Mummies

Sarah has been in Loch Ness this weekend, running another marathon. And finished in just inside four hours. Very impressive, and we have some champagne in the fridge to celebrate. I didn’t quite get around to sponsoring her this time, which is fairly poor, but I have provided the celebratory champagne, so fingers crossed that this evens the score. Especially as Sarah’s running habit is clearly designed to highlight my own immobility, and the champagne had been bought to celebrate my own return to walking unaided. Not that I’m bitter. She’d better bloody well bring me back some whisky though. A Johnnie Walker Black Label at least. And given that I’ve also done all the family washing, tidied up and looked after all three sprogs for three nights, I’m sure I’m worth a decent bottle of Glenmorangie. Though this might be a dangerous precedent to set if I ever get touring again. So maybe I’d settle for a Loch Ness Monster key-ring.

Being a single parent has not exactly played to my strengths. I have, however, so far managed to avoid the comedy disasters of last time. One highlight (and there were many) of that episode was patching up a cut above Ellie’s eye with a bit of tape and sending her to school telling her not to make a fuss. Two hours later, and still losing blood, she was in casualty. Sadly, even this masterstroke of incompetence failed to put Sarah off entrusting me with her brood. The girls have, at least, been on pretty good form. They have spent most of the weekend playing in the street outside. Obviously, my own experiences of playing with traffic have proved less than exemplary, but they seem to be able to keep out of trouble in the cul-de-sac.

William has been less keen to give his daddy a quiet life. As proven by the attached video (This is a new experiment, and should be watched sideways!), he has been developing worrying daredevil tendencies, and, in fact, celebrated the temporary absence of mummy by pulling out his gastrostomy tube, thus requiring the intervention of his home nurse within hours of me being left in-charge. At least she had the decency to point out the encouraging sign that the washing machine was on. I like Anna. She knows the score.

Today, and on the advice of my mother, we went to the British Museum. As somebody had chosen to end it all on the East Croydon line, the journey took rather longer than planned, and by the time I was able to change William’s nappy, things were already pretty messy. Our cultural visit then lasted approximately 20 minutes. We saw some mummies. “Look William – it’s a mummy!”

“No it isn’t.”

“Look William – it’s another mummy!”

“No it isn’t – mummy’s in Scotland.”

Repeat. Several times. Then a good deal of whingeing from the girls about being hungry, and endless upset from William that he had the wrong Thomas book. I gave up, and took them to McDonald’s and the park. These are, of course, attractions that can be found nearer to home, but then we would have missed William’s comedy routine with an unsuspecting passenger on the number 11 bus. “Are you asleep lady?” Etc. So, I was glad of my mum’s advice – I did ask, after all – but should have remembered that we spent some of the most happy weekends of our own childhood playing with Lego from a bucket.

Sarah is back tomorrow. I can quite understand why she went to Inverness. Though not entirely why she seems keen to come back.

Gym

Lordy! My last post was in high summer, and it’s taken me until after the equinox to post again. Oddly, the weather doesn’t seem to be any different. On the plus-side, I’m imagining that any of my friends, family or acquaintances who had developed a habit of reading this blog will now have given up entirely, leaving me free to pontificate, talk nonsense, or libel at will.

So. What has been going on? Firstly, of course, and slavishly adhering to the initial premise of this blog, there should be leg news. And it’s still there, and unencumbered. The plastic boot is in the bin. Metaphorically, of course. It’s NHS property. So significant progress has been made. I still limp, and can’t run yet. I am missing a lot of buses. But I am now thoughtfully reminded by every medical professional I have the pleasure of meeting (professionally, of course) that I should feel lucky that I have a leg. So it is my lucky leg. Though perhaps a tattoo of a rabbit’s paw would be in bad taste. Or even a discreet horseshoe.

William has been out of hospital for some weeks. This appears to mean that his morning and evening routines are Daddy’s responsibility. Proof of this, were it required, is provided by the dawn chorus that typically wakes me up. “Change my nappy Daddy!” I think it’s great that he is home.

The flat is now empty, and 90% of my possessions are in a skip in Croydon. A poetic end. The carpet has gone, but the drying machines are still not doing their job, as there is nowhere to plug them in, and no electrician in Tooting who seems able to attend an appointment when he says he will. Nearly three months on, and I am tempted to try and dry the place out myself with kitchen paper. That advert for ‘Bounty’ makes some fairly extravagant claims.

Despite all of this progress, I’m still not back to where I was with my job. I suppose there’s quite a lot of confidence to be won back from potential employers, even if I was as sprightly around the stage as I ever was. Which, of course, I’m not. So it’s a slow business. And as mortgage rates have thoughtfully chosen this moment to rise, my only two chances of avoiding skid row have been the ongoing legal case, and the possibility of picking up teaching work. And the legal case is proving interminable. The other side seem to think I should have factored in the possibility of meeting a wannabe Stirling Moss in an aged BMW into my road-crossing calculations. So I was a relieved man when the City of London School rang and offered me work until Christmas. I had been weighing up the relative benefits of a job in Starbucks or McDonalds. It will be difficult to look the head of English at Tonbridge in the eye again though. I left him with the distinct impression that the reason I couldn’t take on the job there full-time was because I was busy establishing my international operatic career. And one of his first jobs of the new term would have been to write my reference.

At least the city is a great place to work. Over ten years ago, I did part of my PGCE there, and tiptoed in with a shaky idea of the principles of English teaching, and a determination to account for every minute of a forty minute lesson with a detailed plan. Now I waltz in with my bullshit valve jammed permanently in the open position, and an accidental knowledge of my subject. It’s a different job. And rather more enjoyable, even if it isn’t my job of choice. However, there is an integral contradiction to being an English teacher in the City of London. It is not a job that sits obviously in the same space as the unfettered capitalist. Pinstripe suits don’t have leatherette elbow-patches. So, in order to feel suitably city-boy and to please my physiotherapist at the same time, I have joined a gym. I haven’t been there yet, though. I don’t own a pair of shorts.