A Week In The Life

It’s been a week or so since I last blogged; nice to take a break, sometimes, but strangely hard to get back into the habit once you pause for breath. I don’t want blogging to become another chore; the guilt at not catching up with all those I love to read becoming bigger each day. I think weekly blogging may be the way forward, but then again who knows; some days the words flow and the desire to communicate is there, other days it isn’t. Anyway, a snapshot of my week lies below.

Thursday 21
A friend came to lunch today, and brought with her a large pack of chocolate cookies for the children, the speciality kind which negates all the benefits of their healthy home-made status by having extra-large chocolate chips – slabs really. I told the children about them when I picked them up from school and pre-school respectively. They arrived home hungry and expectant, and headed for the cupboard. No biscuits. No biscuits anywhere, in fact. The children soon got cross and bored with the game of hunt the biscuit, and I could hear my voice becoming strained and manic with forced jollity as I brightly declared, for the thousandth time, that they must be somewhere. They were, of course. In the bin. I looked there in the end, reluctant to believe I could have put them there, but relieved no the less that they’d turned up and they were still unopened – just a little wipe was all that was required to remove the salad dressing and cat food that stuck to the surface of the packet. They had a biscuit each, then later, after tea, asked if they could have another. I agreed, and off we went again, on what was fast becoming a family ritual of hunt the biscuit. It didn’t take me as long this time – there they were in the bin again. I recognise that look of exasperated irritation mixed with amusement on my children’s faces; I used to give the same look to my mother when I was a teenager. My children aren’t teenagers, though; they’re eight and three.

Later, I found the toothpaste I knew I’d bought …. in the fridge. I called a friend to wish her happy birthday, and chatted away merrily, only remembering when I’d put the phone down that I hadn’t mentioned her birthday. I have memories of my former self, striding be-suited across the City, from power meeting to business lunch. Surely I was mega-organised, always on top of things? Memory can be a false friend. When I probe those memories a little deeper, I suppose I can remember rather a lot of hanging around by the water cooler, too, and holding forth in the office kitchen, making yet another cup of tea to break up the day, and endlessly forgetting where I was supposed to be next. I wasn’t this bad though. I suppose it must be my age. Or the fact that I have, with grim inevitability, turned into my mother.

I did remember, though, that it was the longest day (too often I am like Daisy from The Great Gatsby, only in forgetfulness, sadly, with none of the breathless charm: “Do you always wait for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always wait for the longest day of the year and then miss it.”) and proudly uncorked my elderflower champagne. I am having a ‘dry’ fortnight before going on holiday next week, in a vain attempt to become fit and healthy and toned before unleashing myself on the beaches on France. The children, ungrateful little wretches that they are, spat it out, but R and I sat in the garden and watched the clouds – heavy and rain-filled though they were.

Saturday 23rd
I didn’t forget, either, to make a picnic for the school midsummer fun day, which had been planned with meticulous care and attention; the only thing not factored in was the British weather. A quick recce in the morning confirmed that the school field was a mudbath, and the bouncy castle people were cutting up rough. Whack the Rat would have been more like whack the puddle, and the tug of war would no doubt have descended into mud wrestling. My friend and I had both made huge picnics, so we decided to have a big, messy indoor picnic at our house instead. Her four and my two were mollified by the thought of eating on the sitting room floor and not being chastised about crumbs, and the grown ups decamped to the kitchen and ate ourselves stupid, and talked too much, and watched the afternoon slip into evening. Much better than standing on a muddy field.

Sunday 24th
I spent the greater part of the day entranced by an old gardening book, dating from the 1930’s, that I’d picked up once in a second hand shop and promptly forgotten all about. It was amazingly informative, with some gorgeous illustrations. It was written in that brisk, military style so redolent of that era, and which seemed to bracket gardening as a patriotic duty, along with keeping a tidy house and being punctual. There were some outrageous comments – apparently the reason that the English (not the British, of course) are so obsessed with gardening is because we have a greater sense of aesthetic pleasure than other nations, who tend to prefer gaudy, bright colours, the poor fools. Never trust a foreigner who doesn’t appreciate a garden, is the stern message, any more than you should trust a man who doesn’t appreciate dogs. Don’t get me wrong –the bigotry and arrogant prejudice makes me gasp. But I sometimes feel the tiniest bit nostalgic for the confident certainty of past times. I know, I know, that need is what dictators prey on. But just occasionally, I’d like to be sure of myself.

Monday 25th
So here we are, the end of June. Wimbledon starts today. I’m going on holiday in a week. I’m freezing. I want the aga back on. In fact, I want the heating on. The garden is ravaged by too much rain and high winds; the plants are bowed and bruised, petals and leaves everywhere. My strawberry crop was a bumper one; now they are rotting before they’re ready to pick. The herb garden looks like a jungle. I’m on lifeguard duty for after-school swimming at the school pool today; no doubt once again the children will leap in, only for a flash of lightening and an ominous rumble to signal the end of the fun. Everything feels dishevelled and streaming. I’m British. I should be used to it. But I’m not.