Thursday, 7 August 2014

Chopping and changing

We came home from abortive trip to Cardiff yesterday, where I discovered son's new vocation as a hairdresser:
Fringe drama
Today we got up, and I promptly missed an early morning yoga class, because, despite all my good intentions (my plans to get up at 6am, my plans to re-read my manuscript, get close to my material, find points to integrate other voices), I feel keel-hauled every matins by the shenanigans of the day before. Luckily my husband was there to wake up son, before leaving for work and then a trip to watch cricket in Manchester for a couple of days, an event I have studiously failed to understand was on the horizon.

After yelling at the children to get dressed, put their stuff away, do their teeth, and stop making me say the SAME THINGS EVERY SINGLE DAY, as I am going completely bananas, I heard myself say to my son, "If you wash the car, I'll pay you £6."

Once this job had been handed out, my daughter wanted to earn some cash too, so I set her to work on de-mossing our garden path. Son needs the cash because he will need to pay for his next haircut, buy his sister the scrapbook he cut up (it's all about scissors at the moment, search me why), and buy my mum replacements for the thread he wound all round her guest room.

He's a little short on cash: the last time he had any money was after his school report, and that had to be spent on buying back the expensive, full bottle of shampoo he decided to empty into his bath.

Cleaning up our act
The sun was shining, we drove, in the car, to Halfords to buy a bucket, sponge and shampoo, to clean the car — an irony not lost on bright spark son.

Cleaning the car doesn't happen very often in this household. In fact moss grows not only on our garden path, but in the crevices of the car's window frames. Last time I saw moss on a car was on the wooden chassis of an ancient Morris Minor, beloved vehicle of my first boyfriend.

De-mosstified 
Out we all trooped, daughter to sit on a gardening pad and pick at the path with a fork, Kindle Fire blaring out the Grease soundtrack; son completely soaked after about two minutes, brandishing large yellow sponge, and occasionally touching the car with it, chatting to all the neighbours and making friends with the postman.

Once I'd finished washing the vehicle, he vacuumed the whole thing, sitting in the boot to do the awkward bits. I am minded to send him into the weaving mills — he's the right size. We washed the dashboard, polished the windows, and the dreadful old boat looks positively spiffing now.

The kids are quietly playing, one in the garden with a spider and a Scooby doo van, one in her room, endlessly drawing what she fondly imagines to be high fashion. I am sitting writing, cup of tea to hand, feeling on top of the world.

I even made a batch of flapjack while the car was being washed, thinking that low GI food would help us all along. Used all my husband's oats.

Sadly I burnt it. Still can't multitask.


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