Summer Tea Parties
Summer’s here. Don’t tell the English weather though. As soon as it hears the rain will come. It’s like “hello July, hello torrential rain.”
So let’s talk hush hush.
I’ve got some great ideas for a summer’s day afternoon tea party. It’s the high-class picnic and all the better for it.
When my eldest daughter started at her sixth form college, after years of private school, she got labelled “posh”.
For one thing she said “prep” instead of “homework”.
Posh kids say “mummy I haven’t got any prep tonight.” Apparently.
I bought her one of those old school badges you can get in novelty shops that said “posh” on it. She wore it on the lapel of her jacket with pride. It became a bit of a joke in our family.
If you met us you would know instantly that we are anything but posh.
There is an ochre and crimson multi-coloured crinkling carpet under my feet
I’m spinning round and round beneath the wind swept trees
Almost barren now with just their branches reaching out for the last remnants of winter’s light
Arms wide open, hair pulled tightly in bunches, fingers spread to the sky
Nose and ears pinched ruby with autumn’s early evening chill
It’s just a moment, just a second, but it’s everything
Moving to the left, then the right, unsteady feet, catching the world as it
Falls out of focus
Just over a week ago we got that dreaded call, the one where your child’s school phones to say there has been an accident. “Come immediately,” they said, “we think your son has broken his collar-bone.”
A trip to A&E proved them to be right. The x-ray showed a clean break just by his shoulder joint. D would have to spend the next few weeks with his arm in a sling. He arrived home subdued and pale dosed up on pain killers.
It turned out that the breakage was a result of a few of the boys “playing” rough during break time. D called the game “benching” and, although he explained it to me, I still can’t quite get to terms with exactly how it works. All I know is it involves a lot of pushing and shoving and knocking each other to the ground. From a female perspective, I just don’t get it, but all the men I’ve discussed it with, including my OH, grin in acknowledgement. That’s the way boys play.
My daughter and I made Whoopie Pies last night. It was a monumental occasion. She was in control.
Now don’t get me wrong. I love my daughter. Her in charge of the baking, though? That’s hard.
It was the time of evening when I was all over the place. Picking one child up, dropping the other off. Thinking about dinner. Supervising the homework. I wouldn’t bake during this time. Not for anything. Well, except for George Clooney maybe.
So there I am, all the time trying to keep an eye on her progress. Getting just the tiniest bit stressy. You could say that.