Counting them

Countering my dismal 6am tendency to see the worst in things, and multiply various doubts about my own direction, and that of the scarcely-understood political grouping that I find myself part of (posts perhaps to follow), I think it worth while jotting down my recollections of this lovely weekend that I am so lucky to have enjoyed just now.

Saturday was about Battersea park with Chewie gamboling away to greet dogs, the other four of us munching a picnic beneath some blossomy canopy. Battersea Park has everything: an adventure playground that suits Matilda's rather constrained risk-seeking perfectly, ice-cream vans, cherry trees and their blossoms, ambling dog-walkers, organised and improvise football. You can believe the spin of the London village when its like this, and when your miniature Schauzer forces you to exchange greetings with a dozen amiable strangers. In the afternoon, we ventured to the Roehampton to swim in the outdoor pool for the first time this year, the water warm enough but the cooling air enough to make you keep your shoulders dipped under as much as possible. Matilda has leapt on from the querelous trembling infant of a year ago, and now jumps in at the deep end and semi-flounders her way to the side, as comfortable under the water as above.

I wasted the early part of the evening trying to jot my thoughts down about the mediocre political results and their mystifying blue tide (what Tory voters have against a decade of low unemployment, massive wealth transfers to property owners, lower crime in general and cheaper Eastern European labour, I will never really get. Short memories of what 1995 was actually like, I suspect). Then later we got stressed to the last two episodes of 24.

Sunday (4th May) was what really got me in elegaic mood. The garden has been strenuously updated by several man-months of Africaner labour to suit the needs of spoilt girl toddlers, and it all seemed to pay off today. After a 6 mile jog down by the river (8:20 per mile to keep my HR down at 150; I feel like a cumbersone elk on the uphills), we camped in the garden all morning. Girls bounced on the trampoline, scootered or rode or trundled around the decking, dipped into the water-rill to fetch water for washing things, tapped tennis balls, clambered over carefully placed logs, and clamoured for a picnic. We went in at 12 to chop carrots and sweet potato for a soup, where C joined us after spending the morning marking. More of the same in the afternoon, enlivened by Chewie yelping around when trying to pass what eventually revealed itself to be half-shit, half-compacted-tinfoil. We sat down to a pot of hot chocolate, and ended the day eating roast chicken all together. (Florence: begged or threatened for each mouthful. Matilda: picking the food up like an artist scooping a blob of paint off a palette, grinning and passing extravagent praise on the gravy).

I am really very lucky. I may have a very confusing, pointless or alienating next 20 years, and end them largely insignificant in anyone's scheme of things: that seems to be the fate of most. But if I am sensible I will spend most of my years wishing I was in 2008 enjoying such a heavenly weekend with my family.