Weeknotes 093: Short-sleeved pants are called shorts

It came home. The capstone to a marvellous tournament. That semi-final destruction was beautiful in its brutality. Piglet won’t remember it, but we’ve got a picture of her celebrating to bore the kids with in 60 years.
Outdoor Encanto required precision seat assignment between the kids to make sure that everyone had the right partners.
A new dragon fancy dress costume exploded the joy-meter. Never have so many strangers been on the receiving end of quite as many roars.
The lines are still stubbornly staying in plague house. We video called instead. The Chef claimed dibbs for Carer’s Day and the two of them spent it doing a delicious nothing.
Google photos reminded us that it was the two year anniversary of The Chef going back to work. Not the regular back-to-work environment. Been a weird few years, hasn’t it?
Travelling the other way in time, Piglet found her school uniform and wandered into my office wearing it. I was not ready for that.
She was still wearing it while she made us flatbread pizzas for lunch. We at least got her changed to breathily sing happy birthday messages to her auntie and the neighbour. She’s either 3 or 30.
We’re living through fertile imaginative play. We thought Piglet was trialling lying, but she’s hurt at the suggestion. The world in her head is real enough.
One of her odder pretend games is to go use the toilet. If, however, she realises it’s not pretend we get a regal shoo away and told to come back when she’s finished.
To complement The Cow Who Fell to Earth, Piglet has invented the The Donkey Who Fell into a Tree and The Flamingo Who Pooped a Planet. They need work-shopping before publishing, but strong first drafts.
She’s picked up the South Yorkshire pronunciation of tongue. I’m chastised if I read a book and don’t say tong.
We prepped the theatre with the first trip to daddy’s nail salon. I thought I did a passable job. The show was ace and small enough for the kids to get involved. We’ll be hearing about the puppet dog that pooped on the stage for weeks.
Popped into the Discovery Museum afterwards. Piglet spotted a ride-in Thomas the Tank Engine and set off at the same time as an unsuspecting middle-aged lady. Unaware that it wasn’t a race—possession equals the first turn—Piglet sashayed at speed, hands flared with nails resplendent in a dominance display. The girl can do smug, but I’m not sure I’ve seen its equal when she climbed on as the victor.
The now mandatory trip to Fenwicks coincided with a reading of Mog the Cat and being allowed to sit on the forbidden giant reading chair.
In a delaying tactic near bedtime she pleaded and wheedled to get a trip to the green at the end of the street. A storm damaged branch, whilst too big to carry, made for an excellent bouncing broom. Made more magical when she “alacazam”-ed up some rain and we had to hide under a willow tree.
Durham Botanic Gardenis delightful. Especially when accompanied with hungover friends and an M&S picnic.
Followed up with a trip to newly clear grandparents for Sunday roast, overdue cuddles and beers with the best football of my lifetime.

31 July 2022

Weeknotes 092: Can you put that in my bum David Allen Green argues the merits of one sentence paragraphs for clarity of writing and reading. What are weeknotes, if not a chance to experiment

Weeknotes 094: Promise of Percy Pigs Is good news that you can’t share better than good news you can? I’m not sure. But it’s a nice feeling to hold regardless. I’m writing these after a

Weeknotes 093: Short-sleeved pants are called shorts

Previous post

Next post