I mentioned yesterday that my son had given us two day’s notice about the clothes he needed for his Mother’s Day concert, and it seemed to strike a chord. I only have one son, so I can’t say whether this sort of thing is universal, but judging from some of the comments I got, I suspect it might be. Continue reading
I went to watch my son at a mini soccer tournament the other day. It was great fun; watching any member of my bloodline play sport is a joy, and not because we are good. But I’m not writing about that today. I’m writing about pants. While the eight-year-old boys ran around the field screaming at each other like pro-footballers and flailing awkwardly at the ball as if it were on fire, I noticed another group of boys on the side of the field. They had found themselves a grassy embankment, and were sliding down it on their knees. It looked like fun.
Once in a while, every two or three months, I turn into the sort of person other people don’t want to make eye contact with. But by the time they realise this, it’s too late. You see, I wave at cars. Not all of them. Just a select few. And it’s not just the cars I am waving at, it’s the drivers.