Sometimes when I sit down to scribble this rubbish I just know it’s wrong, but I missed you last week and I can’t stop myself. This one is going to be wrong on so many counts. You see, it has been a traumatic couple of weeks in which almost all members of the Sandison family have disgraced themselves – to varying degrees - with the notable, perhaps because it is so rarely the case, exception of Hen who is serenity personified at the moment.
The “traumas” began with a phone call to second daughter Jemima one evening last week in which the conversation turned to what she was up to. “Toasting marshmallows” was the response. This was somewhat alarming news as she was meant to be in her room doing her prep at the time, but secondly, I asked her, what on earth was she using to toast them with. Matches she explained. So, there you have it. Perhaps I am leaping to conclusions here, but I suspect toasting marshmallows is a euphemism for “I’ve started smoking”. I despair.
Meantime Bob, 12 year old son, is also getting out of his box. At a Design Technology class the other day his teacher, who reported this incident to Sophie, was teaching the class about the process of lamination...... “laminates prevent creasing and makes things last longer” he explained, to which Bob’s instant response apparently was “I think I’d better introduce my mother to this stuff”.
The reason for no email last Friday was that our desk here went on a PA team bonding trip to Meribel. Ahead of a big weekend of rugby it is apt to quote the great man himself. “O would some power the giftie gie us to see ourselves as others see us”. I suppose that is one of the purposes of bonding excercises. I can safely say I had that power on Saturday, after a big bad one on Friday night. But it was about the only power I had that day. I knew precisely how my new colleagues were seeing me. I was an abject sight indeed. ‘Nuff said.
So what about Sophie, my wife. She is not blameless this week either. Deeply irresponsibly she left Bob home alone save for being in charge of his 9 year old sister on Wednesday evening as she had to leave the house before I was due back. To be fair to her it was only meant to be for 20 minutes or so, but Bob can do an awful lot of damage in 20 minutes and, typically, some ****** had crashed at Junction 8 on the M1 so I was running badly late. I decided to ring home suddenly fearful that Bob would have decided to light a fire in the sitting room to toast marshmallows or whatever. With a sense of trepidation I rang home and the phone was answered by Lottie. After brief courtesies I asked to speak to Bob. “He’s not here” she said. “Aaaagh.....where is he” I said trying not to panic. “He’s outside gutting a rabbit” was her cool response.
Big weekend indeed. Besides the inevitable trouncing we are going to deliver the Inglish tomorrow afternoon at Murrayfield, some bizarre urge overtook me the other day and I signed up to run in a 10 miles cross country race against the more athletic of the students of Rugby School on Sunday afternoon. Hen and Jimmy are appalled at me – it goes without saying they are not participating. And Sophie from whom I would have expected more support, when going through the weekend’s plans earlier on today, referred to Sunday as “the day that you are going to make a complete fool of yourself.” Only the girls housemistress is on my side. I am the first parent in the history of their house that has run in this event. “No pressure” she says. “Just bear in mind the words of Sir Clive Woodward........Better never stops.”
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