Tuesday
D’s second day at school and he already he has two party invites. (He’s the only one in this family who has a social life). So that’s two presents to buy and two afternoons spent driving round South London trying to find some obscure leisure centre which has hired itself out to be overrun with manic children. The good thing is that we no longer have to hang around for two hours watching him and his friends hurl themselves on each other then stuff themselves with sugar. They’re far too grown up at five to need Mum and Mummy lurking on the sidelines. The bad thing is that after years of accepting other people’s party invitations, we owe all of them big time. Come January and D’s birthday, we’ll be the ones hiring the leisure centre and babysitting 20 children. The prospect’s already making me shudder.
Get home to special e-Bay delivery of six parcels. The postman looks at me pityingly, clearly thinking I’m a shopping addict. Not me, guv, honest. E is the one who can’t tear herself away from the screen for more than five minutes in case she loses the chance of beating someone else to the top bid on an obscure video.
Monday
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Back to school and D is in love with his new teacher, the blond, attractive Mrs W. He’s got hot competition from the rest of the class, several of whom are clinging to her arms before the bell has even gone for morning assembly on the first day. He comes home with two reading books instead of one (groan) but thanks to the afterglow of a day with Mrs W, he’s so keen he reads them both twice. At this rate he’s be able to read Harry Potter on his own by the end of term. Hope springs eternal.
To work and a late catch-up with The Sunday Times, which reveals that the English National Opera is desperately trying to tempt punters in with the attraction of “singing lesbians”, nudity and sex. Definitely one for opera lovers up from the Home Counties for the evening. Don’t forget the opera glasses so that you can see every detail of hot lesbian action on stage.
Is it just me or is there something depressing about the ENO’s apparent desperation to tap into the nation’s prurience about lesbian sex?
Saturday
Exiled to the garden by E who instructs me to sweep every leaf off the lawn. Otherwise it won’t grow, she says. Actually, it won’t grow because it’s overshadowed by trees and it’s gasping for water because we’re both in such a rush all the time that we never remember to water it. So that’s why it’s a dust bowl with a few fringes of grass instead of an idyllic striped swathe of green. I sweep up as many leaves as I can be bothered to then pretend to E that the rest blew down in a sudden gust of wind just as I finished. She doesn’t believe me.
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D is detailed by E to “help” me. His idea of helping is to scatter the leaves I’ve just swept into piles and turn on the garden tap when he’s been told not to. E wants to put her feet up on the sofa and have a rest because she’s still laid low with a mysterious virus. Health update: our GP has sent her for a chest X-ray and while she waits for the results, she’s been frightening herself by going onto American medical websites which tell her she has all the symptoms of TB.
The queue is out of the door in the local school uniform shop. Good to see that everyone is as disorganised as we are and has only now woken up to the realisation that school starts on Monday and children have to have something to wear. Fortunately, D’s school uniform requirements are pretty minimal, if annoyingly difficult to satisfy. The Friends of the school have a monopoly on sales of school sweatshirts (why?) and operate a cupboard which is open for ten minutes on Monday afternoons when there’s an R in the month, at times when most parents are at work. Very Friendly. We’ve only managed to get hold of a couple because we have an Inside Contact (D’s aunt).
Friday
A quick surf through my mailbox convinces me that we’re quite lucky to have a child who doesn’t complain every step of the way on clifftop walks and doesn’t sit sulking in his pyjamas in the car for 40 minutes. Must give D his due. He only needs bribing with sweets every quarter of an hour and is more of a bosser than a sulker. But believe me, girls, bossy can be very bad (see previous columns). Very bad indeed at five years old.
PS – yes, we knew D’s dad well and yes, deciding to become parents is a massive decision. About as massive as it is (or should be) for heterosexual couples. Good luck.
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