2.  Falling Down

3.  Clinging On

Yesterday I allbut wore an evening dress to work.  Only dark tights left, nothing else would Go, so I poshed up. Loads of compliments, so that dress is now a work outfit.  It’s also a Tesco outfit, because I wore it to the Big Shop with Son 1 aged 5y 1m. Where I bought 2 boxes of 2-pairs of natural tights. I pulled out a pair this morning and they were Hold Ups.  Now.  I tried Hold Ups 20 years ago when they first came out, in the days when they stayed up only by tourniquet-ing your tubby upper thighs, and slithered straight down your leg if you wore even a whiff of body lotion.   So I did an instant calculation. 2 boxes = £7, do I have enough life to take them back = no.  And then I remembered my Student Days. When I bought stockings two pairs at a time because that way if you got a ladder you always had a Spare Leg.  Plus they were always marked down in sales.  I had drawers full of suspender belts and knew that as a Stockings Girl I had a certain quelquechose.  But these days, I have no suspender belts and no stockings, and I can’t even remember when or why I changed over.  So. In honour of the Stockings Girl, the Hold Ups stayed.

I dropped Son 1 off at School, went into The Office, and at lunchtime, went out for a run/walk along The River with a colleague.  Walk 2 mins, run 4 mins, x 5.  We did all right. Afterwards, my colleague and I walked in The Big Town for a meeting. And with every step, one of my Hold Ups slipped further down my leg.  My colleague was sympathetic, and did her best to give me cover as I tried to hoik it up every four paces. On the way back the comedy element was improved by adding a friend of hers who lives near The Office walking back with us. The friend kept trying to draw me into the conversation… I kept trying to fall back and and keep my head down so I could do surreptitious little hitches.

Son 1 fell asleep in the car on the way back, and I parked outside the house and took in all the bags without him.  “Where’s my Son 1?” asked Son 2 aged 2y 2m, thumping down the stairs. “Mummy come back work. Son 1 come back School.” He always needs to stay close as soon as I’m back, hanging on to me, crying if I try to shake him off. If I sit down he has to sit on my knee. If The Man tries to take them upstairs to give me five minutes’ peace, Son 2 always trails back down.  I quite like it now… I like his unswerving determination. Mummy will read me my books, Mummy will bath me, Mummy will dress me, Mummy will do my teeth, Mummy will sing my lullaby and put me to bed.  I went upstairs to change out of my Office clothes. Son 2 followed.  I took my Hold Ups off at last.  The one that Held Up had a big ladder in it.

2.  The Surgery

3.  The Shop

Son 1 aged 5y 1m went Back To School, hooray.  He was reluctant, felt poorly and couldn’t possibly manage breakfast. But then he forgot, and bounced around the kitchen, pestering Son 2 aged 2y 2m, playing with the big bunch of balloons I brought back from the concert and hollering loudly.  The School was lovely, pleased to see him, worried about him, and happy to give him his antibiotics.  I drove off, and then headed over to The City, an hour and a half away. 

Tootling back, I looked down at the clock. Five minutes till I had to pick Son 1 up.    And then I looked at the roadsigns.  Six miles from The Town.  I am Always Late For Everything.  Son 1 had been “a delight” at school, said Mrs Smiley. He also had a bright red mark on his face. I panicked. “I scratched it on my coat,” said Son 1.  In the car, I rang the Surgery for his swab result.  Strep confirmed.  Quelle Surprise. I feel very Clever Mummy for getting him up to the doctor within minutes of seeing the rash… but it’s still been a bit of a wake up call.   I’m an over-protective hypochondriac, but secretly, underneath all the fuss,  I always assume our every cough and splutter is just a cold.

I took Son 1 to Tesco after school.  We haven’t done a big shop for months, and I took ages. Son 1 was a saint. i said he could have a lego set for going back to school so well, and he was happy trailing round holding it and looking at it. At the till, the woman said “You’re a lucky boy having a toy so close to Christmas.” We told her our story. Then she told us hers.  Husband made redundant, so she has to work every shift she can.  Then her oven packed up. She went out and did a big shop because her Tesco vouchers arrived. Put it in the freezer. A day later noticed the food was soft. The freezer had packed up. Her son took a pizza to cook in the microwave, which includes a grill.  The microwave had packed up.  “Buy a lottery ticket,” I said.  “The law of averages says you’re in for a run of good luck.”  I do hope we haven’t given her scarlet fever.

2.  Keening

3.  Meaning

Our Family Activity this morning was cleaning the Fish Tank.  Flossie, Floppy, Fluffy, Zizzy, Sulky and Coupon are all still going strong. Floppy last part of his tail and it has grown back.  Betcha didn’t know that happened.  Sulky and Zizzy have put on a bit of weight.  So telling them apart from Floppy and Fluffly is… not possible. Coupon has grown in confidence, and no longer lives shivering in the Bog Wood.  Sigh.  Whole New Worlds into which my children have taken me.  Anyway. The Man has a new sucky siphon thing which he used to hoover the gravel. He cleaned the filters.  I caught snails, because The Man won’t touch ‘em.  I caught 10, and put them in a plastic tub, where most were flattened in a single squelch by the curious and chubby index finger of Son 2 aged 2y 2m.   

Then we went crabbing. This was down to The Man.  Yesterday, having a quiet cuddle with Son 1 aged 5y 1m, he said idly: “What time’s your party?”  Oh dear, wrong in so many ways.  I had accepted an invitation to Little Classmate’s party. And then I had to ring back and say he couldn’t go. I explained all this to Son 1, and he’d protested, but then forgotten. The Man dredged it all up again. And then said, to calm the wails: “Don’t worry, we’ll go crabbing instead.”  Son 1 was thrilled. “Darling, there’s a Force 10 coming through, and the Coastguards are asking people to stay away from quays,” I said. A cubic metre of water weighs a tonne. My new fact of the day.  More wailing. Today the sky was blue, the water was flat, so we all went down to the Quay at the end of The Terrace, and caught bucketsfull.

The Aged Aunt has died, and I am strangely unsettled. She had a stroke while we were on holiday, and has been in hospital since. Eldest Brother was her carer, and I’d spoken to him last weekend to see how they both were.  Younger Sister rang this morning; she’d died in her sleep.  The Aged Aunt was my late father’s elder sister.  There was another brother, shot dead aged 19 by a German when he parachuted into Normandy in 1945.  I feel as if a link with my Dad has been cut.  We took the boys to see her in June journeys so at least we have pictures to show them later.  I watched Son 2 load pigs, sheep and people onto his Playmobil tractor. He knocked it over. “Oh Deer. Wos ‘appen ‘ere.”  The light caught on his pale white face, his skin smooth, his eyes shining.  In 1924 my Grandmother may have sat, with the same adoring expression on her face, watching the Aged Aunt play.

2.  Skin

3.  Bone

I’ve had all my hair cut off. I’ve worn it short for 20 years anyway, but recently I grew it. A bit.  It went wavy. Straight-haired, don’t-care-if-it’s-raining me.  It went fluffy at the ends.  I couldn’t do anything with it.  On holiday, The Man said it was horrible.  Now I am elfin, and he likes it again.  What a relief. “What conditioner do you use?” asked the Shampoo Girl.  ”Hedrin,” I didn’t say.  Lifestyle Guru Hairdresser has spent two years tut-tutting over the straw on my head and reassuring me that Hair Changes When You’re Pregnant. This time she sprayed my head with Instant Stand-Back Defibrillating Deep Impact Conditioner.  At least I hope that’s what it was.  But the haircut’s great, the colour’s great… and I would be walking on air except for one thing…. Lifestyle Guru Hairdresser,  who runs two salons, works full-time and has two sons aged 8 and 6, has finished her Christmas Shopping.  And it’s wrapped. 

Son 1 aged 5y 1m is much better but still droops if he’s not topped up with Calpol. The rash is still pver his neck, chest, stomach and back but it’s now faint pink.  Now.  All you consultant dermatologists and micro biologists reading this.  His molluscum, which has been the grinding bane of my world for months and months and months, is clearing up.  I have tried everything.  Some of the things I have tried  - neat tea tree oil - have made his skin even worse.  He was allergic to it and he  broke out in eczema. I tried to stop it spreading with every brand of skin sensitive plasters on them and he was allergic to them all. So his chest and tummy  was peppered with horrible pustuley molluscum, and the skin between was raw with eczema. Over the last week the eczema is in retreat and the molluscum is healing over and shrinking.  So what’s done that? The Strep bacteria or the penicillin? It’s got to be the bacteria, hasn’t it, because molluscum is a virus and we all know that Antibiotics Don’t Work On Viruses.     

The other Good Thing about today was the weather in the afternoon. We had thundering rain and Force 10 winds overnight and this morning… and then, still windy, still cold, but the sun came out. We wheeled the boys into The Town, did one of our all-you-can-carry Tesco shops and came back again with not a drop of rain on us. Son 2 aged 2y 2m was exhausted and refused to sleep, which made him into my stalker over tea.  Lamb shanks. The Man bought them. I cooked them. The Man had seconds. Son 2 ate three pieces. Son 1 chewed one, then stuck his tongue out downwards so the wodge fell off on to his plate.  He ate thirds of broccoli in cheese sauce.  ”Great,” said The Man. “I’m condemned to chicken and sausages for the rest of my life.”

2.  Red Alert

3.  Red Roses

I’ve been up with Son 1 aged 5y 1m every night this week.  He’s cried, he’s wanted water, he’s wanted squash, he’s needed Calpol, he’s been hot, he’s been cold, he’s climbed into bed with his Mum.  Then last night, he slept like a stone, all the way through, and in the early hours of this morning was still in the same position he’d fallen asleep in.  Me?  Up since 0230.   Doing Office emails at 0400.  Crashed out at 6am, with two boys buzzing me.  “EithergodownstairsandseeDaddy, orcomeintobedandgivemeacuddle,” I mumbled, closing my eyes. Son 2 aged 2y 2m pad-padded off, Son 1 clambered clumsily over the pillows. Little arms went around my neck. ”Son 1 gone downstair,” said a high, little voice in my ear.   It was Son 2, and he was gorgeous.  

The Office were strangely unenthusiastic about the presence of someone with a rattling loud cough, splashing sneezes and Scarlet Fever at home, and this afternoon I gave up and left early. I rang the Surgery for Son 1’s strep test result. Not back. Try again on Monday.  No hurry there then. No wonder they whack the children straight onto antibiotics rather than wait for confirmation.  Back home, Wonder Nanny said Son 1 had seemed much better today. He’d eaten well at lunchtime and said his throat wasn’t sore any more. His rash seems to be lighter too.  It hasn’t gone - it’s still all over him, but it’s gone from being very red to pinky.   He is itching his head like mad.  Yes I have checked and checked and I don’t think it’s livestock. I wonder whether he’s got the rash on his scalp and the hair is irritating it. 

“What about Son 2?” Everyone has asked.  Bouncing around like Tigger.  “Mummy come back work.”  He needed to be picked up, to be cuddled, to be held.   I had a pile of Office calls to take and make.  Son 2 found it very difficult to keep away.  He’s adorable.  Lovely to tickle, to cuddle, to hold, to talk to, to hold hands with, to kiss.  Even The Man sighed this evening “Son 2 is beautiful, isn’t he?”  At bedtime, Son 1 has his bath; I read to Son 2. Then Son 2 has his bath, I get him out, he cuddles me, he lies on his back on the floor and pulls my face next to him, he fights me as I clean his teeth, he plays while I read him his dinosaur book, he lies in his cot and pulls me down to him so my face is next to his.  I Have Never Been Loved Like This Before.

2.  Does Your Child?

3.  A Shade Different

Not a Good Night. Poor old Son 1 aged 5y 1m came in at 0230, and I had very little sleep after that. I went downstairs at 4, and then got up at 6, with Son 1 pad-pad-padding down behind me.  One Wednesday Friend - the Booming Businesswoman - is away in South Africa, doing Very Well without the children. The other texted. Swimming?  Nah. Can’t really. I have Son 1 as well as Son 2 aged 2y 2m.  He’s off school with a sore throat.  She would go swimming, we decided, and we three would see her in the cafe afterwards.  I made lunch. I loaded the Big Pram into the car. I loaded all the bags into the car. At about 1015, for some reason I still can’t remember, I checked Son 1’s tummy. There was a rash.  Red.  Not even a rash, particularly. Just big blotches and patches of red.  Nah, not red. Pink. Too faint for red. Nope. Not faint. There. Inescapable.  And, come to think of it, if we’re honest, and not trying to make the least of something, it’s red. Red. At his neck. Under his ears. On his chest. On his tummy.  I kept peering at him. He kept protesting.

I got my Book out.  Rashes With Fever.  Does Your Child Have A Fever? Yes.  Is the rash red, widespread, and vanishes when pressed? Yes. Does Your Child Have A Sore Throat? Yes.  = Scarlet Fever. See Your Doctor.  I looked at Son 1.  I looked at The Rash. I looked at The Book.  I looked at The Rash. I rang the Doctor. The receptionist was vaguely interested. “There’s only emergency appointments left. Is it an emergency?” “Well… he’s got a sore throat, a fever and a rash, and I’d like him someone to look at him today.”  ”Four Fifteen. You’ll have to come and wait.” “That’s fine.”  “So it’s sore throat and fever? His symptoms?” “And The Rash. On his neck. And his body.”  “Could you please just excuse me.  I’m putting you on hold. ”  I tum ti tummed. “Sorry, I can’t get the Duty Doctor. Can he ring you back?”  Of course he can. He rang. ”Bring him in now, I’ll have a look at him between appointments.” 

“Open wide. Say Aaaah. He’s got white spots on his throat and palate. Rashes are hard… that could be viral.. or… what’s his highest temperature been?” “37.9.  And 38 last night, but that was when he was in bed with all his covers on so I didn’t think it counted. But I don’t really do temperatures. I’ve just been giving him Calpol and Ibuprofen to help him when he’s clearly too hot.”  “Over 38 is probably an infection.  What do you think it is? Scarlet Fever?”  ”Well,” I said. “I’ve got this Book. And it says fever, sore throat and rash = Scarlet Fever.  And we’ve been on holiday so he’s been on a plane. And we spent a lot of time in a Spa Bath, and I’ve read somewhere they’re high risk for Scarlet Fever… and… if you tell me it’s not, I’ll be happy.” “It’s not one of those where you take chances,” he said, swabbing Son 1’s cheek. “Usually, if there’s any doubt, you don’t give children antibiotics. Except for suspected Strep, when you do. ” The printer buzzed. ”No school till at least a day after the rash goes and his temperature is normal.  No mixing with other children till you’ve had a clear day.” “What about Son 2?” I asked. “Oh if he’s getting it, he’s got it. Ring on Friday for the Swab result.” Outside, I rang The Man. I told the people we’d been with over the last few days.  Only suspected, I said. Could still be viral. Yes, he did…er.. go red before my very eyes.   At home, the boys watched telly. I made tea.  Son 1 couldn’t eat any. At bedtime, I took off his top to put him in the shower.   His back was shiny, coated in the rash.  No white bits. And I’ve kind of hunted here and there for the right word to describe the shade.  Deep red?  Crimson?  Nah, a just  a few shades pinker.  Vermilion? A bit too orangey.  Scarlet.  Definitely scarlet.

2.  History

3.  Biology

I was late out of the door because we were up in the night. Son 1 aged 5y 1m was hot, thirsty, uncomfortable and wanted his Mummy.  On my way out I met a friend, the same age as me, with granddaughters aged four and 10 months.  Her 27 year old son went to Afghanistan a month ago. He’s still got five months to go.  Her daughter-in-law’s having a hard time with the News, the Remembrance coverage, and being on her own with the baby.  My friend aches for any contact from her son. And lives in constant dread.  

At lunchtime I went for a sandwich with another Mother, a few years older than me.  Acutely worried about her brilliant, but vulnerable 20 year old daughter. For the first time, I heard the story of the eldest child, who would have been 25 on Friday.  She died, from a chromosomal disorder, a few days before Christmas when she was 2.   “There’s a programme on tonight. I think the little girl has what she had.  She just looks the same.”  Because, 23 years later, you remember.  

Son 1 being at home gave me an extra half hour after The Office. I went for a Twilight Run.  Cold, damp, crisp and grey.  I’m still half-walking and half-running, but who cares.  I was out, in the kit, in the dark.  Back home Son 1 seemed much better, until just before bedtime, when his voice was shot and I could almost hear the wince in his eyes as he swallowed. We doubled up, again, on Calpol and Ibuprofen to bring his temperature down.  He had a clear mission. To get tomorrow, Mummy’s Day off, off school so we could have Adventures again like we used to.  As he wilted, The Man and I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and give him the extra day, just to make sure. And Back To School on Thursday.

2.  Stepping Out

3.  Lying Down

As always, on a Monday morning, The Man and I were clattering around downstairs while the Son 1 aged 5y 1m and Son 2 aged 2y 1m softly snored in their bedroom.   I drank coffee, and gazed blearily at the clocks.  Every clock in the house has to be fast, or I am Late For Everything.  And only a few have been put back.  So in the lounge it was 0730. In the kitchen it was 0630.  Everywhere else,  it could have been anything from 0615 to 0620.   Wonder Nanny, months ago, told me she never looks at any of our clocks and relies on her mobile phone for the time.  The boys came down.  Son 1 now turns his nose up at Coco Pops, so we’ve gone back to pancakes.  Son 2 stuffed his face. Son 1 nibbled the edge of a tiny piece like a teenaged girl in ballet school.  I nagged and nagged.   As always, on a Monday morning, I was Gloriously Grateful that Son 1 got to School on time.

At lunchtime, a colleague and I went out for a Run.  I haven’t been out since A Pan Fan.  ( Another Good Thing. I have worked out how to edit the hyperlinks…)   We were therefore both Beginners, and did 3min walking and 3 min running x 5, in bright, crisp autumn sunshine.  We went down by The River, past the Garden and the Playground and along to the Sports Field.  My colleague wanted to run on the grass to save our joints. I didn’t want to mess up my nearly new shoes.  And yet inside I still think I’m a runner…  

I collected Son 1 from After School club.  He burrowed his face into my shoulder.  “Are you tired, Son 1?” I asked. “They’re all a bit tired, today,” said the Helper. Son 1 wanted a carry.  I hitched him up, and he slumped against me. “You’re not very well, are you?”  “My throat’s sore. It hurts when I yawn. Tell Daddy I don’t think I’ll have any tea. ”   I carried him across the playground. “I’m parked right up the Muddy Path. Do you want me to leave you on the bench while I go and get the car?”  “Yes please.”  Reader, I couldn’t.  I carried the poor floppy lump quarter of a mile, in my trouser suit and three inch heels.  He only ate a Frube from his tuck box, and was asleep by the time we got home.  I took his temperature. 37.9.  Son 2, chuckling with joy at first sight of us, went nuts at the amount of attention Son 1 was getting. They were both in bed and asleep at 7pm.  Or 8pm, if you were in the lounge.

2.  Remembering

3.  The Lullaby League

Before the boys were born, The Man put up a roller blind in the Blue Room and hole-punched the wall with the end, leaving a golf-ball sized chip through the paintworkand deep in the plaster.  Son 2 aged 2y 1m has, over the last year, excavated it with the interest and determination of an archaeologist.  Golf ball, satsuma, tennis ball, orange, grapefruit, melon, pumpkin.  Piles of grey powder underneath.  Today, The Man Got Round To It.  So we had a family trip to B and Q to buy the plaster. Son 2 wouldn’t go in the trolley.   Son 1, aged 5y 1m, and weighing considerably more than the 15kg limit, climbed aboard instead.  So Son 2 tantrummed. “No Son 1! My toll toll! ”  The Man headed off to the Raw Materials.   I took them to look at the Christmas things and was saved.  There was a dancing Father Christmas, who, at a squeeze of his foot, sang “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.”  There was a turkey who clucked when you pulled its neck. And, best of all there was a Spinning, Singing Reindeer who sang “Sleigh Ride.”   I was strangely drawn to the flashing house decoration reindeer.  £34.99. And gutter clips. £1.99. You need gutter clips if you put lights on your house. I never knew that.  We live on a busy river, where wives of yore will have burned lights in their window to guide their menfolk home.  A glowing cross appears on the opposite riverbank every December.  Oh how I wish I had the nerve.   There’s clearly a reindeer thing in the family, because Son 2 clutched the dancing fluffy one.  ”Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring ting tingling tooooooooo” echoed around the aisles.  We got it off him at the till with the promise of another poppy to replace the one he dropped out shopping yesterday.  

In his carseat, Son 2 dismantled the poppy, threw away the stalk and chewed the chokeable black bit like it was gum.  At home I put the boys in front of the telly, The Man mixed his stuff, I started making stew for tea.  A friend we knew walked past the house with his family.  He was on the phone, looking up at the house. Son 1 answered.  The family had been to a Remembrance Service, and were heading to the Yacht Club for lunch.  Were we coming?  Oh of course we were.  The stew went in the oven, the hole was filled, we got the toy golf clubs out and down we went. The food arrived. “I done poo.” said Son 2.  “Did you bring the nappy bag?” asked The Man. “No,” I said. “I thought you did.”  Staring at my soup, I stood and traipsed all the way  to the house and back again.  The boys didn’t want to eat anyway, they just wanted to play with the family’s girls.  When the indoor golf turned into a sort of under-eight rave, I packed up the toys and declared the outing over. 

Son 1 had been bursting to watch the Wizard of Oz. I let him watch “The Making Of” which was on before, but had to switch back to CBeebies when a black-and-white, facelifted Judy Garland started talking about drunk Munchkins.   During the film,  I had to translate every line of the plot. Son 1 sped behind the chair every time the wicked witch appeared.  For Son 1, there is no difference between the Munchkins and the Oompa Loompas.  For me, yes I know it was 70 years ago and they didn’t have CGI, but man, you’d think they could remake it better so we don’t have to watch it any more.  I sat agonising over whether or not to keep the recording. The boys got bored with the journey to Oz and went outside to plant bulbs with the Man.

2.  Bread

3.  Darkness and Hail

They wanted to play with the Playdoh, and like a fool I let them.  Son 2 aged 2y 1m plays with it during the week, under Wonder Nanny’s gentle supervision.  Son 1 aged 5y 1m plays with it at school, charming teachers and Tea Club Helpers with the delight he takes in it.  Together, on the little yellow table, they were murderous.  If Son 1 rolled, Son 2 wanted the roller.  If Son 2 squodged, it was the blob Son 1 was going to use. There was snatching and scrapping and shrieking.  And finally there was a lump of blue, trod into the bottom of Son 2’s shoes… and then into the stairs, and the hall carpet, and the lino.  While we were away, the carpet cleaner came and did the lounge, which was looking a bit Jackson Pollock.  ”If one bit of Playdoh gets on the carpet upstairs, I’m throwing it all out,” I said.  We went shopping. “Is it pocket money day?” said Son 1, as I counted out coins in the fishmonger’s. I gave him a £2 coin. We had to go to the toyshop. The only thing he wanted for £2 was a Playdoh toy.  And like a fool, I let him.

We met the Vicar in M and S.  We were trying to control a tantrumming Son 2… he was wandering round with a basket, peering at the ready meals. “Is it your turn to cook?” I asked.   No. The Vicar’s Wife is going on a trip, helping one of their sons move to a town many hundreds of miles away.  “But The Church is full of great cooks,” I said. “Can’t you just work it into a conversation so that someone will arrive carrying a casserole?” “I haven’t told anyone she’s going,” he said. “I don’t like to impose.”  That’s why I like the Vicar.  One of the most imposed-upon people I have ever met… whose flock includes scores of ladies of a certain generation who would rain pies upon him if he asked… but he doesn’t like to impose. He headed off to the check out with a bottle of wine on top of his shopping, so I liked him even more.   I simply don’t have enough life to cook for The Vicar.  But I know someone who might.   I think I’ll mention it…

Son 2 finally fell asleep in The Big Pram; Son 1 and I went to change the library books; The Man strode off home with the shopping.  Son 2 woke up just as we were leaving the library, and picked up his tantrum where he left off. ”I wan’  ge’ ou’!”  “No. It takes too long to get you back in.”  I pushed him up the hill, Son 1 trailing behind us looking at his Playdoh toy.  I suddenly noticed the sky, very, very low, and very, very dark. “Son 1! Will you please hurry! There’s an enormous black cloud up there and I want to get us home now!”  He walked slowly on.  “Son 1, MOVE! That big black cloud is just about to dump everything it has on our heads.” He got the message, but he couldn’t move fast enough.  It started to rain, so I swept him under the handle of the Big Pram onto his nappy bag seat, and pushed them both up the hill so fast my heartbeat pounded in my ears.  We were 300 yards from home when the hail started machine-gunning down on us, hammering onto the road so hard it bounced back hip high.  Son 1 and Son 2 screamed.  The Big Pram is a Big Pram because it’s a three-wheeled, heavy-axled, jogging buggy, bought in the days when I thought I would still run 30 miles a week. Son 1 and I went running with it seven whole times, but Son 2’s reflux meant we never tried.  Until today.  I RAN.  It still does its stuff. We crammed ourselves into the porch, soaking.  “I wet,” said Son 2. “Big back cowd.”  It stopped his tantrum.  But I can’t quite work out if it means I’m supposed to cook something for The Vicar.