“Mummy, it isn’t good for a young boy to be bored”. I am sorry if the entertainment isn’t up to scratch; bring on the cabaret (cavalry?)
Friday morning Hazel, dogs, Joni on trike, Danny in pushchair go for a walk. Joni on trike doesn’t see the step, front wheel stops dead, classic base over apex, spread-eagled face-down in a child-trike tangle. I let go of both pushchair and dog in order to unravel Joni. Dog finding herself unexpectedly free, joyfully sets off in pursuit of approaching van, knocking over pushchair on the way. Score yelling children two. Picked everyone up, dusted them off, no major injuries, even Joni’s bleeding chin isn’t going to warrant stitches. Carry on our walk. Arrive home half an hour later to discover that I probably lost the house-keys at the point where the pushchair fell over. Retrace steps. No keys. Redo entire walk with a toothcomb. Still no keys. Having already been broken into twice, decide that there is at least some possibility that someone knows whose keys they have picked up (the English population of San Francisco scoring at one family). My patient and uncomplaining (sorry honey) husband therefore spends the morning changing three locks.
Friday 2pm, the phone rings, I ignore it, twice. Followed up by a loud banging on the front door. Someone looking for me. He has advertised his car for sale on the internet, and the person who wants to buy it apparently works in London and only speaks English, so can I come and help him with the phone-call (like I say, everyone knows where the English family live). So off I go. The potential buyer isn’t English, he is Nigerian and his accent over a poor telephone line is barely comprehensible. And I’m not convinced he’s a genuine buyer either. I speak to him on the phone, get him to agree to send an email, and warn the people at this end to tread carefully.
Friday 4pm, sling some things into a bag, sling same into car, add a couple of kids for good measure and we’re off to Cordoba till tomorrow. Wedding this evening (Argentinean weddings are usually Friday or Saturday evenings, start at 9pm and go on until 5 or 6 the next morning). Good to see some of the church folk from Cordoba, many expressed surprise that they didn’t know we’d doubled our child quota since they last saw us. Bush telegraph apparently in need of some maintenance. Wedding weathered; kids loved it, Martin went off to kip in the car for a couple of hours. We disappear off to the house of friends for a few zzz’s.
Saturday morning, the plan to have a leisurely breakfast followed by a meander back to San Fran is hijacked as we find ourselves in the middle of a situation. This isn’t my story to tell, and particularly not as it is still ongoing. We spent all day seeking resolution, but by 7 in the evening were forced to conclude that even a temporary patch was beyond our means. If anyone out there has faith to pray for un-named people in an un-defined crisis, then it would be most welcome; and if you hear any useful answers, then do pass them along. This one is going to run for a while yet, and is probably the reason why we needed to be in Cordoba this weekend, although I had no inking of that when I wrote “wedding” in the diary for Friday evening.
Saturday 7pm, we begin our four-hour battle home against an electrical storm, not exactly the kind of entertainment I had in mind (me at the wheel and all), but we made it home in one piece, courtesy of a couple of large lorries which I hid behind for the most ferocious bits.
Saturday 11pm, arrive home to find the house stinks of gas. Close inspection reveals probable leak in the cooker. Switch off gas at source, open doors and windows. T’was on a monday morning… note to self to phone him.
My dear sweet little boy with the old man’s vocabulary, I do understand your sentiment that the entertainment this weekend has lacked a certain something, but I don’t think boring would be the adjective I’m looking for.