I have been so preoccupied with my own adventures that I had completely forgotten that Oliver is about to start on his exams.
He reminded me in an email tonight.
These are not quite the life-changing, intense pressure, Common Entrance exams, with which we make our teenage childrens’ lives miserable. These are the final practices in the run up to that terrible moment.
Of course Oliver is worried about them. It is very hard to be thirteen.
I felt terrifically sympathetic, in a helpless sort of way, and longed to rush off to school and rescue him, which of course I didn’t. He is quite stoic enough to keep his chin up and get on with it, and he will be home for exeat on Friday in any case. I remembered happily this evening that I will be able to be at home with him now that I am not in prison.
I am secretly rather surprisingly relieved about this. I was not at all looking forward to being on a course at the other end of the country at this time of the year, when there are carol services and school plays and dance shows and pantomimes to be considered. It will be nice to be free.
I hope he is all right.
I have lit a candle.
When I have not been worrying about Oliver this evening, I have been sitting quietly in the taxi listening to the church bells.
The Archers were ringing their church bells on the radio as well, because it is the Armistice and we are remembering soldiers.
As you know, I am also the parent of a soldier, who fortunately is not in any danger of being shot at right at the moment. All the same, the whole thing makes me feel a bit cold and shivery inside. More mothers than we could even begin to count waited and hoped and prayed and hoped some more. The lucky ones got all of their son back. The rest lived all of their lives afterwards with that unspeakable, unbearable hurt.
I wish it helped them that we remember. It feels such a helpless thing to do, a few moments somber thinking to offer up in exchange for such a dreadful thing. If only every little bit of remembering somehow carried a bit of somebody’s hurt for them, how wonderful it would be.
There are no words in the face of that agony, that terrible slammed door. Pain is the dreadful price of all love, and all of Europe paid it, and more than once.
To live in a time of peace is probably the greatest thing in the world. I shall try and remember that for the rest of the day. I am more fortunate than I can begin to appreciate.
I have not spent the whole of the day thinking of war, and of tragedies. In fact it has been a very short day, because of working late last night. It was almost six this morning when we got to bed, and lunchtime when we emerged for coffee.
This makes the working day ridiculously short. My first project of the day was to wash the china and to polish the dresser, and I was feeling very pleased with myself for making such a good start when I realised that actually it was half past three in the afternoon.
After that it was too late to do anything very much, and so I occupied myself by straining the grape-infused spiced rum that we have been nurturing underneath the dresser since September.
There was spiced rum with apple and grapes, and spiced brandy with apple and blackberries. I squeezed as much of the brandy and rum out as I could, not being the sort of purist who cares if drinks are cloudy, and then dumped the remaining fruit pulp in the bucket with the mince pie mix.
At the moment it isn’t mince pie mix yet. It is a bucket filled with alcohol-sodden fruit, with a few nutmegs and cinnamon sticks chucked in to add sophistication. I have been adding to it at prosperous intervals during the year, and shall be adding the suet and stuffing it in jars over the next few days.
It is looking as though I will be at home over Christmas. I can’t help but be very pleased about this.
I can start making my Christmas cards soon.
Hurrah.
These pages, by the way, can still only be reached by logging in, as you have probably realised. I know that this is an awful nuisance, but they have got to stay that way whilst I am part of the prison service. I can’t use my own name on Facebook, and can’t just leave my diaries open on the desk, as it were.
If it’s any consolation, it doesn’t sound as though it will be for very much longer.
I am sorry that it is so tiresome.
