Men in the Arena

I am sorry to report that Oliver has not gained a scholarship for Gordonstoun.

They sent us a kindly letter this morning with all the usual stuff about the brilliant quality of the candidates and the surprise of there being so many, but did add a footnote that he is a jolly decent sort of chap, and so they will offer some kind of means-tested bursary support anyway. This meant that I was able to reassure myself that it won’t make any difference to anything really, and after all I am quite sanguine about the whole thing, and certainly jolly pleased that they like him so much.

In any case, they are right, he is a jolly decent sort of chap.

I thought with some grim amusement later that the one thing with which we have surpassed ourselves as a family this year is failure: starting with my bleep test, and moving on to Mark’s maths GCSE, Lucy’s driving test and now Oliver’s scholarship. 

We are the Unsuccessful Family. 

We have reached for the sky, and missed.

I sent the children a copy of the Roosevelt quotation about the Man In the Arena last week, to stick on their noticeboards and read every morning. It is one of my favourite quotations, combining as it does encouragement with a sort of ‘up yours’ attitude. You won’t be surprised to hear that they were only mildly grateful. 

I ought to read it every morning myself. 

I have attached it so that you can read it as well.

I have reminded myself dolefully that despite such a comprehensive lack of success, we are still getting along pretty well with our lives. Mark and I are managing to earn enough money to pay the school fees and the mortgage, somehow, and the children are managing to achieve enough at school not to be chucked out. I suppose that this is as much as can be expected, really.

Even despite a marked lack of success in any department whatsoever this year, it still seems to be being a fairly happy one.  I think that the thing is that whilst we are plodding determinedly uphill in our contented mediocrity, it is a bit of a let down to have failed to conquer a mountain. When we stood on the exciting cusp of the new year all those months ago, wondering what 2018 might bring, I would have been disappointed to have been given the answer: “not much, really.”

There is still time.  Exciting and joyful moments might still happen this year. We will have to try harder.

I woke up early this morning due to the tribulations of having an elderly bladder, and then couldn’t get back to sleep. 

This meant that I managed to fit lots of things into the day. 

I made biscuits, and then I used up some of the brandy-infused fruit that is soaking in the bucket for Christmas, and made Adult Buns. Usually buns are made with lemon buttercream and marshmallows, to suit teenage tastes, but they are not here at the moment, and I allowed myself the hedonistic grown-up flavours of cinnamon and black treacle and brandy-sodden fruit. 

I put them in tonight’s picnics with some expensively creamy yoghurt.

Mark went outside to pile some more blocks on to his shed wall, and I made some more jam.

This was the mix that had the blackberries and wild apples in it, and it turned out very nicely. I have got one last pan full to do and then I am finished, the only problem being that I have now run out of jam jars.

Between the assortment of alcohol and the grape jam I have used every single Kilner jar, honey jar and retired tomato jar in my possession. They are all full, and gleaming with brilliant jam colours.

This is a nice feeling.

Autumn has begun to drift in earnestly now. There are fallen leaves in the garden, and a damp, earthy smell in the air. It is good to see the shelves filled with squirrelled produce ready for winter.

It is looking as though we will probably survive it.

We can eat grape jam for weeks.