Oh what fun we were supposed to have today at the park! We started out all very sitcom-y, taking scooters and bubble wands to Kensington Gardens for some Springish larking. It began promisingly, looking like this:
and then I decided to take a photo of a tree and fiddle about with Instagram (my new virtual lover) and disappointingly came up with this:
while this sweetly disengaged-from-the-world little guy headed off in the wrong direction, quite possibly thinking very hard about popcorn or cows or screwdrivers:
And we lost him for 45 minutes. We needed TWO police vans to help scour the park until we finally found him with some lovely non-molesting-type grandparents who had decided to save the weeping five year old who said his mother had “probably gone to the shops because she really likes buying things“.
For the record, I didn’t go to the shops, nor did I buy anything. I was searching for my hapless son and calling the police and trying not to panic. All Proper Parental Responses, thankyouverymuch.
Anyway, we had a chat about what to do when you are lost, and the policeman told Noah to stick to us all the time. It was all things at once – relieving, humiliating, frightening, funny, awful. I am waaaaaay too tired for such Sunday Amateur Dramatics.
Too tired to go slo-mo jogging, and too tired to stay awake this afternoon. Much too tired to do any cleaning, although that goes without saying. My tiredness mostly comes from being 8 weeks pregnant. Which I KNOW I am supposed to keep secret, but I cannot. Secrets are also too tiring. And so, hopefully there shall be a December baby, although our flat got visited by WORMS last week, of the itchy-bottom kind (rather than the tropical swimming-through-your-eyeballs-kind, obvs) and we all got a dose of the worming tablet and then I read the small print and it says DONTTAKEIFYOUAREPREGNANT!FOOL!
It doesn’t say what kind of terrible worm-related deformity I may have caused the poor baby but I do lie awake at night imagining. It could be very bad. Like one of those moles with the wormy noses.
Oh man, I just about need a therapy session after that. I am sorry to the baby. You will not look like a wormy mole. You shall be handsome like your brothers, and you will not have a pelt, or live in the ground. These things I swear. Anyway, in preparation, we have bought a Bugaboo, and I have bought an 18th century French crocheted baby bonnet. All sorted then! I hear you cry. There is, however, the small issue of where we shall house said normal-looking-baby, so we have been looking around at houses to buy. I made the mistake of going to the Living Etc magazine’s open home tour last month, where they give you a tour of some of the homes they have featured in the magazine. WELL! Best to remain naive about how other people live, I think. Houses like this:
It killed me a little bit inside. So, anyway, we cannot afford anything actually at all, so the said normal-looking baby will just have to find somewhere to squeeze in. It’s all character-building, as they say.
What else? There was a week in Devon, which was delicious, owing to the daily clotted cream and hevva buns with damson jam. The children had a daily meal of fish and chips in whatever pub would have us, and we watched season one of Breaking Bad. All in all, a lovely little holiday.
Here is Devon:
And Sir Francis Drake:
And a lovely church in Tavistock:
There was a pool and a hot tub and goats and ponies and castles and squashed toads and badgers. It was a kind of Boy Nirvana. There is a post to be made concerning the antique naval shop that we found, and the now gleaming brassy boaty things we have dotted around the flat, but that is for another day. It is a little bit troublesome, this new antique obsession, but what can you do?
Roight. I have to go and think about going for a jog, although I think I can hear rain. Cup of tea and a lie down time, then.