Holiday snaps

Well, I was going to upload pictures of a lovely day spent at Lincoln cathedral with Mum and the kids, but it's such a ball ache to upload large numbers of pictures to Blogger that, instead, I shall send you to the Flickr page where I've uploaded the pictures, and commented on them. 

In the early mornings, I belong to old men.  I leave the house at 6.30 (must remember to bring my insulated mug home), to walk to the station.  The first person I talk to, most days, is the elderly gentleman round the corner who's just taking his dachsunds for a walk.  They are beautiful dogs: miniature, long-haired.  The older one is black, with a delicate curl to her fur and limpid eyes which blend into her coat.  The younger, more excitable one is brown, with black tips.  She's inquisitive and bright, and always thinks she'd like to say hello to me.  After a sniff or two, she remembers I'm a stranger and barks.  Between the impulse and the memory, her owner and I share How Are Yous.

Then, two corners later, there's the singing alarm clock man.  I overtake him and his wife on the final stretch, these days, but they both Good Morning and smile.

Some days, there's an Asian lady, scurrying over the road with a mug of tea, chatting and giggling for a few moments.

Weekends are altogether different.  There's no imperative to get up, but the puppy sneaking onto the bed makes it unpleasant to stay there, and disruptive to fight him off.  So mostly I'm up by 8 at the latest.  Which does constitute a lie in, admittedly.

This morning, coffee and poached eggs and a snuggle on the sofa with my young son.  And here I am, be-dressing gowned, waiting for the bathroom and wondering what to do.  In fact, there's nothing *to* do.  Well, there's a quilt in the making, and a bit of work to finish, but neither of those are speaking to me at the moment.  I suspect I shall browse T K Maxx for a ball dress I don't need until next month, and go to Boots, to find the wherewithal to remove my moustache.  I harbour fantasies of weekends spent in shared endeavour; children and partner and I all wrapped up in mutual delights, and so I can't help feeling a sharp sense of anti-climax at the prospect of shallow, solipsistic mooching.  But the children are of an age where they don't want to be with their parents in public, and the partner doesn't mind sharing the bed with the dog. 

So in the early mornings, I belong to old men, and at weekends I belong to myself.  It's a strange discipline!

This, mes petits choux fleurs, is amongst the coolest gifts I have ever been gifted.  "Why is that?"  I hear you cry.  Well just look at it!  It's a Billy Bragg (I don't want to change the world, I'm not looking for a New England, are you looking for another girl?) autograph!  Not only is it a Billy Bragg autograph, but it's a Billy Bragg autograph written on an SWP leaflet, and collected at the Make Votes Count rally outside The Work Foundation this very afternoon.  How perfect is that?  Only very perfect!  How many years does that take you back?!  And who would give me such a perfect gift? Well, only my beloved who chose to go and rediscover his activist youth, this afternoon.  Yes, he went in search of his youth and he found Billy Bragg.  So many metaphors...

I am going to frame it, and hang it in my office, thereby firmly establishing my credentials-by-proxy.

So we went to Epsom, yesterday, to the family party.  It was one of those large events, 50 odd guests, designed to show how well my father is coping with my stepmother's new circumstances (mobility issues, dementia, high dependency and so forth), so high on emotion, tension, and stress.  It went remarkably well, but poor Dad was really struggling.

Lots of lovely people there, though - my favourite aunt and uncle; my sister, her husband and two small nephews; the dotty next door neighbour. 

In other news, a friend writes "am sure you must have more hours in your day than anyone else - which isn't fair!  Or perhaps you don't waste as much time 1) drinking 2) watching mindless tv 3) shouting at small children 4) drinking!"  So you might like to know, friend of mine, that I am sitting in front of The Daily Show (Global Edition), with a glass of wine beside me and the laptop on my lap, arguing with Daisy about whether she can stay up a bit later if she uses the time to have a shower or whether bedtime actually means bedtime NOW.  I'm just very practised at looking sober in type...