Marital incompatibility

I am reading Island of Wings by Karin Altenberg at the moment. It is the tale of a woman who goes with her husband (a Scottish presbyterian minister) to live in St Kilda's, Britain's most remote island. Set in the 1830s it tells a tale of primitive living in a bleak place. In contrast, my husband is reading Spud - Learning to Fly by John van de Ruit, the third book in the Spud series. It was my Valentine's gift to him: given we both loved the first two books it was a fairly safe bet.

The other evening we were lying in bed reading our respective novels. I was contemplating what life must have been like for this poor woman, on a cold bleak island in the middle of nowhere (quite literally). What would it look like: the crags, the scrubby grassland, the lack of trees?

*chortle, chortle*
My husband is enjoying his book.

I return to the isolation of the minister's wife. She can't speak a word of Gaelic. Why doesn't her husband try to teach her a few simple words to let her communicate with the natives? Surely she would be more content if she had others to talk to; someone other than her husband, who is solely focussed on his mission to save the islanders' souls?

*chuckle, laugh*
I give my husband a look. He straightens his face and returns to reading.

My heroine is pregnant... and now she chooses to go for a walk up the hill. Her husband doesn't think this is safe. Can he be right? I read on, anticipating the worst. She slips, she falls, she...

*raucous guffaw*
The bed shakes with my husband's laughter. "Sorry," he says, but can't hold the laughter in as he returns to his book.

For me, I read of inevitable loss, of the husband taking control in a tragic situation, of him naming and disposing of the baby before she wakes up. I read of the woman's meek submission to her husband's will.

*more laughter*

I give up reading. Sometimes you have to recognise you aren't going to win.

(I'll let you know how good the book is if I am ever given the space to finish it!)

Gifts of ivory and gold

It is in those bewitching hours of 3-5am that I have most of my greatest blog posts written.

Unfortunately, I am writing them in my brain, not wishing to leave the warmth of my bed even if I have left the satisfaction of sleep. By 9am, when I have the time and space to type, they have vanished, blown away in the gale of preparation for school.

Last night (or, technically, this morning) I recall planning to write about my mother and grandmother, who died 24 and 1 year(s) ago respectively. I recall wondering about the problems of mental health, and society's attitude towards it. I remember thinking about my recent nightmare in which I had a maths exam looming but could not bring myself to revise any of the relevant subject matter.

Maybe all these will become a blog post at some point. Maybe.

I cogitated the merits of blogging, the decline in comments (my own fault, for not visiting others' blogs often enough), the speed of reaction to twitter. I thought about my children and how they make me laugh so much, yet I find it more and more difficult to write stories about them on the blog. Is it just too intrusive on their privacy? I wondered whether it was interesting to write about school plays and trombone exams and concerts, all of which dominate my life and mind but are hardly unique to my family. Or I could be more topical - debate the NHS, or the Eurozone crisis, or write about Advent and Christmas, or give my take on Strictly and The X-Factor. Would anyone really be interested in all this?

But then I thought about how lovely it would be to write a post about my wonderful husband; how much I love him; how much I depend on him and how - even after 14 years of marriage - it is a privilege to know him. He has given me two wonderful children and a life with more adventures than I could possibly have foreseen, but more laughter and joy than I could ever have hoped for. 

Happy Wedding Anniversary!

Can there be anyone nicer than me?

I was chatting with my son and I tell him a story about how, in one of our many house moves, I managed to dispose of something my husband made before we got married. I'd never really liked it, it was too big and damaged and... well, you get the picture.

Filled with a rush of remorse and guilt I declare, "Oh, when you get married, make sure you choose someone nicer than your mother!"

"Easy peasy," he says, walking off with a smile.

A mighty inheritance

"Dad," my son says, "why do you always use that glass?"

My husband looks at it carefully. "It's mine," he responds. "I like it. I've had it a long time and it is just the right size for my drink."

My son takes all this in, sagely nodding his head.

"Will you leave it to me in your Will?" he asks.

Somewhat taken aback, my husband replies, with a smile, "Of course. When I get round to writing my next Will I will leave it for you. But if I don't, then consider it yours regardless."

This is the glass:

Isn't it funny what children think important?

Marmalade wars

Over a couple of weekends, my husband and I have each made marmalade. Now, we are not competitive at all (ahem!) so I just wondered which was better.

First came mine: half normal (perhaps thin cut - I wasn't sure how fine I was supposed to slice the peel), half with ginger.

Thin cut

Ginger

Dark, but perfectly set.

And delicious (we have gone through a jar of each already).

Yesterday came his: half normal (chunky cut), half with lemon rind as well.

Lemon

Chunky

Both much lighter and - oh, his rind has rather floated to the top.

Did I win?

Best of all, my daughter must have been paying some attention. For months now her favourite sandwich for school has been cheese and marmalade (if you haven't tried it, you should: it really is very good!) It is partly for her that we've made so much. So imagine my horror this morning when she announced she didn't like marmalade.

"It's got rind in it," she says.

And it didn't before?!

Peeow! You're dead!

"Peeow! You're dead!"

Thus rings out the merry cheer of half-term at our house... usually followed by...

"No! I'm not dead!"

"Yes you are!"

"No I'm not!"

"Yes you are. I shot you."

"No, I shot you first."

"Peeow! You're dead! Got you this time!"

"But you were already dead so you can't shoot me."

The conversation carries on like this until their mother is on the verge of madness and cries out for them to stop.

Not that their parents are immune to being shot. Their father, however, usually responds along the lines of:

"You didn't shoot me. In that millisecond that you shot, I super-laser-zapped my head and it split in two down the middle, your shot missed and then my head stuck back together again."

...or...

"You couldn't see it but I time-travelled for a short while, so I wasn't here when the shot was fired and so can't have been killed."

My reaction? Usually:

"I'm dead? Oh."

And then I get on with clearing the dishes, hoovering the floor, putting the washing out ... well, life really.

Autumnal mornings

'tis the season of mists ...

(to husband)

"Don't you have an appointment at the doctor's this morning? What time is it?"

"I haven't seen anything lying around."

"Is it in the pile in the hallway?"

"Bedroom floor?"

"Desk?"

"They might have sent a message to your mobile."

"Perhaps best calling to find out ..."

"Oh, at 8.30? Better get going then."

... and mellow ...

(Shout up stairs)

"Come on, boy! You've got to go in 5 minutes!"

(Two minutes later, thankfully downstairs)

"I know you say you hate choir, but you are still going."

"Eat up! There isn't time for chatting!"

"Why haven't you got your shoes on?"

"Have you got everything? Music? Book? Spellings? Pack lunch? Games kit?"

(To daughter)

"Get your coat on. No, don't worry about the doll."

"No, you can't take your bracelet."

"Yes, it is pretty but the headmaster will be very cross with you."

"You can play when you get home. Right now, you have to go to school."

"What do you mean, you can't find your jumper?"

...fruitfulness

Time for a cup of tea...

With apologies to John Keats, To Autumn, 1820:

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.