Monday, June 25th, 2007, 6:01 am
I really do. There's something so marvellously British about it. The gentle 'thwack', the spectator's heads gong back and forth, the dulcet tones of the umpire, the brollies...it's all so brilliant. I don't get to go much any more, but I feel I must take Thing 1 to give him a bit of inspiration.
He's been playing tennis for about 2 years and fankly and think I'm wasting my money. I mean, I don't expect to produce a Wimbledon champ, but I do think we could have a decent game now and again. But no. We last played together a couple of weeks ago. Here's how it went:
Me serving. Thing 1 missed. Thing 1 threw his racket.
Thing 1 serving. I returned. He missed. He stamped around for a good few minutes.
Me serving. Thing 1 returned. We had a good volley of two hits each. Thing 1 sent it out. He cried.
End of match.
He turns up at his lessons every week and spends the entire hour:
1. shooting the enemy (whoever they are) with his machine gun/raquet, rolling around to avoid enemy bullets
2. playing air guitar with aformentioned raquet
3. using balls as grenades and seeing if he can get a direct hit on the coach
4. pretending to be wounded in battle and using raquet as crutch
He's no Andy Murray that's for sure. I think he may be more of a cricketer...
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Thursday, June 7th, 2007, 4:21 pm
Last week was half term, so I took a couple of days off work and we legged it to Horton Farm - we love it there. Met up with some mates (all with 8-year-old boys) - it seemed like a brilliant idea.
They were like a pack of wild dogs. There's this tractor that goes around the farm giving rides on the trailer - nice, harmless fun for the little ones. Then 6 long-haired (seems to be the thing never to go near the barbers when you're 8) hooligans decide it would be a good idea to pelt the hapless riders with handfulls of grass, soil - and most likely a bit of goat poo.
Me (yelling as sweetly as possible so as not to disturb the other very nice mums and their well-behaved offspring): Don't do that boys, it's not nice.
Hooligans: Got'im!
10 minutes later the tractor is back and this time the hooligans are running alongside the tractor shouting 'poo' and 'fart'.
Eva and Rene (motioning frantically to the hooligans): Boys! Come here now.
A big telling-off later and the hooligans slink off.
10 minutes later the tractor sails by - with 6 small boys hanging off the back of the trailer!!!!!
Me, Eva, Rene, Lisa (Kirsty has gone to get the teas): COME HERE NOW! (Shattering the peace and the eardrums of aforementioned nice mums)
Dire threats and warnings of banned PS2/gameboy/tamagotchi - FOR LIFE - and they slink off yet again.
Kirsty trots back with the teas gaily saying:
'The staff in the tearoom are all going on about some hideous little gang of yobs that are about to get kicked out - so ours aren't the only ones in trouble today - haha.'
Meanwhile... the very little fellas we also brought (3 of them) had managed to
1. hog the high wire slide so basically no-one else was getting a look in and everyone in the queue was crying
2. get liberally coated in cow poo
3. crawl under a fence and get in a field with 2 llamas.
At the end of the day, we cram the hooligans into various vehicles (by now we're desperate for a vat of wine and a fag), and Lisa manages to leave her bag on the ground and then run over it.
Dear god.
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