The signs were there

I hate letting people down. If I've agreed to do something then I will do it, even if it means splitting myself in two, three or even eight. Sometimes this is exhausting and recently I had decided that something had to give for a while. Cutting down on my commitments so that I can spend more time with Mum was a huge relief. Getting the balance right, people told me, can be tricky. "Make sure you look after yourself," they said. "Make sure you still do things you enjoy."

I decided that my Friday evening Youth Orchestra lifts my spirits and I knew I would be supported by my wonderfully bonkers committee (WBC). We were due to play at an event the following weekend that had made us all twitch with the spelling of 'kidz'.  I wasn't sure about my brain, fairly certain that I could be there in body but my mind could stubbornly refuse to attend. We made a decision to go but reduce the time we were there and delegating tasks. Children had to take their own stand and music.

Half an hour before I should have left I realised that I didn't have anything to put my music in and having visions of it flying around a field I ran (literally) round Tesco, pushing in front of barely seen friends in the queue.

I was late, stressed and confused. I couldn't quite find my way and my daughter and WBC member found the whole thing very funny.
"You're just not functioning properly, are you?" they said.
We arrived with 2 minuites to spare.
"Help. I've probably come in the wrong gate but we are performing at 11," I said to a man in a hi-vis vest. He suggested I abandon the car and run. Men were offering to swap me their babies for my heavy box of percussion instruments, despite my daughter's warnings that I was in no fit state to be trusted with a baby.

The boy on the gate couldn't point me in the direction of the bandstand but was very interested to know where we had heard of the event. The WBC were in hysterics as I tried to string words together. "Booked to play at 11. Late. Where?"

The WBC looked around. "It's more field than fete," they observed.
"I probably should have cancelled this pertinence," I told the WBC, confusing my words.
 "The signs were there," they said. " I did wonder when you replied to my text about bringing music stands with, "You should get yourself cheese eating."

It was an event with many signs.

Behind the field, over a bridge guarded by trolls with signs demanding a return to the good old days, was a museum, miniature train and model gnome village. I was surprised at how passive-aggressive gnomes are. Signs stated things like,"Pine cones don't sing and dance. If we wanted them in the water we would put them there."
The signs seemed to be written for children, which was strange as most were under five. They said things like, "Children, please keep your parents under control. Badly behaved parents will be shot."
Leaving the troll area the passivity was dropped.

 Corporal punishment ruled. I wondered if the trolls on the bridge had won and returned us to 'the good old days where beating children was acceptable.

However, nothing causes as much offence as a badly placed apostrophe.

Little Parcels of Laughter

The cake situation is getting serious.

“Tell them they can visit but they mustn’t bring cake,” Mum shouts from her bed as my sister answers the phone.
The food bin is groaning and even the dog sighs, sniffs and flops on the floor refusing to mop up ‘accidentally’ dropped pieces.
My sister is far too polite to tell them anything of the sort. She knows that it’s not cake they are bringing but little parcels of love.

“Maybe we should make a list of what people should bring instead,” I suggested, “you know, milk, washing up liquid, teabags, bleach.....” (You do seem to use an extraordinary amount of cleaning products when supporting a sick person.)
Mum thought that wouldn’t work because she would only want organic full fat milk, Fairy liquid and Yorkshire tea and you couldn’t ask people to only bring organic milk.

Visitors can make or break the day. Some days are good for visits and others aren’t. Even on those days the person that stands on the doorstep with a bunch of tulips and doesn’t take offense when you don’t invite them in is appreciated.

A good visit on a good day can lift the spirits so much that you begin to wonder if it’s all been a big mistake, they’ve got it all wrong, everything is perfectly fine and you are all going to live forever.  Yesterday was one of those days.

Two of my mums sisters arrived with my one legged uncle, who, with no children to entertain managed to keep his prosthetic leg on. They brought cake. Mum rolled her eyes, out loud, in the way you can only get away with in front of family.

Conversation, as it always does, turned to Mary Berry. The queen of cake and cookery shows always appears at these occasions. We discussed Bake Off and moved on to her new show which we hoped
would be more like normal cooking.
“They’re ridiculous,” Mum said, “they spent five hours making that.”
“Did you see the judge that got all emotional about that pudding?” my sister said.
We all agreed it probably tasted the same as if you’d used a packet of frozen puff pastry, some stewed apples and a scoop of ice cream.
“What is this thing with the steam?” my aunt asked. “I mean they opened up a clam shell and wafted this steam of fish smell up someone’s nose. I’d gag. Can you imagine? Stink of Canvey Island up your nose?”
“And foam.” This was clearly a subject my uncle was very passionate about. “What is it with bloomin foam? Three little dots of coloured liquid and a blob of foam. It just wouldn’t be enough for me. I’d have to send it back and say, ‘you’re having a laugh, mate.’ It’s ridiculous!”
“It looks like cuckoo spit,” my aunt observed.
“Is it actually cuckoo’s spit, like they use in bird’s nest soup?” someone asked and the conversation rolled around nests cliffs and bird spit for a while until we decided to google it.
“It’s an insect: a froghopper.” my sister with the newest phone (because she dropped the last one down the toilet) told us first.
“Is it one of those flat green triangular bugs?" I asked.
We looked at a picture.
It was brown with orange stripes.
I thought it improbable that one little bug could produce so much spit.
"It might not be little," my aunt suggested. "There needs to be a pound coin for scale."
We thought we might have noticed a great orange striped bug wandering around gobbing on all the plants.
I was stuck on the green bug. "Is it called a Katydid?" I hoped my sister would look it up.
"I used to love those books," my aunt briefly changed the subject.
We looked at the picture.
"That's not a bug. It's a leaf."
"I've never seen one of those."
Mum had. "They're always on the raspberries."
I agreed, having eaten a few in the past.

The bumble bee that my sister rescued with some sugar water flew in to give her its daily update.
"Oh look, here's my swan," she said. We laughed but words can get mixed up if you haven't slept enough.

It was a great visit which included reminiscing about dustbin flowers (hydrangeas), Chum the dog and outside toilets and it lifted everyone's spirits.

I've decided that little parcels of laughter are the most powerful gifts of love that can be given.