For six days it has been grey and chilly. I’m used to grey and chilly - I’m from Yorkshire after all - but where my home county doesn’t pretend not to be a grim and up North (look at Haworth, home of the Brontë sisters and you’ll see we positively sell ourselves on it!), Norfolk claims to be sunshiney. While the last time I checked, Whitby was devoid of beach huts (but had lots of pubs with cosy fires), Cromer has its beachfront studded with them. Their colours reflected the colours of the stepkids; blue skin, red noses...
Of course it’s not just the fact the weather is rubbish, it takes hours to get anywhere because nobody drives above 40mph! And the stupid flatness means it’s hard to judge the shape of the road for overtaking. I guess it’s pretty but it’s too flat to tell.
I write this from a coffee shop in Holt and I have to hand it to Holt. It’s a pretty perfect little town but I doubt I’ll be welcome back. Yesterday the fiancé and I bought a painting for our bedroom and when the gallery owner asked to put me on a mailing list in case we ever headed back this way, it was (according to the fiancé) with a mix of horror and disgust that I informed her I’d never be coming back to Norfolk.
I must work on my filter.
Actually I’ve been very good. I’m not here with just the fiancé and the kids, there are another eleven of the fiancés nearest and dearest family members! It was a little over a week ago when drinking white wine on the Embankment in London I mentioned this fact to a couple of my girlfriends and was met with a look of incredulity. It was not so much the case that Jo wondered why anyone would want to go on such a holiday as why would the girl Stef (one of the nicest people I know) describes as rather obnoxious and grumpy want to go?
Obviously it’s about the kids. They hero worship their older male cousin (who tolerates them most admirably) and I’m firmly of the belief that children gain much from being around their grandparents (and in our case, great grandparents). And it does make our lives easier what with the babysitters on tap that allow for an adult only lunch and chance to cook/shower/breathe with minimised interruption.
Still, much as I get on with everyone its hard work. I have to try to be nice and not tell my favourite joke (I failed and got funny looks).
What’s red and noisy?
A peeled baby, rolled in salt.
It’s now Saturday. I ran out of time in the coffee shop because there wasn’t a single plug and my battery died down. I would have posted this last night but it took forever to get home because until you pass Leicester there are no motorways (what the hell is with that?) and the whole experience left me wanting to get the kids fed and in bed so that the fiancé and I could hit the rum. Hard.
I usually aim for 1,000 words but my garden awaits and after a week in jeans I want to run about in a sundress and try not to ponder too much why, when we live on the edge of the Cotswolds in a city with wonderful pubs and a short drive from the Forest of Dean (where tonight we’re watching Around the World in 80 Days at the Dean Heritage Centre), we ever leave.