I know it’s early days, but I’m impressed with the kids’ learning at home so far, both logging on to their respective sites with online feedback from the teachers. Not sure my taking the register went down well though.
Though this might be me in a few weeks.
Before it closed yesterday, this was shared with the children at my son’s primary school, a lovely touch in what must be a confusing time for them.
Children at a drinking fountain in St. James’ Park, London, in August 1937.
It’ll soon be heatwave weather here again.
In the meanwhile, turn that fire up, Jen.
That time when the kids were trying to get enough postage to send me to the North Pole.
Shelter. That’s maybe all man has ever wanted. Shelter; warmth; food.
I’m huddled beneath a bus stop in what I regard the centre of my town. It’s not the town centre, so to speak, maybe not even the exact geographical centre, but historically, and spiritually, I think it’s the centre.
And even spiritual centres have bus stops.
A heavy rain has swept in from the coast, tail-end of a hurricane, no less, and I’m here, having emerged from the warmth of the library, watching a river of litter and leaves pass by on their mission to clog the drains.
You’d be forgiven for thinking that I’m waiting for a bus. I’m stood at a bus stop, after all. But no, I’m waiting for my wife to pick me up, this was just the nearest spot to stand out of the rain. I hope a bus doesn’t arrive, that would be awkward.
Have you ever seen children in a supermarket? Young children, I mean. If there is one walking down the aisle, say with his or her Mum, and another child turns into the aisle, they stand there checking each other out. A bit like dogs do. Without the sniffing, of course. Neither smiling nor speaking, they just stand there, sizing each other up.
I’m not sure why I’m thinking about this now, it’s not like I’ve even been to the supermarket, but anyhow, here’s my wife, pulling up, windscreen wipers going ten to the dozen.
Apologies are winging your way if I’ve not replied to your comments or visited your blogs recently. I’ve had a little fly in the ointment, so to speak, which is non-technical jargon for I’ve been having problems with WordPress recently and I haven’t a clue why.
I’m writing this post in the hope that it has now been rectified, and if it hasn’t, well, there’s only me reading this and you guys are none the wiser. Please let me know.
A couple of days ago, at a motorway service station, I was walking down a corridor, flanked the whole way by a glass window, whilst seeking out the Gents. At the end of the corridor a little girl was loudly banging on the glass. “Look, Daddy, pigeons!”
Her father, wearing the forlorn look of one waiting for his wife to come out of the toilet, a look I knew only too well, replied: “They aren’t pigeons, darling, they’re crows.”
As I passed them both I too glanced out at the birds.
Actually, they are not crows, I thought to myself, they are jackdaws.
And, with a certain smugness:
And I should know, being, unknown to you, the anonymous author of the City Jackdaw blog.
I didn’t say this, of course, for who was I to destroy the little child’s fantasy of her all-knowing father.
And besides, at that moment in time, I couldn’t even get City Jackdaw to work.
Travelling down to Lincolnshire to pick up our new puppy, trying to distract two ultra-hyper kids and keep things calm, and then, as we approach a roundabout . . .
