Small Sprog again...

"Can I get out of the car through the window mum?" says Small Sprog after school. I thought for a minute. My initial response on the tip of my tongue was NO! But then I thought, why not? It wasn't going to do any harm, was it?
"Yes" I replied. His face lit up. I opened the electric windows and he was out in a trice. "Can I do it again?" He shouts "Can I get in that way, can I?"
Hum, sometimes one makes the wrong choices! What had I started?

We went to the bank and I was thinking he may have forgotten on returning to the car. Who was I trying to kid. "Can I get in through the window?" He says excitedly.
"Well, it's not possible is it?" I say "'Cause I have to open the door to put the key in to open the window in the first place, there's not point in going through the window when the doors open"
He was crestfallen. My grown up logic was totally boring.
"Hang on" I said as I opened the door and placed the key in the ignition, put down the window and shut the door again "Go on then!" In he got, pleased with himself.
"Your turn!" he squeals from the passenger seat.
I did wonder if anyone was watching the ridiculous turn of events as it unfolded, it can't possibly have made sense to a bystander. (And no, I didn't!)

At tea time he tried to gross his sister out by covering his mashed potatoes with tomato sauce. Instead of building a 'volcacno' of potato and then filling it with red hot 'lava', he had leveled it all on his plate and was zigzagging the sauce too and fro. What happened to the table rule of not playing with your food, I thought absentmindedly as I watched him? I really must try harder.
"That's enough sauce!" was about all I could muster, it was almost mesmerising watching the sauce slowly dribble onto his mash. I must have been tired, what was I thinking?
"Look!" He suddenly exclaims "A Jackson Pollock!"
"Oh Yes" We both exclaim.
"We could sell that!"
I guess Damien Hurst has done worse!

Mrs Dean

‘So have you written that book yet?’ She asked, eyes wide open.

‘Ha!’ I laughed

‘Well, you have the time now’

‘Yes, but I can only write when things are in turmoil, now every thing's calmed down, I’ve lost the inspiration. Besides, life’s all a bit boring now!’

‘Boring? ‘She gave me a look.

‘I know, I know! Not boring, not boring at all’ I smile, slightly ashamed

She understands. Not boring, boring was sharing your life with someone who had lost the will to enjoy life itself. Boring was only having sex once in a ‘Blue Moon’.  Boring was making dinner every night for years on end in a loveless marriage, keeping home, ironing, washing, making packed lunches....No, not boring, just stable now.

There was an acceptance, an acknowledgement between us. I watched her face, surveyed her demeanour. We had known each other for, how long? It must have been 20 years now. Goodness was it really that long since I had moved in for 2 weeks and stayed for 6 months. Was it really that long since she was fussing about having blooming polyanthus in the garden in December?

She must have been 15 years my senior, possibly more, but she didn’t look much different from the first time I’d met her, maybe a little thicker at the waist, but then who wasn’t once one had passed what used to be called ‘Middle Age’. ( What were those pills that people used to buy for the over 40’s when I was a teenager? I can remember Mum buying some to give as a ‘tongue in cheek’ present. I was innocent then, I had wondered what they were for but was vaguely aware of some sort of adult giggling, and there was the – awful - thought that they, or the giving of them, might contain some sort of sexual connotations. Heaven forbid!)

She was beautiful in an assured way, her hair the colour of golden corn, her skin pale and freckled like a child after a day on the beach. There were lines, when I looked carefully, around her eyes, the smiling sort. And her mouth, those lines that smokers get from pursing up their lips for a drag, were just beginning to appear.

She had lost two husbands in her life, both through illlness rather than carelessness. She had owned two naughty dogs, had had two beautiful children. She was now living in two homes, her own, that I had once lived in with her and the house that she shared with her lover...

More moments from suburbia...

At last, the end of year 9 exams and year 6 SAT's! At least both children were suffering during the same week, or was it just me that was suffering?


"How did your French exam go?" I asked Tall Girl after the event. She's not too hot on French and uses Google Translate for her homework, but what can you do?!
"I think I did quite well" She assures me smiling.
"Really?" I say, hoping she doesn't pick up on my incredulity. "What about your written paragraph?"
"Yes" She continues "I wrote loads, and when I didn't know the French words I just wrote them in English"!
"Ah"
What else could I say?


Meanwhile Small Sprog stoically rode to school in the car every morning knowing that there was no way he could get out of his exams. "I hate SAT's" was his mantra all week. On Friday morning he was in tears before school. Not only was he still doing exams but apparently he was due to stand up in front of the whole school in assembly and speak. (This isn't on his wish list of things to look forward to, even though, at home, he is the most gregarious of all of us.) Now if this had been Tall Girl she would have wailed and fussed and there would have been much angst and gnashing of teeth about it for weeks before hand, but Small Sprog being Small Sprog uses the 'Ostritch Method' when anything scary is about to happen; he ignores it until it is almost upon him. Hence me knowing nothing of his up and coming speech until we are on the way to school.


I pass him a tissue to dry his eyes. He blows his nose, thinks for a while and then says "Must be awful being a tissue Mum"
I gave him a weary look
He throws the tissue over his shoulder and says "They must feel so discarded"


Honestly, what am I going to do with him?

This morning I felt suddenly overcome by a sense of freedom and independence. It has been a long time coming but it feels soooo good.

Settling into suburbia...

It's been a few weeks since we moved in now, though it doesn't seem that long as the time has been interspersed with holidays and weekends away, which were all lovely and very welcome. However, here we are, home at last; boxes unpacked, books on shelves, Small Sprog 'goggling' the TV from his favourite sofa, wet towels drying on the bedroom floor and the first stains on the new carpet. Well, to be expected I suppose and at least it wasn't me who spilled the spill.

So far I have still not caved into requests for pets various, though Tall Girl has a friend with a cat who has, inconsiderately, just given birth to several kittens that look adorable, and everyone in the world seems to be getting a new puppy at the moment; I fear a conspiracy, but as I said, nothing furry has passed the threshold. Yet. (Apart from Small Sprog, who seriously needs a hair cut)

The neighbours (we all moved in within 10 days of each other) all seem really friendly and quiet too, which is fantastic, though I'm sure they may not say the same about us, singing in the kitchen can sometimes get out of hand. The man on one side of us plays the piano, but he does it so beautifully it's a complete pleasure to hear him. (I'm not sure he would say the same of our singing) but there's the problem. 'The Man Next Door'. Well not him exactly, not 'him' at all in fact, just his name, both their names. I have this dreadful habit of forgetting as soon as I'm told a name!

I was sensible when I was introduced to the neighbours the other side, I must have been concentrating, and I came inside and wrote their names down; Paul, Maxine and Louis the dog. I wasn't so clever with the 'nextdoors' on the other side though. He introduced himself as I was leaving the house and before my car had rolled off the drive the name had gone, poof, out of my head forever! Now is it just me or is that normal? Perhaps my age is catching up with me? Though, come to think of it, I think I've always been this bad.

Anyway, yesterday as we unintentionally 'put out the bins' together he gives me a cheery 'Hello Suburbia' just like that. He can remember my name, I have no idea of his. What can I do? Suggestions below please!

So that's it so far folks. Riveting isn't it? A regular life, settled, a home of our own blah di blah. It has occurred to me, as I write, that here I am again putting bins out in unison, that there may be multiple gardening occurring on sunny weekends, that washing will flutter daintily on several washing lines on a Monday morning. From suburbia, there seems no escape!

(One day a house in the country, one day, maybe...I can always dream)