I have had such a busy sort of day that I can barely recognise which way up I am.
Obviously I know which way up I am really, it is a figure of speech. I am sitting in my taxi looking out over the steering wheel at a chilly world. I am cold, because the exhaust is blowing fumes back into the car, and so I can’t sit with the engine on. This is a nuisance and is making me feel disproportionately sorry for myself.
Partly I am cold because I am tired. The alarm went off at six this morning, and we have been doing things ever since. It was Oliver’s school carol concert, so we had to set off early to drive over the fells and appear looking bright and parental at the Boy Improvement Factory.
We have got a lot of dressing up to do next week, and I regret to admit that I selected clothes for the both of us which would not need ironing afterwards. I do not want to spend any more time on laundry than I absolutely must this week. I do not mind in the least if that makes me a bad person.
Mark wore a jumper over a crumpled shirt so that it would not show, and I wore another jumper, likewise.
How we are fallen from grace. Once upon a time I worried terribly about what to wear to turn up to a smart boarding school, but now I know that as long as your husband is wearing a tweed jacket and you have got a middle-class haircut, it is all right. Expensive shoes help. All the rest is entirely up to you.
Of course nobody noticed what we looked like, because they were all busy worrying that they looked all right themselves. Everybody was just as friendly as they usually are, nobody gasped or pointed or anything.
I love the Aysgarth carol services. I think I will write to the Head and ask if we can still go even when Oliver has left, because they are brilliant. They are exactly the same every year, obviously the music is different, but the pattern is the same.
It is the Festival of Nine Lessons. The first one is read by one of the smallest boys, who seem to have become unbelievably tiny and far too small for boarding school since Oliver was one of them. They are eight, and their common room does not have a door on it because they cannot be trusted not to become hooligans if they are hidden from the world.
One boy from each year reads a lesson, and Oliver, being in Year Four, read the one about the lion and the lamb not eating one another. This is a great honour. Only the smallest flick of his eyebrows as he finished betrayed his cynicism about the subject.
The newest member of staff reads, and one of the Head Boy’s parents reads, then the Chairman of the Governors, and finally the head. The Chairman of the Governors is leaving this year. This is very sad, because he is brilliant, astute and brisk, and said a rude word in his speech on Speech Day because of a bet he had at the parents’ dance the night before. This has made him eternally one of my heroes.
I love the chapel. I love the music. The music is just stunning, the sort that makes you hushed and awed, soaring boys’ voices and the crashing organ. I love that there were far too many people squished into the chapel, standing at the back and sitting on chairs all the way up the aisle. This meant that everybody had to be really careful about the candles which were standing on the ends of the pews, and the Headmaster said that if anybody had any worries about Health and Safety they had probably better just leave.
We didn’t have any worries about Health and Safety, and were jammed into a corner anyway, so we couldn’t have left even if we had. We sang with enthusiasm, and finally managed to capture Oliver in the corridor afterwards. We almost didn’t recognise him, because he is so grown up.
We were surprised to discover that he had invited his friend Son Of Oligarch to come home with him for a few days. Obviously if the children want to have friends visiting they are perfectly welcome, although Son Of Oligarch seemed a bit vague about his return arrangements, thinking perhaps a train or something. I will have to send an email to his mother.
His presence inevitably meant that Oliver did not do his usual metamorphosis back into being our son, and is cheerfully crashing around answering to Ibby, because they don’t have first names at school. Son Of Oligarch appears to be an exception, as his surname is entirely unpronounceable.
I had intended to make soap when we got home, but Ritalin Boy’s Other Grandma arrived, so we sat down and had a cup of tea instead. I have noticed that when she visits she tends to leave something tiresome behind her, and this time it was Number One Daughter’s dog. He is Roger Poopy’s brother. Like Son Of Oligarch, there does not seem to be a return arrangement in place. I am beginning to wonder if I should be concerned about this.
In the end I made pizza for the children and we decorated the Christmas tree whilst the dogs wrestled with one another all over the floor. This all took ages, Son Of Oligarch has never decorated a Christmas tree before, and was splendidly enthusiastic. Mark had to go to his night class. He was not enthusiastic about this, because he has not had time to do his homework.
In the end the children all buzzed off and I tidied up and came to work. I am looking forward to bed time. It is lovely to be festive and seasonal, but I have been doing it all day now and am ready for a rest.
I can be seasonal again tomorrow.
