Father’s Day in New Brighton, a promenade currently enjoying a renaissance. Finn and I went on this little seaside adventure with Mum, Dad and of course Alfie, who was of course the star of the show, mostly because he absolutely refused to venture into the sea where other puppies less wussy than him were frolicking…
He’s a scamp. Probably the scruffiest dog on the pier, he jumped about licking babies and challenging big dogs to fights and generally making the most darling nuisance of himself, while Finley walked along making loom bands on his fingers and us grown-ups basked in what was a lovely sunny day…
And now it is Monday evening and I am grating cheese for chilli and waiting for the Daddy who couldn’t find time to have his little boy on Father’s Day to arrive to pick up his card. Gritting my teeth in preparation to hold in my most feisty self and resist stabbing him with a ladle. Must not scream. Must not throw a tantrum. Must not black his eye.
(Might just. No. Mustn’t.)
It is warm in the house today. Stuffy. The house is tetchy. Showing it’s displeasure with a general air of I couldn’t give a damn. The air too still to throw a light breeze around the room in which I type. Little Alice has been stung by a bee and is walking around weeping in a catty fashion, and I have got the dirtiest feet you have ever seen after wandering in and out of the backing garden mindlessly plucking at the roses, looping sheets over the washing line and talking to the neighbours.
It has been one of those days. One of those nothing days it doesn’t do to write about, beyond acknowledging the ordinary. Nodding at the expected and the familiar. We mustn’t forget these days. Mustn’t lose them in a wave of happy highs and horrible lows. For these are the days our children treasure. Mummy grating cheese. Mummy beaming at visiting Daddy. Mummy trying to calm manic cat. Mummy tripping over Lego doctor Who and pretending it didn’t hurt. That she doesn’t miss what is now clearly gone. Pretending. And doing a mighty fine job of it! For that is what Mummy’s are for. To maintain the loveliest of status quos for security’s sake.
Tonight there will be a glass of ice-cold raspberry cider and Coronation street, an early night and a lavender bath. More lovely ordinary. What a shame every day isn’t New Brighton. But they aren’t. Some days are just so very Ormskirk. And for that, despite it all the universe insists we remain grateful.
Now where did I leave that ladle?
Apologies, your Honour, his head got in the way of it.