1.  Rhythm

2.  Blues

3.  Jeopardy

Wednesday is Friends’ Day.  So why oh why did I have to do painting, colouring and a long, loud session on the drum kit and ELC keyboard before anyone came round?  She is saintly, and will not  mind me crying Foul! Is That Not Why I Have Wonder Nanny?  Ahem. Excuse me.  One Wednesday  Mother had a hospital appointment for 3 year old’s adenoids and was Too Stressed To Come Out.  The other Wednesday Mother wanted to come here, which was fine. I am being unfair on Son 1 aged 4y 10m and Son 2 aged 23m.  Son 1 was up for painting. Son 2 really just likes stirring the dirty water from an upturned ramekin and splatting it on the walls with a paintbrush.  And the jamming session was great. Son 1 on keyboards “You’re too noisy! I can’t hear when I sing!” and Son 2, “Bang-It-Hard-Enough-And-The-Crayons-I’ve-Posted-In-All-The-Drums-Will-Rattle.”  Mrs Gallagher would have had this.

Best Friend and Little Brother at last came round.   Best Friend and Son 1 locked into a horrible axis and wouldn’t play with Little Brother. Little Brother, tired, rejected/dejected, was uninterested in Son 2, no matter how we tried.   Son 2 trailed after all three: “I’m 4! I’m 4! Honest!”  Son 1 and BF were in an elaborate game of pirates which involved caves, maps and treasure. LB, who must never be under-rated, was very often in possession of the treasure chest. And I was on his side.  Son 2 wore Son 1’s Captain Hook outfit, and was incredibly pleased with himself. Pa-ang.   Son 1 hasn’t worn his Captain Hook outfit since BF’s mother found him one at a car boot sale.        

The MAn came home with a Business Colleague and we all went crabbing. The tide was coming in, there was seaweed everywhere so we couldn’t see anything, all four boys stripped off.  I made Son 2 put his reins back on. “In years to come, it will cost him a great deal to walk around naked with a beautiful  blonde on the end of his reins,” I told Wednesday Mum.   Son 1 found something which i thought was a weathered old battery case with stuff growing round it. ”It’s a sea urchin,” said Wednesday Mum. “That’s its mouth.”  She did a degree in Marine Biology ahead of the PhD in Chemical  Engineering so I kinda believe her.  We still caught crabs. Big ‘Uns and Littl’Uns. Son 1 caught a whopper. Son 1 caught a titch - just by trawling his shrimp net he found the teeniest sideways-mover. We put them all in the same big bucket, worried they’d eat each other. But they all huddled under the Whopper. ”We’re running out of concrete,” observed BF.  Four-year-old speak for The Tide Is Racing In. We were also running out of bacon.  But we defeated our own record.  Twelve crabs and a sea urchin. We tipped the bucket out on the river wall so we could watch the crabs scuttle back to the water. Three huge seagulls appeared instantly.  We then had to prise the bloody crabs out of the gaps in the steps to get them safely back in the river.    It was supposed to be a race, but it turned into an airlift.

1.  Them

2.  Vertigo

3.  True Grit

It was Early.  “Mummmeee.  Mummmmeee.”  Son 2 aged 22m. Standing in his cot.  “Boo.” He stunk. Son 1 aged 4y 10m slid out of bed as I picked up Son 2, and followed us into the Double Bedroom.  I lay Son 2 down on the Double Bed and got in. ”That gap is just the right size for me,” pronounced Son 1, squeezing himself between me and Son 2. They buzzed me like gnats.  I took Son 2 out of his sleeping bag; he wriggled off the bed and wandered off. He came back.  Son 1 went to get some toys.  He came back. The Man snored upstairs in The Big Bed. I tried sending them to see him. They came back. I went to the loo. They followed me.  I got up, and changed Son 2’s nappy.    

We are trying to make our five-level, up a cliff, concreted back garden a bit more child-friendly.  It’s lethal at the moment, blessed as we are with the vigorous, fearless and clueless climber that is Son 2. We have a patio table separated from a 20 foot drop onto a concrete yard by a rickety fence. We have flight upon flight of open concrete steps. We have loose flagging. We have rotten trellises. We have gravel, we have crumbling terrace walls. Low maintenance and perfect for the hugely-busy, child-free mostly-out couple we were when we moved here.  The Man pulled out weeds and woody clematis; I tried to keep the boys safe. Every time The Man put the secateurs down, they had them. I tried to clear the debris away from the concrete steps to make them safer; the boys followed me and tried to help.  Left to their own devices they made a snail fizz by banging on its shell with their trowels.     We marched them into the Town.

We went to a children’s craft session at The Art Gallery.  Our Neighbour The Dancer from down the Terrace greeted us. She is a volunteer, we discovered. And an artist. Two of her decorated fairground-style horses had prime exhibition space. The boys made felt hoodies. Cut out, stick on, pipe cleaners, animal prints, stickers.  Son 2 and I made a pig, but he wouldn’t wear it. Son 1 wouldn’t let me suggest what his was. It was like Boo’s monster costume in Monsters Inc. “Hers is purple,” said Son 1. His was blue. Back home we had tea on the patio. Sausage, potatoes and peas.  Further up the cliff, houses back on to us.  There is a bungalow where an ancient man used to live. When he died about five years ago it became a squat.  As we ate, the sound of loud drumming blasted across the air. “When are you going to stop?” shouted Son 1. “We are having our tea outside!  My Mummy is sitting down and having five minutes peace!  This is too loud!”  The Man and I sipped our Sauvignon Blanc.  We made a half-hearted effort to shush him. Next door but one got his lawn mower out underneath them. “When are you going to stop!”  bellowed Son 1. The drumming stopped.