze either, since my son kept up a fifteen minute monologue on Dr Who (trust me, he can do MUCH longer). He was only curtailed because we had to stop to pick up a friend. Eight year old boys – in fact boys of any age, I’m sure you’ll agree, are clearly in early training for competitive male syndrome. The minute he was in the car, the friends leaned forward and said “So, James, ever been on a plane?”( he’s about 6 months older and always assumes the role of the man of experience in their relationship). James said yes, he had, so the friend, only disconcerted for a moment, shot back with “but have you ever flown one?” James confessed that no, he hadn’t (although I suspect that if his mother and sister hadn’t been there he might have been tempted to fib), and the friend proceeded to tell us all about how he’d once … had a go on a computer flight simulation game. At least my mood was mellowed on the way back by seeing two badgers slowly shuffling their way across a lane. I love the way they manage to look so gentle and yet so curmudgeonly at the same time. We also passed a large herd of deer racing across a field in the moonlight. Thankfully, none of them decided to shoot across the road. I had a nasty accident with a deer when I was six months pregnant with my daughter, and have no wish to repeat the experience. I’ve also just read about a fatal accident very close to us involving a deer, a mother and two children which was very sobering.

Today, so far, is turning out to be a bit of a blah day. No money. No work. Washing machine making strange noises. Car needs an MOT. Demands for bills to be paid. Snarling conversation with husband on the phone. Daughter snuffling with the beginnings of a cold. Pouring relentlessly outside. Everything feels streaming, dishevelled and tearful. I really need to will myself into a burst of energy today, but I keep lurking in the kitchen looking for sugary treats. I am supposed to on a no-sugar diet, I think it’s safe to say it isn’t working. I even found myself with a teaspoon and a jar of Nutella last night, and now I’m gazing greedily at the children’s after-school snacks. I need to go and feed the animals, and take a book with me to the pool while they’re having lessons. I’m reading two great books at the moment – Claire Tomalin’s biography of Thomas Hardy, and Mother’s Milk by Edward St Aubyn. I nearly always start two books at the same time, a really irritating habit as it takes me ages to decide which one I’m in the mood for.
Hopefully I will be in a brighter mood tomorrow…