This morning I am supremely SMUG to say that despite the fact the children were all up and dressed before 8am (it's usually a struggle to get Archie out by twenty five past on the 5th shout and the threat of a hot iron in his lug'gol) I strolled through the most beautifully snowy narnai known to narns. I just suspected that it was not going to last - despite being perfect igloo building material I had a glorious amble and came home to the joyful cavorts of Archie Shand snow boarding upright over the bracken on an up turned sledge. Largely impressive stuff -and I almost went into "thats'ma boy" proudest mummy mode when I realised he was wearing my favourite (and my "best" Boden blue velvet with red spotty lining "smart" coat) As I stood at the wrong side of a pikey wire fence hurling insults and abuse at him he threw a snowball at me.
And it hit me right between the eyes. There's very little that can be said when rage is teetering on the brink of explosion - it was an almost out of body experience - looking outside at my simmering self and critising my own lack of wit/humour/awe at his cheek. Anyway, I had had a lovely walk and have spent the afternoon writing 3 pages of doric shmoric dialogue for my play. its a bit like sherbit - impressive at first pass but imediately fades to nothing at all.
Asking Hedge for some assistance - I said what would you call a "mess"? he said "our house" - No I patiently explained I need a doric word for mess - and do you know how helpful he was? He said. A Mess.
Thanks Hedge. (I now have snorrel, midden, & red-up so that's just fine.) I am still recovering from PMS - Post Miracle Syndrome -but I have the local minister and his fire side reflections to thank for that. Too much staring into the flames has affected his rationality me thinks.
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