I’m just back from the post office, where I sent a parcel of old clothes to my SIL.
I’m listening to my two girls screaming at each other that they want to spend time together, but alone.
I can hear the trains thundering past, about 20 feet from my dining room window, where I’m sat, and can feel the afternoon sun on my back.
I’m being watched by a huge bearded dragon, called Pistachio, and a small panther chameleon, called Ivy….
I’m getting a bit of a headache and I’m wondering if it is a sign of poor mental health that I would like to have a few beers later, even though I know that Hubbles is going out tonight (not drinking) which means I’ll technically be drinking alone. Do I need an intervention?
I need to finish a baby blanket that I have been asked to knit for money, it’s striped, gorgeous yarn, and I’m just about halfway through, each stripe taking me about half an hour, and there being about 32 stripes in total.
I also need to think about what I’m going to cook for dinner. My Hubbles is having a tough time at work this week, so I really want to make something nice. Maybe toad-in-the-hole? Think the sausages are in the fridge, not the freezer. Surprisingly difficult to get the right sort of sausages here. The nearest I can find are usually called ‘sweet Italian’, and they do the job, but tend to be quite basil-y…
The reason I sent a parcel of old clothes to my SIL is because a couple of weeks ago I lay awake for hours, haunted by one image of my daughters’ school uniforms in a wastepaper bin in a hotel room near Heathrow airport. It felt like a physical pain, that image.
*doors slamming upstairs again, as the girls loudly agree never ever to go in one another’s rooms ever again*
My SIL is is like some sort of fabric goddess. Anything with fibre she can turn into anything else. I found one school cardigan, one PE t-shirt, and one summer dress. The cardigan and the t-shirt have their old school logo. The girls talk about their old school almost every day, telling me over and over again about the afternoon one of them found a moth on a blade of grass, when it snowed and the snowmen were still there the next day, the day the bully pushed Chris into a hedge, the same bully crying on their last day, a different bully smiling…
SIL is going to make them something. I don’t know what yet, but something for them to hold at night when these memories are floating about in their heads would give me something to chuck into the chasm of guilt I created when I decided to move to America.
*7 year old comes in asking for her art set, clutching paper. I suspect she’s going to make a ‘No Entry’ sign for her bedroom door*