For some reason (quite probably the absence on anything exciting the previous evening) I am wide awake at 7. I have alesson at 10,but this leaves me time to spend in bed with Lt Columbo. We have reconciled our differences at just the right time as one of the channels (as far as I can tell it only came into existence today) is launching a Columbo weekend, showing precious else but the mumbling fumbling one eyed dick.
A is recovered from her maladies of last week, and looks 1000% better, all pretty and tres francaise again. It's impossible not to laugh and mess around with her, which is maybe not the most professional approach, but sure beats two hours in the car with someone like say, H in Watford.
Halfway through the rain turns to hail, pirouettes and becomes sleet,and eventually snow. Great inch square thick blotches of the stuff fill the leaden grey skies. The kind of snow that descends gently onto your cheekbones, and then spends a full five seconds melting before dripping away to extinction. For a while it settles and the tantalising hope of the first real snow for at least a year is allowed to surface, the kind where you dress up warm for it and trudge through a field dragging your sledge with the kids pelting each other with poorly formed snowballs as you urge them to the slopes. The dream last less than an hour, the hoped for pristine carpet never evolving beyond a messy sludge, which turns out to have a life expectancy of a new recruit in the Bagdhad old bill.
Come home with good intentions, but the lure of the couch, the telly,and more particularly Lt. C puts paid to all of that.
I think it might be nice to go out and actually have more to drink than is wise,and get a taxi home. By the time kids are fed though it is the best part of 10 and a dreary two pints sat on our own away from the buzz of the pub is as close to fun as it ever gets. Fuck being fifty,and with the year galloping away out of control, I won't even be that for more than another four months.
We sit together over our pints. The only point of contact is discussing tactics for getting Emma into a decent school. For fuck's sake.Saturday night, and all we can find to do is ask questions of each other about catchment areas and the likeliehood of a housing slump two minutes after we put pen to paper on a second bloody house we neither want nor can afford.
Saturday night's alraight for fighting. A smack in the teeth from Mick the Murderer (decd) would be more fun than this.
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