Tuesday, 3 December 2019
Cut to the quick
The beast and I went up past the allotments to walk in the woods at sunset today. There were all the browns and muted colours of winter and peace and head space. It was just us and the wild things. Bertie ran about making sure we were safe and that nothing was lurking in the undergrowth.
I managed the 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo which felt good. I just need to keep up the momentum now, which will be trickier.
I am thinking about Instagram. Should I be there? I don't really have any lovely things to photograph, that is the main problem I think. Just the brown things, of which the dog is one. Maybe the dog should have an Instagram account. I follow Alice Hoffman's dog you know, and very lovely she is too. But brown dogs photograph less well, so I am wondering if I need a more Instagrammable dog. Something in beige or light grey. It's a slippery slope.
The biggest boy was doing his French homework the other day. I peered over his shoulder. The question, written in French, was, Which do you prefer, holidays at home in the United Kingdom or holidays abroad? I read through his answer a couple of times.
Me: Does that say that you like to go abroad but your parents have no money and don't like to do anything risky?
Him (after a long pause, then a smile which he clearly intends to be winning): Pretty much.
Me: I wonder if you should add in that your mother likes to be eco-friendly and therefore is not one for jetting off about the place willy-nilly, but conscientiously sticks to her principles, for which I greatly admire her and one day I hope I grow up to be just like her?
Him: We've got Health and the Environment coming up, that would go better in that topic.
Hmph. It better had. I do risky stuff. I cycled around Morocco on my own several hundred years ago and more recently I've been down the underpass near the big Tesco and eaten a samosa that was three days out of date. Honestly, they think I don't live.
It strikes me that children's homework must be quite revealing about their lives. Right from Year R when their Best Day Ever was going to the park and having an ice-cream or seeing Mickey Mouse at Disneyland, through to Year 11 when it's a damp week in Wales with the poverty-stricken olds or a month skiing in Barbados with excitingly risky parents. The littlest boy is not above making things up, which puts us in a much better light, although sometimes I have to admit it is alarmingly violent and pretty much unsupervised. I am waiting for a knock at the door.
I hope all is well out there and you are all being suitably risky and well-travelled. Mind how you go.