Today is the first day of the “summer” holidays when,
according to all songs, novels, advertising and recovered memories it is
supposed to be about barefoot gossoons playing in the brook, bees buzzing about
picnics where mothers laugh warmly as their offspring dangle from trees in
nicely laundered linens.
Actually, it has rained and rained and rained (“And the
people all said sit down, sit down you're rocking the boat” the songs strikes up
in my head) through the Wimbledon tennis championships, through the end of
school sports day and now, apparently, through the coming summer holidays.
The look on mothers’ faces at pick up at the school gates
yesterday was raw naked fear. We have six weeks ahead – that is roughly 30 days
(if you discount weekends) of single-handed entertainment to provide with no
let up. That means not one minute of peace until bedtime Every Day. And here’s
the best part. As the rain dictates that most outdoor play is pretty much off,
the indoor alternatives which are mostly in central London are also out of bounds
due to the *@%@*^% Olympic Games due to start here next week. Crap security
arrangements (the company actually admitted this, so I have no fear of a libel
suit) and sheer volume of people in the capital have made the prospect of
venturing to our favourite haunts – the Science Museum, the Transport Museum,
the South Bank, Greenwich … er anywhere around here really, pretty daunting.
People looked at each other in desperation yesterday casting
about for good ideas to engage their four year olds for at least some of the
approximately 200 hours of free time ahead.
“There’s a bee-keeping course on at the local library this
week if you fancy that. Maybe the hats will keep them going for a while…”
“I’ve booked a cab to drive us around and around the M25 for
the next three Fridays. I’m taking my iPad and a pair of headphones…”
I have arranged and then unarranged three organised
activities for Snooks, thinking each time for one blind stupid second that he
might Join In With Stuff if I paid a lot of money and threw him at it.
The Engineer each time has brought me back to my senses.
‘Remember Playball,” he says ruefully. The vision of carrying Snooks kicking
and screaming into a French class, a swimming class and a gymnastics class - and
paying for the privilege swam up before my eyes and I cancelled each one with a
sigh.
Instead we set off today at 8.45am in pursuit of our latest
obsession – watching real steam engines fly through local stations on their way
from London to the coast. We have managed to see two so far and each time it
has been a huge success. The uncertainty combined with the inconvenient hour
leads to a level of excitement which makes the fleeting appearance of the
treasured locomotives all the more worth waiting for. The early start also
served two further purposes – to wear Snooks out and to practise for when we
have to get to school for 9am each day come September, a discipline Snooks has
yet to encounter.
Unfortunately, this time I got the details slightly wrong
and the train did not appear leaving us deflated on a railway bridge at rush
hour. Luckily I had a back-up plan (I thought this through) and had our
swimming togs in the boot ready for an emergency trip to the local baths,
somewhere I hope to provide a regular safe haven during the
rain-and-Olympics-soaked weeks ahead.
However en route Snooks spotted a playground we used to
frequent in his pre-preschool days and asked to go there. My first thought was
to say no. We were on our way somewhere. I had it all mapped out. Swim, beans
on toast, asleep in the car on the way home. But like many of the unorthodox
decisions I have taken in motherhood, an excessive amount of being told ‘no’
for no good reason in my own childhood, inclines me to say yes to Snooks,
despite the disruption it may cause, unless there is a very good reason not to.
(Indeed this is how we came to be flying a “UFO” frisbee on the Common
yesterday dressed in shorts and wellies as the monsoon rain poured down and
everyone else ran for cover).
So we headed for the playground where who should run up to
Snooks calling his name with delight than the apple of his eye - a girl from
his nursery class whom he once likened famously to a pretty daisy. The two
played solidly for almost two hours until my bladder and their repertoire of
shared games reached their limit.
Snooks and I lunched at a very chi chi Italian place we
found in the nice part of town (he ate half the excellent penne and a tiny cake
while I half a panini and the rest of his penne) and he fell asleep in the car
on the way home.
