102. But when they seldom come, they wished for come…
“Hoorah! The start of the hols! What shall we do?”
“We could ask Aunty Fanny for a tuck box; then row to Kirrin Island and camp there for the week living on wild berries and lashings of ginger beer. Knowing our luck, there’ll probably be smugglers and we’ll get in a frightful scrape but end up having tea with the Chief Inspector!”
79. More Reasons to be Cheerful…
– I woke up to find that InfantPhenomenon had not after all thrown over BikingLad in order to marry Gordon Brown and
– I spent a coupl
e of hours in the sunshine playing with my garden whilst listening to podcasts of In Our Time – (I’m partial to a bit of Melvyn) and
– I now know very slightly more than nothing about Classical Humanism (it was Roman) and the Medici family (they were Italian) and
– I’ve made a small impact on the jungle we inherited but still lots to get my teeth into and
– I wore my new fingerless gloves what Ma made me for Christmas and
– drank coffee from my new thermal mug what Secret Santa gave me and
– ate a toastie from the toastie-maker what Mrs Castle gave me and
– I’ve got a rather good detective novel on the
go and
– Ma wasn’t too traumatised by receiving fourteen garden gnomes for her birthday and
– Pa said at least it would be someone to talk to and
– we’ve managed to rearrange the bungalow to squeeze in Young Lochinvar and Ms Tintin while they look for alternative digs – preferably somewhere that doesn’t give you an electric shock when you turn on the light and
– there’s still a week of the Christmas holiday left and – Oh joy unconfined! Verily rejoice! –
– there’s a whole year before we have to do any more Christmas shopping.
Mind you, the 99p shop is already selling Creme Eggs.
62. But the days grow short…
The phone rings. Even from Sorrento, Ma and Pa still need to keep check on us in case we do anything risky, like crossing the road or forgetting to breathe. Conversation is made more interesting by a combination of poor line and poor ears.
“There’s something wrong with the internet here,” she shouts. “We couldn’t get this week’s Jelly Chronicles.”
“I haven’t done one!” I yell back. “I’ve done nothing but work.”
I can hear Ma telling Pa that my computer doesn’t work. I take a deep breath and have another go. “I said ‘I’ve done nothing but work’. It’s been really busy. Can you hear me, mother?” Click.
60. Give me just a little more time…
“It’s strange,” says DearHeart, as we try to attach the door, “but I keep thinking that you’ve retired.” DearHeart herself took an early retirement before moving to a bungalow. I guess her subconscious now links a lack of stairs with a general liberation from the corporate ladder.
I call Pa to tell him that we’re a nut short of a greenhouse, then we saunter round to raid his tool box. On the way, I realise that her subconscious must have Friended mine because I also can’t get my head around the prospect of having to stop playing houses in order to go and teach.
58. The glory that was Rome was of another day …
Five more sleeps until the wonders of North London supplant those of the Eternal City. I’m already itching to get back and play with my new bungalow but it has to be admitted that there’s some pretty darn impressive stuff here – and that’s not just the number 8 tram.
57. Clang, clang, clang went the bell…
Crammed into the sidecar attached to Pa’s motorbike, Ma, LittleBro, the budgie and I followed the removal van across the City, not dilly-dallying on the way. We were moving from our tiny first floor flat to a house in the suburbs of North London. It would be just like in my favourite Janet and John books, with a real garden and an upstairs. All very exciting and not in the least scary.
56. And the living is easy…
I inherited my ‘toy’ gene from Pa.
We like to think of ourselves as Renaissance people, do Pa and I, with wide-ranging interests which broaden our minds and engage us in the stuff of life. It would be perverse to describe us as fickle, easily bored and attracted by novelty. I would refute such an accusation heartily; indeed, I will put that in writing as soon as I retrieve my calligraphy set from behind the knitting machine. If I can just get past the allotment magazines … and the yoga mat … and the concertina…
55. Veni, vidi….
I am on the upper bunk, watching the sunrise over Tuscany
You are sleeping below, swaying with the train
It is cutting through wheat-fields, the farmers already working
We are hurtling towards Rome.
“You are early risers, O Farmers,” I say
They are too far away to hear.
54. And don’t forget the Euros…
I’ll sing you one, oh, Green grow the rushes, ho,
What is your one, oh?
One more sleep till the end of term: one Inset Day to go, ho.
43. With apologies to Larkin
This Whitsun, I’ve been prompt getting away;
I’M ON THE TRAIN.
Ten twenty on a rainy Friday did
My three-quarters full train pull out King’s Cross.
My bag and coat piled up beside me so
To deter any neighbour who might chat;
The prospect of four hours to myself,
Away from school-work; clearing out the loft,
Too precious to be given up to talk
On whether we will ever get a summer.
The Jelly Chronicles 