A passing flame
Only a churl would have stayed at home sipping tea rather than miss the intense excitement of the Olympic Torch. Rushed out with Lorraine and a sleepy Betty to watch the great event pass about 50 yards from the Old Church Hall. The flame was preceded by a couple of corporate trucks pumping lively music and DJs exhortations to enthusiasm from the sleepy crowd. Then a big van crammed with cameras and the flame carried by a woman, flanked by runners in grey presumably police, passed at about 7:50.The flame was transferred to a man, in a pagan firesex ritual, who loped off towards a thronging Preston Park. Curiously, it wasn't raining, and even I, an Olympic humbugger of the worst sort, saw that its passing had brought smiles to people's faces.
Able just to contain my excitement, I went on with my writing interspersed with tea drinking and chatting to Betty, who is making a speedy recovery thanks to the antibiotics.
Off late in the afternoon to collect Klaudia and Oskar from their after school club. Into the playground where Klaudia promptly hid, and Oskar lay on the floor and replied 'no' when I told him it was time to leave. Leave we did, however, and at least this time I had Anton's keys so a taxi ride to my place to pick them up was avoided. Both children clutching plates with their designs on it, while Klaudia also had a complex paper affair that looked like a cross between an octopus and a multipocket handbag. Both had sticky cookies they had made. I carried all these plus bags, as the children scooted home on their scooters, except Klaudia who decided hers wasn't working and so proceeded by laggings ('it's not working!') and superfast accelerations ('now it is!' etc.). Oskar paused to shout to his friend across the road a comprehensive show and tell of how he had made his plate. I tried smiling weakly at the other boy's mother off and on for these five minutes, but was not sure what was required, especially as it was only because the children seemed to know me that she was not phoning the police to report an abductor.
I cooked pasta, which was scarfed efficiently. Then Anton arrived home, and after the bairns were put to bed he and I sat downstairs. Anton cooked a delicious and simple omelette and we drank gin and tonic and listened to some tunes and talked about Delia Smith and Alfred Wainwright and generally shot a good deal of breeze.
Below the Olympic Torch on Preston Road. The approach, the swap (elephant in the room alert... I can see no flame) and the aftermath. Then Calliope who has taken to resting her head on the back of my hand as I type and however much I write she stays there till I am forced to chuck her off. A poor iPhone snap of my Godchildren eating pasta and watching Curious George, a programme about a monkey.
Able just to contain my excitement, I went on with my writing interspersed with tea drinking and chatting to Betty, who is making a speedy recovery thanks to the antibiotics.
Off late in the afternoon to collect Klaudia and Oskar from their after school club. Into the playground where Klaudia promptly hid, and Oskar lay on the floor and replied 'no' when I told him it was time to leave. Leave we did, however, and at least this time I had Anton's keys so a taxi ride to my place to pick them up was avoided. Both children clutching plates with their designs on it, while Klaudia also had a complex paper affair that looked like a cross between an octopus and a multipocket handbag. Both had sticky cookies they had made. I carried all these plus bags, as the children scooted home on their scooters, except Klaudia who decided hers wasn't working and so proceeded by laggings ('it's not working!') and superfast accelerations ('now it is!' etc.). Oskar paused to shout to his friend across the road a comprehensive show and tell of how he had made his plate. I tried smiling weakly at the other boy's mother off and on for these five minutes, but was not sure what was required, especially as it was only because the children seemed to know me that she was not phoning the police to report an abductor.
I cooked pasta, which was scarfed efficiently. Then Anton arrived home, and after the bairns were put to bed he and I sat downstairs. Anton cooked a delicious and simple omelette and we drank gin and tonic and listened to some tunes and talked about Delia Smith and Alfred Wainwright and generally shot a good deal of breeze.
Below the Olympic Torch on Preston Road. The approach, the swap (elephant in the room alert... I can see no flame) and the aftermath. Then Calliope who has taken to resting her head on the back of my hand as I type and however much I write she stays there till I am forced to chuck her off. A poor iPhone snap of my Godchildren eating pasta and watching Curious George, a programme about a monkey.
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