It's Saturday morning and the world is my clam. A much anticipated party somewhere "down South" was to be the subject of this weekend's activities with most of the large clan, but this morning finds the Red Haired boffin on the 9.05 to Doncaster, heading for a rendevous with Mr Nosmo King and Meg (Bill and Nel's Mum), while I am in Hull. The reason for this temporary separation is that given my current appearance, there's a strong possibility that children would be frightened, thus reducing the festive atmosphere somewhat. In short, I am completely codswalloped, knackered, tired, and I realize as soon as I get up, that the very fact that I want to go back to bed immediately, tells me that disappointed as I am not to witness the collective Larges et al, larging it (as it where) , the decision is a wise one.
The past two weeks have been quite busy at work, which explains the appearance, and having had no time to do anything enjoyable, I resolve to put the disappointment of not being able to attend the party behind me, and make the most of a free weekend. Mentally I make a list:
- do something about the facial fuzz.
- get a very long bath,
- write to Revenue Canada because we've been audited and they are now demanding $thousands (due to Ploppyshanker Tammy Johnson and the whole rental scam involving our Nova Scotia house),
- go for a long bike ride,
- take some photos of the local docks,
- browse a few secondhand bookshops,
- cook several fantastic meals that Nel can enjoy on her return,
- watch Liverpool play Manchester United tomorrow afternoon,
- phone some friends for a long overdue chat,
- maintain bike,
- clean the house
- research local archeaological finding (Stone Age boats found at Ferriby - 10 miles away - perhaps I can get in early and find a few more)
- tighten up possible budget for house purchase
I half-hearted ly throw a few springs for her to chase , but she ignores them and follows me into the living room, where I sit down to enjoy my breakfast, while watching Time Team, a British programme about archaelogical digs (this programme is inconceivable to North American television viewers - no one gets shot, it is completely undramatic and mainly features a group of old men digging in wet fields without a pretty girl in sight anywhere. The whole point of the programme is to stay away from the dramatic, so they tend to excavate Iron Age toilets and beehives and such. Strangely though, like the televised sheep herding and live darts coverage, it is addictive).
This is also deeply unsatisfying to Calli , who wants to play NOW, so she sits in front of the television, making viewing impossible. She looks bright eyed, perky and totally 'up for it'.
I ignore the cat, so she positions herself in front of me, next to her favourite box and hunkers down expectantly, ready to pounce on anything that emerges. After a few minutes of this, I realize that my attempts at negotiation "I'll play with you in ten minutes" are futile. Play cannot wait.
Half an hour later and we're still chasing, fighting, pouncing, jumping, finishing the whole session off with a good old rough and tumble. Even after a few minutes of this, my list is forgotten. Calli has made me realize that the whole point of this weekend, for me at least, is to do nothing. "Relax, already", I tell myself, and immediately start to draw up lists of really effective ways of doing nothing.