My text, this dreary Sunday afternoon, is taken from the second book of ‘The Railway Series’, chapter 2: ‘Thomas’s Train’ (I have just put my toddler to bed, in the hope that he might agree to nap today).
It occurred to me, during my daily revision of that excellent work, that I ought probably to make some account of my eighteen-month absence from writing, after barely even beginning. Was I, like Thomas, so impatient to start my new blogging journey that, in my haste, I ‘forgot about the coaches’, running ahead with no substance behind me to bring to an inquisitive reader? In short, did I start my blog prematurely and run out of steam? I hope not, but, for such an indecisive person generally, I have an extraordinary knack for acting upon snap decisions, and hurrying off without waiting for the implications to catch up with me. How many people, for instance, would hunt down and secure a second disastrous au pair position within a week of kindling a romance with a handsome nearly-native, just to see what would happen? (My opinions on the au pair trade can be found here: Il était une fois: a cautionary tale.) For the survival of a rational and intelligent human race I hope that only few would do the same. I was fool-hardy and reckless and must thank a higher power than myself for my happily-ever-after ending.
Admitting that I leapt before I looked would be preferable (though both mundane and wounding to the pride) to disclosing a more sinister account for the intervening months. After all, I cannot deny that certain threats had been made in response to the continued screams of a fractious infant (full details of which an be found here: Allons-y!). Did I, then, spend my time training for, and competing in the 2017 London World Championships, thus breaking free from the shackles of domestic bliss in a glass-shattering display of human athleticism and rage? Did I have a crise of my own and demand to be relocated to an exclusive Swiss sanitorium in the Alps, where I could be (unwillingly) nursed back to responsibility? Or, did I abandon the screamer at the local SPA, hoping vaguely that some poor-sighted soul might mistake him for an unusual hairless breed of cat, and thus offer him sanctury, whilst my husband and I boarded a cruise ship headed for warmer climes? Speculation being far more enjoyable than the truth, I prefer to thow a delightful veil of mystery over the whole affair, and leave it to you, reader, to decide for yourself.
All that remains is to provide the following clues to help illuminate my exploits:
- Poor Daisy, is, alas, no longer with us. It was inevitable but still very sad.
- We were adopted by Delilah (a local stray), who, despite our best efforts, is now chipped and spends most of her time sleeping in her red basket by the fire. It’s an easy life for some.
- My husband destroyed yet another fake wall back in February (this time in the dining room), which it was my pleasure to sort out.
- Mr. Tulkinghorn, a handsome Indian Runner, has joined the Coos’ cooperative. He also answers to the name of ‘Duck’.
- We have yet to be paid a visit by a firm of glaziers.
I have now only to state my desire for a second chance to write a blog and to end with the profound words of a wise driver: ‘let’s go back quickly, and start again’. Let’s indeed!
Mots du jour:
Nous recommençons – we start again crise – in this instance a tantrum SPA – Société Protectrice des Animaux (similar to the British RSPCA)