My son's just left for the weekend. We've been back a few days.
A lovely Easter down at the folks but Sunday he declared he wanted to come back, for none of his cousins were there. I woke up Monday and didn't feel ready. What horrors awaited me back here? I asked my son if we could stay an extra day and go back Wednesday.
Reluctantly he agreed for I had now disappeared into my head and wasn't playing "catch" or kicking a ball around or drawing with him or anything. I did suggest I read to him but he wasn't interested in that.
By Tuesday night I was looking forward to coming back. We live here, both of us. It's not a busy life we have, full of social dates and stuff, but well, it's Home. This flat isn't Home, but it is home.
The sun came out for us! Two days we've been lolling around on the Heath - my son's enormous playground and the Saviour of my soul.
Yesterday he found some kids to play with and I sat reading a copy of the Big Issue. Today we headed up to Kenwood House. We had a picnic, we played 'tickle time', he clambered up the brilliant clamber tree, he found a huge stick and pretended it was a javelin. Hours we were up there. I had my notebook but nope, stiggers just wanted to whisper in my ear while I gazed at my child.
I barely wrote at my folks. Did on the train down and although yet to write the bilge I left behind, you may have read it already, for I will copy it down at some point!
Then I wanted to write but my pen ran out. With an inkless nib I scratched a poem onto the paper and then scratched no more, pointless really! I'll shove that poem on here too - I'll call it "Take it, paper!"
My boy's away this weekend, I've only plans to meet Issy and Annie tomorrow evening. Plenty of time to write therefore!
Oh stiggers, I'm glad we're back!!