Tag Archives: rain

Tired as a Very Tired Thing

Tired as a Very Tired Thing

aka: ‘As Wet as a Drowned Rat’

I am as tired as a very tired thing that has just spent all day running around in a giant hamster wheel that has made it very tired.  I’ve even considered simply doing a page of ZZZZzzzzzzz…….  But I think my little finger might go into a spasm and that would make me even more tired.

You know what, I think it’s the weather.  It drains my energy.  The rain has been relentless!  This morning I poked my nose out of the front door to assess whether or not to get us all togged up in waterproofs or not for the school run – and I was nearly drowned in about 30 seconds.  Horrid, horrid, horrid.

Sausage wore his all in one blue waterproof telly tubby outfit, and Darlek wore her pink waterproof with the zip done right up to her nose.  I wore my massive murky green waterproof coat that looks like a tent.  We all got wet anyway.  Dunno why we bothered!  We should really have gone out in shorts and T’shirts and saved on clothes drying time.

There was more water in the air than air today.  Poor Darlek had her gym leggings on when I picked her up from school as her trousers were soaked by the time she got into class.  It really was that bad. When I set off to pick both kids up at the end of the day it was awful.  I found myself walking up the hill and paddling through streams where there are usually pathways. Within 5 minutes of walking out the door the water had soaked through my boots, I felt like I was wearing a wet suit with a leak in both toes.  I even tried to lean forward on the balls of my feet to squeeze the water out a little.  Not nice.

I want a new drought, this one’s all wet.  This is, in fact, the most rubbish drought I have ever lived through.  I thought droughts were supposed to mean lazy days ambling to and fro to the shop for ice-lollies for the kids, sitting on the doorstep tanning my milk bottle white legs, rooting out sunhats from the bottom of cupboards and smelling of sun tan cream all the time. But no!  It seems a drought in this country means everyone digs out their welly boots and umbrellas and spends hours staring out of rain speckled windows whilst the kids try to beat each other to death after being confined to the living room for hours on end.  Not that I’m complaining…..much.

I’ve heard positive thinking can make a difference to this kind of thing.  Apparently I need to embrace the sogginess, and make the best of it. So I’m going to make an effort to appreciate the sepia sort of light that hovers over the area when the sky is striped with rain.  I am going to take notice of the way the rain makes the river a mass of interlocking, ever changing, ever moving circles as it patters on to it.  The puddles are there to be jumped in, never mind soggy socks and jeans that stick to my ankles, it won’t kill me or the kids to get wet feet. When I’m trudging up and down the hill I shall make an effort to pause and listen to the plop of the rain as it hits the leaves and the forlorn pink bunches of cherry blossoms.  Rain clouds can be spectacular and I’ll look out for the ones that I can make shapes out of.  If there is ever a gap between the clouds that is.  When the skies are just plain dull grey, I’ll stop looking up and instead look at the kids as they potter along beside me giggling at the streams running down the hill.

It’s been lovely to see both of  them cupping their hands to catch the rain and throw it at each other.  Every now and then one of them will stop and open their mouth to try and catch the drops, looking like huge baby birds begging for food.  Darlek has been asking about where the rain comes from, and I’ve been trying to explain evaporation and the cycle of rain to river to sea and then back up to the skies again.  It’s rather complicated to get across really, I always was rubbish at geography. (Is it geography where they teach you these things?)  Sausage is still asking why the leaves are falling off the trees when they aren’t any more too.  He’s also been asking if Father Christmas is coming again soon – so as you can imagine, the conversations on our soaked school runs have been quite diverse.

So, yes.  Here, now, this minute, I declare I will not be beaten by crap weather.  I like it really, I do, I do, I do. Do I sound believable? I suspect you can hear my voice cracking even through the medium of the written word. I’m going to do a Gloria Gaynor impression now:

‘I will survive!  I know as long as I know how to live (or put on wellies) I know I’ll stay alive!’

Come on now, sing along with me! Sing it like you mean it!(Kay mutters something about fecking rain, soaked socks and raging athletes foot)

Here’s to surviving an English summer!  And here’s to hoping for sunshine! Cheers! *Raises a welly boot filled with rain instead of a glass of champers*

A Walk in the Rain.

A Walk in the Rain. 

Every now and then I get to the point where I’ve had enough.  Often I can’t bear to be near anyone, and I feel as if one more ‘Muuum, can I have a drink’ will turn me into a screaming ball of fury.

At times like these I just sling my coat on, put my boots on, open the front door, take a deep breath of fresh air and shout over my shoulder – ‘I’m just off for a quick walk, back in half an hour’.  And then I’m off.

Tramp, tramp, tramp up the hill.  Even if the wind whips my face, the rain splatters on my glasses and the skies are grey, I’m off.  Past the top of the terrace block, feet stomping on the paving slabs, onto the tarmac, over the road- up the hill.  Walking with a purpose, same old route, usually the same old issues running around my head.

I pass the old cement works surrounded by metal fencing overgrown with brambles, nettles and straggly clumps of field grass. Onwards, upwards, determined to escape the house.    At this time of year there’s often sparrows in the eaves, twittering a little, and the croak of a crow somewhere out of sight in the fields.   The air is always fresh and my nose tingles if it’s cold.

Without fail I look upwards to the sky to see what the clouds are doing.  It always amazes me that each and every single day the sky is painted differently.  Bubbling Cumulus Nimbus or Strata flattened and drawn out like wool ready to be wound, or even better a mackerel sky undulating like sand left behind when the tide has gone out.

With a steady pace I mount the rise of the hill, carefully making sure I keep an ear and an eye out for cars.  The country road winds around the corner and I always stay close to the hedgerows and the crumbling stone walls.  Slowly the grip of the house loosens, and I feel myself looking outwards and away from my frustrations.  I’m terrible with the names of trees and plants, but I try to remember them.  Failing that I remember where nature leaves its footprints – the mottled light and dark green moss that carpets the old stones, the tree where I spotted a nest tucked up in its branches last year, the egg-shell blue patch of Harebells – each familiar old sight reassures me that the world is carrying on as it should.

The frustrations that drove me from the house are then examined in detail and I often rant inwardly.  Conversations are replayed, situations pulled apart, plans are made, tears mix with drizzle, I think a lot.   Each step helps to calm my torn up and inflamed thoughts.  There is nothing more calming than the sound of my own footsteps and the crunch of stones ground beneath my determined feet.

Walking brings me sanity and as I draw my eyes over each familiar lump and bump of the hillside I feel free again.  Free of the curse of the house, the mess, the shrinking terrifying four walls.  If I’m lucky I catch a sunset tinged with a orange and red, Pendle hill outlined with silver as the sun drops below the horizon.

The other day I saw a hawk circling overhead, looping over the fields looking for prey.  It looked as if it was tied to an invisible string hooked on a cloud.  Swinging through the skies, the wind whistling through its feathers, a fantastic sight.

I always pause at the top of the hill even if there’s high winds and driving rain, to see the view of my town, Blacko Tower, Pendle hill, the dilapedated youth centre, the clock tower and the road snaking up the other side of the valley.  It’s always the same view, but there’s always something new to see.  The seasons change and the trees look either bare or flush with greenery and blackthorn blooms at the right time of year, drifting along branches like snow.

After I’ve paused for a minute I carry on, ocassionally meeting a dog walker who I take a quick glance at and mutter ‘Evenin!’ to.  I once saw someone in one of those elaborate covered wheelchairs like a car, walking with 3 Lhaso Apso dogs.  It looked like a bizarre chariot being pulled along by three small fluffy horses.  I reckoned if he ran out of batteries they’d probably be able to pull him along if they tried hard enough.

Down the hill I go, skirting the ditches so I don’t accidentally slither into them.  There’s a small outcrop of houses on my right which I always look longingly at.  They must have been weavers cottages once of a day.  One has roses around the door and I swear it has my name on it.  I can dream can’t I?  To my left the open fields rustle as the gusts of wind roll across the grass.

Over the old stone bridge, where I stand a while to see if there’s any ducks waddling around, hoping for ducklings in late spring.  They’re always a pleasure to see, splashing around in the shallows or dutifully bobbing along after their mums.  Someone has carved a short section of

‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.’

into one of the huge slabs on the narrow path over this bridge.  It’s weathered but still readable, I do wonder why someone took the time to do that.  I love the way it makes me stop and think every time I pass that way.

Without much hope I scan the weedy, rushing river for otters.  I’ve never seen any but I’ve been told they hang around down there.  Once I saw a stoat or a weasel clambering around on the gravelly shore.  It stood, stock still and stared back at me.  Long, lithe, dark brown and white bellied;  I suppose it was nearly an otter, close enough for me anyway.

By this point the rain has often soaked down my neck and I’ve run out of dry clothing to wipe my glasses on.  I pick up the pace a bit and pass the pub and the kid’s playground – thankful I don’t have to stop there for once.  It’s always tempting to have a go on the zipwire if no-one’s looking but I’ve resisted so far.

Back up between a huddle of terraced houses, along a stream where I often find myself wanting to pick up the abandoned beer cans and sweet wrappers and I’m on the homeward stretch.  Often I’ll take the route that goes by the street where I spent my early 20’s and remember with a wry grin some of the things that went on.  In spring I can still see the Snowdrops I planted in one of the front gardens.  That patch was so overgrown with buttercups, weeds and dandylions ten years ago.  It’s all neat and tidy now.  You see, one afternoon I just had enough of staring at the weeds, so I put my welly boots on, thought ‘sod the mucky fingernails’ and dragged them all out.  Knee deep in churned up mud, I eventually got rid of them all.  I stil remember the smug feeling of having tamed my unruly green patch of garden.

By now my boots are usually a tad muddy, so I stomp a little harder to shake loose bits off and then turn the corner and trudge back up the steep hill once again.  I can see home from here, and with each step I get closer to feeling trapped again.  A couple of promises and reassurances kick in around now:  ‘I will cope’ ‘I will do better’ ‘I will work harder’ ‘It’s not so bad’ richochet around my brain and then I’m finally back on my doorstep.

I hold the door handle in my freezing cold hand, open it and I’m  home again – in the midst of tv noise, warmth, chattering kids, school bags slung on the sofa, the waft of food simmering in the kitchen.  Sausage wraps his arms around my legs and yammers on about Spiderman, Darlek thrusts her school book into my hands and tells me it ‘has to be read’ and everything I left when I walked out the door is back again.  The only difference is that I can cope now, for a little while longer.  With an understanding half smile, Horace offers to put the kettle on and I’m reminded that I’m loved.

As long as I can escape to the hills and walk alongside the river under a wide open sky – I know everything is going to be ok.  I can return to where I started and see things afresh.  A walk in the rain keeps me sane, something like that. :O)

A Fortnight in France – Part 4

A Fortnight in France– Part 4

If you’d like to read right from the very beginning, you can find Part 1 HERE!

A quick warning, this is typed up very quickly from what I wrote whilst on holiday.  I suspect the grammar and the tenses etc are very badly mangled.  If you are an english teacher or some such other writing professional, please could I ask you kindly to ignore the badd spelling, terrible tenses of which I write of at the last minute, and appalling p’unctuation.

This blog is mainly about hunting for French Rizlas, suggestive Cave Paintings and drizzle (or should I say ‘Le P*ssing it Down’.

Going Native

Both kids have gone completely native, and have been running barefoot around the site.  We have been using copious amounts of Savlon on ragged feet. No amount of cajoling will persuade them to keep their shoes on.  I reckon their feet have become so calloused with the gravel that they have numb toes, there’s no other explanation for it.

'Please put your shoes on! Go on, go on, go on, go on!'

Darlek is getting dreadlocks and I must appear like the worst mum in the world because I cannot be arsed to run around after her with a brush.  I found a bobble the other day and managed a plait so I’m on with damage limitation exercises.

I’m unsure if they will let us back through customs with our battered  children.  Poor Sausage looks like a shadow of his healthy self.  He fell over the other day and used his face as brakes.  He grazed his face quite badly and now looks like he has jam smattered all over one side of his face permanently.  I am hoping  it will heal a little more by the time we got home.  Both kids have been runnning around like wild things and have acquired scratches and grazes.  All in all, I suspect I may be guilty of mild neglect.  There will be a plaster famine some time quite soon.

A Quest for Rizlas.

Horace and co have struggled to find supplies of baccy in surrounding shops, and in particular ‘thick’ rizlas.  Horace has always been given thin rizlas that are crap for roll ups and he has been unable to ask for anything else because of his rubbish  french.  He proudly announced today that he has found the word for ‘thick’ in his french dictionary so he will be able to go into a baccy shop and ask for them properly now.  I am hoping they won’t think he’s actually calling the shopkeeper ‘thick’ and get thrown out of the shop as a result.  Up until now, he’s just mimed with his finger tips, doing a pinched finger and thumb to mime ‘thin’, and then stressing he wants thick rizlas by extending the distance between finger and thumb to indicate thicker rizlas.  Consequently he’s just been supplied with massive rizlas, they think he’s just saying bigger.

'So, you think I'll be able to cope with my expensive cheese habit when I get home?' *look doubtful

When I go home I will need to stop chain smoking, drinking G n’ T’s in the afternoon and contantly eating baguettes and cheese. Not quite sure how this will happen.  Will have to stock up on tonic water, ensure there’s no gin in the house (ever!) and go get plastic fags from the chemists. I will be very bored with mild cheddar, and may have to leave chunks of it sweltering in cling film in the sun on the windowsill in a vain attempt to make the cheese taste of something.  We cannot continue such an expensive cheese habit, more’s the pity.

Laxeaux – that place where they have cave drawings estimated to be from 30,000 years ago (I can’t spell it).

There’s a slight hint of the Cottingley fairies in this tale you know!  The story goes that a couple of french lads found these cave drawings in their summer holidays  in underground caves amongst the french countryside – all of them resolved not to tell anyone about it – but then told everyone a couple of days later.  It is almost impossible to date the paintings because of the make-up of the rock, or something.  I think these lads just got bored, elaborately grafittii’d a load of rock with pictures of bulls with double unicorn horns, and then pretended it was pre-historic.  I suppose we’ll never know! (actually I think there must be some basis of truth because one of them would have spilled the beans to The Sun by now if that was the case).  I reckon the Cottingley Fairies mystery wouldn’t have lasted as long as it did if newspapers offered lucrative rewards for stories at the time.

At the  Museum in Laxeaux (how is this place name spelt?!)  We went for a wander around the museum and were very unimpressed.  They had an area with animals in that were supposed to vaguely look like the beasties that had been drawn on the cave walls.  For example, one of the notices outside one of these animal enclosures said:  ‘Compare the bull pictures with the real things!’ – in the enclosure are horses:  yep, you read that right….horses.   Talk about confusing people!

At the the Laxour site itself, the cave drawings were actually beautiful replicas of the ancient art work; the original cave siting had suffered from mould and damage because of the influx of visitors and the spores that they brought down with them on their breath.  They were amazing to see, the artists had just come out of an ice-age and were making their mark in these old caves.  The paintings span almost the whole of the replica cave, across the walls, the roof, everywhere.  Three colours were used, which is apparently rare in cave drawings of this kind, they consisted of black, red and yellow – various combinations of which led to 12 shadings.  In my youth I always assumed that people from that era just ran around with clubs attacking wooly mammoths and going ‘Ug’ a lot.  In fact some of them were ensconsced in flickering candlelit caves, laid flat on their backs on scaffolding, painting the ceilings of caves with breathtaking images of bulls, stags, bears, horses and, it has to be said, a rather rude stickdrawing of a man looking rather excited about something.

(I’m sorry I can’t include photos, we didn’t take our camera with us on that day)

In the cramped cave where the tour was held, Darlek crawled through a sea of legs at least once to get to the interesting bit of the talk.  The french bloke doing the tour had a really strong french accent and I struggled not to giggle innapropriately at first.

Seriously though,the drawings are spellbinding!  My favourite bit was where the artists have drawn five horses, all following each other in line as if along a hillside.  The artists often used the relief of the cave to add depth to their drawings and in this case the horses really do look as if they are running along a far distant hillside, they are drawn along a particularly dramatic crease in the rock which makes for a perfect perspective trick of the eye.

We were told that anyone who made too much noise would be thrown out so, after we’d told Sausage to stay as quiet as possible, he began to tell me and anyone within reach to ‘shush’ and put his finger to his lips. This meant I missed quite a bit of the talk which was a little frustrating, but was still forgiveable because it was funny.  Daughter thankfully didn’t do her ‘Farticus’ impression whilst we were in the cave.  I overheard Gangdad asking her to try not to blow off too much, and ‘clenching’ was suggested.  The advice was obviously taken on board and gas masks were not necessary at any point in the cave experience. Yay!

Rain, Rain Go Away!

At least it was warm rain!

Today we woke up to drizzle, fog and what seems to be the Lake District.  I am a little concerned that someone has picked up the entire git and shifted it back to Britain overnight.  Currently I’m sat under our wooden shelter, with my coat on, and a jumper and my jeans, my feet clad in wooly socks and big boots.  I’m rubbish at being cold, there are others here in jeans and T’shirts today but I’m just a wuss.  The sides of the shelter are all open so I’ve had to move from the end of the table towards the middle which is more sheltered by the house – it’s either that or sit typing with a soggy potentially knackered netbook.

That's me, the geek typing in the corner. Not one of the prettiest photos I've ever seen of me, it has to be said!

I’m a little resentful at the weather to be honest, it was so beautiful at the start.  It still is, it’s just the colours are never quite as vibrant in my opinion when the weather is manky.  Wordsworth would probably wax lyrical about the trees drinking in the rain, branches held to the sky in thanks for the watery blessing.  I on the other hand, mourn the loss of the sun loungers and stare sadly at the redundant suncream all piled in a plastic tub in the corner.  Bugger.  We left Britain in floods of rain, it seems it has followed us.  Bugger again.  I’m not bitter. Much.

The gits (I refuse to call them any other name)

The three cottages are called ‘La Lavendere’ ‘La Rosemarie and ?, two of which have their own lawn and  almost direct access to the swimming pool, our cottage has a gravelled area with some sun loungers but no pool.  This isn’t a bother though as we’ve spent most of the holiday hanging around the largest of the gits.  The food is communal so it’s a help yourself kind of affair, which has worked well.  I just feel sorry for the people who live in this particular git as we have all been using it as the main place to hang out – hence they’ve had all the washing up, bottles, the dreaded Sausage’s wet pants left on the floor outside, and abandoned shoes.   As the largest family here, I am concerned that we are secretly known as the scruffy rabble who should really learn to pick up after themselves.  I fill the dishwasher sheepishly every now and then and wipe up in an attempt not to be evicted.  So far it’s worked.  We’re still here. (Kay digs her heels in)

The centre of the communal git has a relatively well maintained lawn with a beautiful tree as the main feature.  I have no idea what sort of tree it is, but it appears to be light green, ferny and fluffy from a distance.  The leaves catch the rain and make it look like it’s adorned with  little glass dewdrop beads.

The botanical term for this tree is erm....'Fernus Frilly Prettius' Honest.

‘I don’t beliiieve it! (Victor Meldrew stylee), it’s started raining even more now.  All I can hear is dripping water and burbling bubbling drainpipes, and pattering on the shelter.  It’s all very watery.  I think I need a wee. Damn you rainfall! (shakes fists at the heavens)

Running in the Rain

We let the kids run around in the rain for ages, they were having so much fun it seemed a shame to stop them.  They did have anoraks on, but seemed determined to wear them with the hoods down, and in Darlek’s case unzipped.  I saw her lie on one of the soaked sun loungers as if in the throes of a boiling hot day, although the sun’s rays had been replaced with pelting rain.  I suppose it was warm rain at least.  Both pairs of their shoes did use to have flashing lights in the soles, now they no longer flash and they are soaking wet and stuck in a corner rammed with newspaper.  Why oh why did I not tell them to put their sandals on!  So that’s one to French rain, and nil to mummy.  Doh!  I bet they’ll both end up with raging Athlete’s Foot now and it’ll all be my fault.

It is a little later in the day and the rain has thankfully left us.  Good riddance to crap drizzle.  Short of entertainment, Darlek resorted to hair design and badgering grownups.  At least six of us have been bullied into having hair do’s remeniscent of romans or forest nymphs.  Boredom has led to minor hair insanity.  As we ignored all requests for TV, or iPad usage, this is what happened.

Horace's hair. Yep, it really is that long.

You'd be right in thinking they are in fact artistically arranged felt tip pens...She'll murder me for including that pic!

I personally had my hair decorated with ferns, and random cream flowers; others had wreaths of ivy and roses, Horace had ‘body’ added to his hair with the use of empty loo roll cardboard tubes and a bubble blowing container, with roses added for even greater insanity.

Further Adventures in Speaking Bad French. 

I just overheard an excerpt of French phrase book dabbling:  Someone has perfected saying ‘Is the equipment secure?’  ‘This is insane!!!’    I’m struggling to think of a context where this particular phrase could come in useful.  Maybe on board a french ship where a bewildered englishman is desperately trying to tie himself to the mast in the midst of a storm and is given a traditional bright yellow rubber ring with a duck head on the front of it.  Sorry, this is all I can think of. Again Horace is on about Gay Boits.  I am at an absolute loss as to how to link that to the above phrases and situation.  Maybe they are sailing to a gay island, Lesbos maybe.

Kids are running around frantically asking anyone and everyone if they will fill up the water pistol.  Despite it being generally acknowledged that this is a bad idea, they are still insisting on asking everyone.  I’ve been asked twice.  I don’t think anyone has actually helped them but Harold has been squirted with water; all I can presume is that they have been attempting the complicated filling mechanism on their own and have achieved a little sucess.  Either that or they have been spitting water into it for some considerable time.  I daren’t sucess the latter as a possibility in case we are actualy thrown out of the git.

The evening sunshine is lighting up the surrounding hillside trees with a golden green glint.  Cream, white and grey clouds are drifting along the mostly blue sky, a hint of crap weather with hopes of further sunshine tomorrow.  Maybe I’ll swim  in the pool tomorrow if I feel brave enough.

So there you go!  This is the blog that refuses to go away.  *sings* ‘I know a blog that’ll get on yer nerves, get on yer nerves, get on yer nerves. I know a blog that’ll get on yer nerves…..’ (repeat until you’re sick of it.)   Apologies, I’ll stop soon, I promise. 

Jelly Snakes and Rainstorms

Jelly Snakes and Rainstorms

It has been virtually hurricane weather today, as far as English hurricanes go that is.  The river at the bottom of the hill looks twice its size and about six times as fast.  I’ve heard the wind howling around the roof whilst in the attic and seriously wondered if I it might blow off and should I move things downstairs and all in all it’s been a crappy, crappy January day.

But still, some things must always be done!  Darlek has to be walked to school and back with Sausage in tow, no matter what the weather brings.  It’s only just after Xmas so I’ve just been getting back into the swing of the school run, and it’s not pleasant!

This morning I gave Sausage marmite on toast for breakfast, he wasn’t happy and demanded honey on toast instead and threw it on the floor.  I resolutely picked up the carpet encrusted toast and told him he’d have no such thing because there wasn’t time and that sort of behaviour wasn’t going to earn him any favours.  So he screamed  and yowled ‘Tooooaast!’ at the top of his lungs over and over and over again whilst fighting me off him as I tried to get him ready to go out.  He refused to put his hat on, his gloves on, his coat on, or his wellies and simply flailed around yelling.  Darlek tried to save the day by doing welly puppets with her hand, but even talking welly boots wouldn’t cheer him up.

No way was he  moving!  In the end  I physically picked him up, coatless, wellyless, hatless, scarfless and joyless, and plonked him in the pouring rain on the wall outside the house.  I had no alternative, Darlek was going to be late and he just couldn’t be allowed to get away with behaviour like this.  I locked the door so he couldn’t get back in, although he tried whilst padding around in the puddles in his socks.

Sausage pounded on our front door, shouting ‘Tooooaast!’, alternating between an aggressive ‘Help me I’m being attacked’ tone and an ‘I’m very, very badly hurt!’ tone. I swear I saw curtains twitching. Maybe they thought I was a terrible mum, having him out in such awful monsoon weather so underprepared.  Who gives a flying feck.  He was not going to win this battle.

Eventually he put his wellies and his coat on, although he was still screaming blue murder and refused his hat and gloves.  We began the trek down the  hill – Darlek and I had to cajole him every step of the way, as he stood still, raised his hands in the air in desperation and howled ‘Tooooooaaast!’ every few yards.  It was a nightmare and we were terribly late.

My neibour came out of his house at this point and I felt so embarrassed.  I thought he’ll have heard all the screaming and yelling and will be wondering if I’ve been beating my kids or something.  As it was, he offered us a lift down the hill and once we’d got Sausage in the car (again a difficult feat, he decided he didn’t want a lift) – my neibour simply said he knew what it was like to have a family and chuckled at me going on about honey on toast tantrums, wet socks and Daisy making welly puppets.  Consequently we were on time, and I was very grateful for the help this morning.

And we had to do it all over again this afternoon!  This time Sausage simply flung his wellies off all the time, saying his socks were ‘itchy!’ ie, he was wearing ravenous sock-eating welly boots.  Again his feet were soaking.  It pelted it down with rain, and we had to keep having ‘itchy – foot’ stops.  Again we were on time though!  But this was not the end of the traumas.

I bobbed into the shop to buy some milk and let both kids have huge jelly snakes as a treat.  This meant that Sausage slowed down considerably on the route home, in the rain, and the wind, and the cold – because he was having an indepth conversation with his jelly snake about which team the snake was on or something.  I think Jelly Snake was on the Bad Team personally because he made all of us walk very slowly and risk pneumonia.

We got home, soaked to the skin.  Horace arrived home late because our car stalled after navigating a ford, the kids were bickering, it’s been awful. Sausage began spitting because of the hairs Jelly Snake had picked up because he’d got sticky from the rain and from being carried around so much.  I know Sausage hates hairs in his mouth with a passion – but I still can’t excuse spitting!  Some of the doors handles are ‘orrid and stickly too now because of Jelly Snake’s antics.

The one thing that has made today bearable is my daughter.  This morning she got herself up and dressed, shoes on, teeth brushed…everything.  Brilliant!  When her brother was acting like a badly behaved banshee and I’d completely lost my temper, I saw her sat in the middle of the living room with her arms wrapped around him as he sobbed hysterically.  Darlek was comforting him as best she could because she knew I just couldn’t cope with his irrational, aggressive behaviour anymore.  He wouldn’t take the comfort from me anyway, if I’d have tried it would simply have prompted louder shouting and more of his new fad, which is door slamming.  Darlek is such a love and I’m so grateful for her support.  She is only just reaching 7 years old, but she has the calmness and compassion of a child much older than her years.  This morning, she put me to shame.

And you know what…we have to do this all over again tomorrow morning and this evening the wind and rain howling down the road outside our window, sounds like a train.  I hope it’s sunny tomorrow! If it’s not, I think I may just refuse to get up or hide under the bed.  Anything to avoid the school run. Anything! *whimpers*