Weeknotes 104: Stop stroking your potato
I guess, at a push, the big news this week would probably be that we can share is that we’re pregnant. 💥
It feels good to type that. Can’t describe how thankful we are and just quite how nervous we are too. Going to be a shorter 6 months than we think.
Hopeful that the roof will be fixed by then. The roofers turned up to tell me the scaffolding wasn’t secure and promptly apologised and left.
As for the one that escaped the womb years ago, her teachers have already commented that she doesn’t like to be rushed and that she has her own, particular, way of doing things. I’ve tried to speed her up in the mornings when she shouts, “I love you”, but she refuses to do it until her mam has slammed the door.
In reassurances that are more worrisome after being uttered, she asked, “Can I have a story? I won’t poop on it.” The compromise was that she could take it to the toilet to read.
The next morning I had the pressure of making sure her hair was neat enough for school photo day. The distraction was Octonauts. A show that is basically British Paw Patrol, but better in every way. The additive small differences summing up to move from qualitatively bad to actually good. I’m not as nervous about the outcome of the school photo as the pregnancy, but it feels close right now.
In fact, while we’re talking about stress, this queueing story is harrowing.
To celebrate photo day, I met The Chef in the park after school, only to find Piglet coming down The Big Slide. Cackling. That was a sufficient show of bravery to warrant midweek pub grub tea. Our punishment was to spend the rest of the evening doing school applications. Tom Forth asked about bizarre things your country thinks is normal which aren’t and the top (now deleted) reply was that schools aren’t allocated to houses. Which is to say, if we lived in a sensible country, I could have skived this evening instead.
In more extreme versions of bizarre country decisions, The Chef’s cousin in China has had an electronic monitor fitted to their front door to make sure they don’t leave the flat for 6 days because a single potential Covid case in school.
I’m heading back to the office frequently enough that my desk share isn’t working any more. I spent a morning digging out a free desk from a year’s worth of accumulated crap (including a colleague’s marriage certificate), giving it a disinfect and making myself at home. My fourth desk move within the same small open plan office. At least I’ve not had to set up a tent in case of an unannounced lockdown…
Having groused about picking the wrong evening out, it turns out the one I missed was a super-spreader event. Bullet dodged there.
Grandma brought Piglet home at the same time as the neighbours were returning. This meant Piglet and her buddy could get progressively more excited egging each other on. Right up to the point Piglet literally wet herself laughing on the drive.
Reading stories to her that night she said, “I’m fed up. Fed up means you’re bored with something. I’m fed up with telly today. I won’t be fed up with it tomorrow and I can watch Octonauts.” She followed that up with a treatise on the rules of sharing and how a meaningful life should be a good one. Then offered the jazz riff, “this cat is tired. This cat’s going to bed.”
The Chef headed to Durham for a weekend of friendship, food—home-made and restaurant—and chocolate making. Piglet, dressed as a dragon, was sent to Lǎolao and Lǎoyé’s, leaving me free to enjoy the rugby league with the introvert. He’s gluten free, so tea was a tapas made from the cafe’s entire GF range. And delicious it was. The amount of beer that was coupled with the rugby did lead to some scampi fries later mind.16 October 2022