Paul Davidson
Weeknotes 072: I saw Fran on a bike.
As everyone else who weeknotes has pointed out, the situation in Ukraine is bigger than the inane wittering you’ll find here. Donate to the Red Cross. Feel free to carry on reading about the exploits of an angry toddler who loves the Gruffalo once you’ve done that though.
The terrible twos are here in their abundant anger and we’re living through daily tantrums. Ugly, red-faced, tears-streaming tantrums. I was stuck in her room for over an hour before bed for having the temerity to not be Mama while reading the bedtime story.
When I went to get her for nursery the next day, she was lying in bed with the covers up to chin saying, “I don’t want to get up”. I managed to coax her from her pit, but things rapidly deteriorated when trying to switch from pyjamas to clothes. I abandoned her in her room while I collected myself on the stairs. It worsened to physical fight to get into car and the tears ran all the way to the door of nursery.
Not wanting to repeat that, The Chef was moved to semi-permanent story duty which meant I dialled into the street playout Zoom call. If ever a sentence was laying a welcome mat for my forties, it’s that one. With the jobs divvied up, I’m writing the permission letter to the council. Which is definitely me putting the keys in the door to my forties.
My folks brought round half of their Anniversary cake for us to eat. We’ve been eating a slice every night. It’s not the best. In flavour or in the effect on our waists.
A well-rested Piglet was sunnier for World Book Day. She’s young enough that we could escape with a few face-paint whiskers and an Alice band with ears on it to send her in as the Little Brown Mouse. She had a meltdown about having a tail, but with a touch up to the streaked whiskers she went in looking a tailless bobby dazzler.
A testy meeting at work let me vicariously vent my frustrations with the tantrums. I followed it with one of the canteens odder meal journeys: Deep fried calamari. With garlic alioli. In a baguette. With rocket. And chips.
We were joined on Friday by a visitor from the grim South and The Chef had company for child-free cheese, meat and wine. When they got back I was treated to a rare compliment on my music choice.
The visit was in service of another friend’s birthday. We spent the morning visiting Beamish. I say visiting, but mostly queueing for fish and chips. Piglet did get to ride a couple of trams (delight) and meet someone with her name (confusion). It was back to theirs for the afternoon food and drinks. The birthday girl—one of life’s feeders—looked over with satisfaction as she listened to Piglet describing all the animals she’d eat from the Best Word Book Ever. Which, thanks to The Chef, includes the anthropomorphic bunnies building sandcastles.
As the designated driver I took Piglet home and left the rest to keep boozing. The Chef headed for the last train home. Cancelled. Trains suck. A £50 Uber was the alternative.
The annoyance was allayed by the return of good dim sum to round off the week.
6 March 2022