Sunday morning in our house. Me beavering away on publicising books before settling down to write another author interview and hopeful then move on to actually writing half a chapter while being careful of my bad arm. Neil and Ms Tina Turner in the sitting room. Her growling her way through a couple of hits from the ’80s, him doing his grandpa yoga or whatever cabalistic activity he does in there when no-one’s looking. A lady up the road, glimpsed through the kitchen window as I make another cup of tea, feeding the cats, shooing away the chickens then leaving. The chickens flocking back as if to roost, and a party of fur and feathers devouring whatever she left for them. The sky a little grey and cloudy. The harbour calm and quiet, for now, and containing the ‘pencil boat’ that’s been there for well over a week now; long, narrow and apparently rather swank close up, I’ve not seen in move for days and wonder at its story.
The boat was thus named when we first saw it and has been the topic of discussion after at least three piano lessons now as me and the H bomb stand on the balcony and discuss boats, the meaning of life, the future, and anything random that springs to the alert mind of a 17-year-old on the cusp of becoming a grown up. We had dinner with the two of them last night, a #BoysNight and hopefully the first of many to come this winter depending on what the S man does for work. (If anyone has a live-in chef job they know of, pass it along.)
Last night (Saturday as I write) we went to the Taj Mahal, each of us had a different main dish so we could share a taste, we added a couple of sides, and of course, it was wonderful, as was the company and conversation. People often say, ‘You’re so lucky to live here,’ but we’re not. We made it happen through planning, design and action, not luck. Where we are lucky, me in particular, is to have had the opportunity to watch these two young men grow up, and to be a part of that growing up. I’m not sure if it’s lucky to have them vomit on you when babies, or break your heirlooms when toddlers, but it’s all part of the experience. As is going to parents’ day in absentia, collecting school reports, taking them to medical appointments, helping them move into their first home, having that discussion when they’re at that age, teaching them how to shave, play the piano, and all the time to be an ear, a sounding board, a wallet. The other evening when out for dinner with the S man, he said about someone, ‘I told them to watch out because my uncle writes books.’ Uncle? I’ve never been prouder.
But enough of boys and boats, sentiment and Tina Turner. It’s time to turn my Sunday morning attention to that interview and then hopefully, to half a chapter before my arm gives up the ghost. I’m sure I will be back to the more usual dull blogging tomorrow.
