One of my friends has just announced the birth of his sixth child. How fantastic is that and wishing him and his family all the best of luck. He is made of sterner stuff than me clearly. Four is quite a sufficient handful. However with Hen now beachcombing on the Atlantic coast just south of Nantes, Jimmy in Spain and Bob back at work, normal order has been restored at home with just our youngest and, as everyone no doubt realises, our favourite and most easily manageable child, Lottie, pootling about in post GCSE wind down mode.
So I headed back earlier this week looking forward to a quiet, relaxing evening. It would have been the first for a long time it felt like. I thought perhaps I would waddle round my four mile circuit before supper and then settle in front of the TV to watch the Wimbledon highlights. Alas it was not to be. Here’s how my Wednesday evening panned out.
First off my train was half an hour late so truth be told my humour was being tested and my resolve to go for a run wavering somewhat even before I got home. But anyway a run, it transpired, was out of the question. Sophie’s pained look made it clear my presence was required. Lottie was standing alongside three of her girl-friends. Incidentally, it appeared Bob was also somewhere about, evidenced by that tell-tale pile of feathers where a pigeon has hit the deck, and indeed he was, albeit he disappeared pretty sharpish after, moments later, the rickety green wooden gates scraped open, the dogs started barking furiously and four boys on bikes appeared. Unbeknownst to me Sophie had agreed to Lottie having a little camping party in the bottom field. Sweet. The boys had come on the train from Cambridge and cycled a couple of miles from the local station, one of them with a completely flat tyre. For some reason, a lame attempt to show off probably, - I don’t believe I have ever successfully repaired a puncture before - I decided I ought to try to fix it. I spent the next half hour grappling with the wheel before eventually succeeding in prising the inner tube out and using super glue to stick a rather suspect old patch over the hole. Then another half hour putting the inner tube back. I love the Tour de France, but fixing bikes is not my forte.
At that point – 8.30pm I imagine – it suddenly dawned on one of the more perceptive of the young, sitting around a couple of barbeque trays and cans of beer, that although they were all planning to camp overnight they hadn’t actually got a tent. So that was another 45 minutes. Finding the thing and lugging it down to the field where, to give them their due, the teenagers set about erecting it. I’m getting bored writing this stuff so I can’t imagine you’re still with me, but if you are, well the point is that I think it was about 9.20pm when I finally slumped on the sofa hoping to watch the last ten minutes of Wimbledon and perhaps catch the highlights of Andy’s match against Dustin Brown. ‘Cmon Andy!!
Almost immediately there was a polite, yet determined knock on the door and two girls poked their head into the sitting room. “Sorry to bother you David, but Lottie said you might be able to rustle us up a jug of Pimms.” How ironic is that I thought to myself as I trudged dutifully through to the kitchen only to discover we didn’t have any lemonade. However I was quite pleased with the respectable attempt I made to compensate for that using a bottle of sparkling Highland Spring water and a good slug of some lime and lemongrass cordial I found in the back of the larder. A few slices of apple and a ton of ice and really you could have served it up at Wimbledon and I don’t think anyone would be any the wiser. Dammit though. I forgot the mint.
Whatever. The Day at Wimbledon was over by then so I took one last sip of a, by now, rather warm can of Calsberg and retired to bed where, to the intermittent sound of dogs barking and teenagers shouting and the persistent thudding drum beat of some grungy music, I drifted off to a fitful sleep thinking “Oh Jacob…what have you done!?”
Early today aren’t I….I’m off to Lords. Rooooooooot!
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