Glimpsesofcolour

…to my spouse The Grouch. I’m afraid I’ve been totally uninspired and got him very few presents this year. I think I used up all my ideas on his big turn-of-a-decade one last year. Oh well, I expect he’ll forgive me. I’m also totally booked up with evenings and lunches with friends, so I don’t know when we’ll manage a birthday outing either. So many restaurants, so little time.

Mothers, remember the day when you first left your precious darling at the school gates? Bet it was you, not the kid, who cried a little. I did. I’ve had another of those milestones today: my son’s first GCSE exam. I was definitely more nervous than him, indeed I have hardly slept for the last two nights, though whether these facts are connected I cannot tell. As he is youngest in year, and this is the first Science module, taken a year early, which means he is taking it at 14 instead of 16, there was extra cause for anxiety.

He however was totally laid back, refused to do any revision until the morning of the exam, and then just allowed me to take him through some test questions (which I have to admit, after a wobbly start, he answered competently). He turned up just an hour after he left, having done the 40 minute exam in just 20 minutes, not having used the extra time that he gets because of his Asperger’s, or the prompt, or the laptop. I can only hope we don’t get a nasty shock when the results come. I do however have to remind myself that intelligence tests put him in the top 5% or, on certain skills, in the top 1%. And these exams are designed for the average.

Something strange is happening to me. Having spent my entire life having unrequited crushes on one man or another, for the last few years (not sure how long) I have suddenly discovered I’m not in love with anyone. I think this is probably good (and I’m sure my husband appreciates it). But I also haven’t written a single completed poem in that time. Could the two be connected? Do I have to carry a hopeless torch for someone in order to write poetry? (Or is the dearth of poetry from me a gift to the world?)

Actually, I haven’t really written any poetry since I won first prize in the Barnet Open poetry comp four years ago. This could also be connected – now I’ve won a first, I’ve stopped trying. Or it could be that the prose and poetry workshop I went to for a while has completely killed my poetic inspiration (it certainly didn’t help it).

To return to the torch-carrying subject, it does sometimes feel as though I am having an unrequited relationship with God. But not always.

More unrefusable offers from Freecycle:
Wanted: Traditional Wood Hat Stand. Presumably for the use of those who wear traditional wood hats.
Offered: Exercise bile. If exercise makes them that bitter I think they are right to give it up.
And finally, Offered: Friends. I have some already, thank you.
To change the subject, last weekend I went on retreat to my favourite retreat house (the one where there is nothing organized, you can just relax). I had plenty of time sitting in the sun in the garden with a good book, but my favourite moment was when what I thought was lemon meringue pie, which is a food abomination (how can you contaminate meringue, the food of the gods, with lemon curd, the food of Satan?), turned out to be Queen of Puddings, which is almost the best pudding ever barring syllabub and Eton Mess. Shallow, moi? But really, the food is one of the very best things about this particular retreat house.
I have returned with my youth renewed like The Eagles (didn’t they have a reunion tour recently?), but no lighter.

I forgot to blog a little amusing event that happened on our way back from the church weekend away (actually I forgot to blog about the church weekend at all, it was a bit of a damp squib for me as I missed half the sessions due to having to lie down and rest my back).
Now whenever we travelled east along the North Circular in olden days, we used to look out for Shadbolt’s veneer factory, where they would use those white slot-in letters that old notice boards used, to announce the Veneer of the Week; European Curly Crown Maple or whatever it might be (actually they never changed it more often than once a month).
Sadly, a couple of years ago Shadbolts was demolished to make way for a CostCo, so we lost our journey marker. Imagine my delight when, a bit further west, as we drove back from Kent, I spotted a pest control firm with a shopfront where they announced – wait for it – Pest of the Week. It was brown rat, in case you wanted to know.

‘Wanted: bicycle for man”. Well I suppose it’s a fair swap – though it depends on the man… and the bicycle.

Sorry folks, I failed to post the next nailbiting episode. OK, where was I? Oh yes, hubby out of hospital and doing well, all set for our little holiday before Easter. The plan was that we would drive Genius Brat up to Northamptonshire where he was due to go to genius camp, and then continue on for a few miles to the lovely looking (and expensive) hotel I had finally booked online. Only it didn’t quite work out that way. On the day before we were due to go, I was sat (as we say in the Midlands) at our breakfast bar on a stool, when I leaned forward to take a spoonful of Healthy But Not Very Interesting Breakfast, and my lower back totally seized up, causing me to be unable to move from the spot. And I hadn’t done any of the packing yet either.

The upshot was that I spent the next 36 hours laid on one side in a bed of sickness (as it were) while issuing instructions to The Grouch to help him pack GB’s case, then he drove GB up to sunny Northamptonshire on his own and came straight back, while I phoned the hotel and told them we would be a day late. Meanwhile I saw the osteopath who lent me a sort of elastic corset effort with lots of Velcro to support my back. Wearing this, I managed to pack our case and was duly driven to Northants the next day, getting into and out of the car extremely carefully.

In spite of my walking and sitting extremely carefully for the entire four days, Northamptonshire turned out to be a suprisingly good, if unconventional, place to be a tourist. It abounds in stately homes including the very romantic Elizabethan semi-ruin, Kirby Hall, which had been substantially restored in the twenty plus years since I last saw it (and was consequently less romantic but more authentic). There are also lovely gardens: we discovered Coton Manor with its resident talking macaw (he mostly says ‘Good bye’) and its stunning bluebell wood, at  least it would have been stunning if the bluebells had been out yet. The highlight, on our one rainy day, was undoubtedly the Shoe Museum in Northampton’s Town Museum, with shoes dating back to prehistoric times, and shoes in good condition from the 17th century onwards, not to mention a fabulous 20th century collection. I was in shoe heaven, while The Grouch sat and drank coffee and read the paper, not being so much of a shoeaholic.

The hotel was as gorgeous as it had looked online, with surprisingly cheap and good food, and they looked after us like royalty (we were the only guests), giving us a downstairs room so I didn’t have to negotiate stairs, and removing the fluffy mattress topper to make the bed firmer for me. Altogether a very pleasant if brief few days, and GB seems to have had a great time at camp, and was already talking about the next camp on our way home.

So ends the saga of our very unwantedly exciting week before Easter; since then the back has been steadily improving, though I have had to go light on sitting at the computer (hence no blogging) and had a relapse in the middle of the night last week when I tried to get up to go to the loo and found I couldn’t get out of bed without excruciating pain. I think I’m really on the mend now, and hopefully will be blogging a bit more regularly.

In other news, May is out (or possibly in) and I have cast a clout. But I put it on again today cos it was colder.