…the unfortunate answer to which this evening is: Oliver Ibbetson’s mother.
The alarm went off this morning just short of three hours after we had gone to bed, and we crawled around rubbing gritty eyes and groaning as we got ready.
Even the dogs didn’t believe we were serious. We dressed hastily and hurled picnic things into the car, along with the still-incredulous dogs and an enormous flask of glutinous black coffee so that we might wake up on the way.
It was Oliver’s school Speech and Sports day, a rather jolly social event a which they combine all the end of year business into one occasion in order to minimize the number of times parents have got to hunt out something decent to wear and try and find inspiring small talk.
The forecast, courtesy of the BBC, was for a heatwave, which definitive assurance had helped me to resolve the usual concerns about what to wear. I dug out an old soft cotton jersey knit dress with black and white stripes, it had all the sophistication of a small tent but was gloriously comfortable. I wore my apron over the top of it until we pulled in a the school drive to minimise the risk of coffee damage.
This turned out to have been a good idea, and I put my apron in the washing machine when we got home.
We managed to arrive in reasonable time, and discovered that we weren’t the only ones feeling a bit frayed, the previous night having been the occasion of the Summer Ball. We had not attended the Ball for pecuniary reasons which I shall not go into here, but it sounded like ace fun, maybe next year.
The day started with a concert. Over the last few years Oliver has metamorphosised from a small oik into a slightly larger and more confident oik. He has now mastered considerably more notes on the flute, and was playing in the school orchestra as well as singing in the choir.
Aysgarth does music brilliantly well, and this morning was no exception. My favourite bit, obviously apart from Oliver, was the bagpipes, which always sends shivers down my spine. They marched in looking entirely formidable, and the gorgeous sound filled the hall. Most of the Scots I meet are retired unemployed people from Glasgow, for whom an enterprising coach company does budget trips to Windermere several times a year, in the off-season. It is good to be reminded that there is more to our neighbours.
They were all brilliant, and the music had fortuitously been chosen to match my decidedly lowbrow tastes: Gershwin and the Can-Can, and the theme from Star Wars. We clapped until our hands were sore. I regretted this during the Speech Day part of the event, when a great deal more clapping was required, and my palms were beginning to get a bit pink. The Chairman of the Governors was retiring, and gave a speech which both made me laugh and wish that he wasn’t: then the Head gave a speech which made me laugh and the boys laugh as well, and there were cups and prizes, and then coffee before the Sports.
I managed to collar Oliver and we discussed his lack of communication over the last few weeks. He has been so busy that he had completely forgotten to read my e-mails, even when requested to do so by Matron, although he vaguely remembered that he might have received the letter I sent, thoughtfully timed to arrive on the same day as his Beano comic.
We looked at his animation, which was a bloodthirsty affair involving a dinosaur and a panda and a Ninja, and then released the dogs to accompany us watching the sports. I had been worried about leaving them in a car, even with all the windows open, but when we got back to them it was decidedly cooler in there than it had been in the school hall, and Roger Poopy was busily standing with his paws on the back window, barking at passers by. He was dreadfully embarrassed when he realised that it was us, because he knows that he is not allowed to bark at people.
We sat on a blanket in the sunshine for the sports. I had put my sunhat on, and later discovered that everything just below its shady brim had got dreadfully burned. I have got a red line somewhere around the middle of my nose, below which everything is scarlet.
After that we collected our excited sons and wandered across to the fields for the picnic.
I could go on talking about this for hours, but actually I can’t because it is almost five in the morning and I am dying to go to bed. We had our picnic and came home, where we collapsed into exhausted oblivion for an hour until the alarm went off to send us to work.
I have been there ever since, and I have absolutely run out of energy to write any more. Mark is in bed, and the dogs are asleep, and I am going to go and shower and join them.
I am so very sunburned.
