>> Sunday, 8 February 2009
So Husband is travelling - again - and the Boys and I are navigating our way through Sunday without a playdate in sight. Our only spiritual sustenance is coming from the Sunday Times (me), a novel called 'The 19th Wife' (cheerful reading for, again, me), 'Horrid Henry' on cd (the Boys - this may be the last time as I much as I like Miranda Richardson, if I hear her scream 'Heeeeenryyyy! You horrid boy!' one more time, I may never be able to watch her in Blackadder again, which would be a shame), and promises for them of 'Mary Poppins' on dvd as soon as it gets remotely dark enough for me to justify it as being 'evening'. (Say it with me: Bad Mother).
Oh yes, and a skype call with my parents later on. Which is going to be interesting because, following his recent operation, my father currently has one of his glass lenses misted over, which should intrigue the boys no end, and will no doubt lead to lots of difficult questions...
It's amazing that I've managed to pull myself together to type this post actually; I made the mistake of reading a piece on the front page of the Sunday Times review section, that despite the current cold snap, forecasts global warming on a vast scale within the next few decades. The author tells us that there is really no point in getting all eco-warrior about it all either; frankly, it's too late. Renewable energy? A waste of time. Our salvation lies in nuclear facilities, apparantly. Bio-fuels? Don't bother. We should be using all our available land to grow food for when Britain - sorry, 'Lifeboat UK' - becomes one of the few habitable islands left on earth. Brotherly love? Forget it. We are going to be forced to defend ourselves against the hordes of global warming migrants who will head for our shores when currently temperate mainland Europe becomes a hellishly hot wasteland.
Not a very cheerful picture of the future, is it?
Luckily I was wrenched away from the Property section where I was searching for hillside properties (away from the impending flood-waters) with their own land (a spot of small-holding never did anyone ever harm) by my sons, who were demanding fresh air with menaces. We headed out to Holland Park for some weak sunshine, train driving in the sandpit, and some 'Lord of the Flies' style play from 5 year old boys.
Then we came home and had the following conversation over lunch;
Boy #1: "Mummy. What's ham made from?"
Me: "Pigs." (Well, if they're going to be living off the land in 30 years time it's important they know this sort of thing, surely?)
Boy #1: "And cheese?"
Me: "Cheese comes from cows. Or sheep, or goats." (Please don't ask me what the process is...)
Boy #1: "Goats?" (His only experience of them to date is that they eat turnips and knock over trolls). "What else comes from goats?"
Me: "Milk. And meat."
Boy #1: "Meat? No! You're not right, Mummy! WE don't eat goat meat!"
Me: "I know we don't, Boy #1, but some people do." (And when we're on our small-holding wearing hand-knitted shoes, the trolls will be lucky to get a look-in...)
Boy #1: "And what about this, Mummy? What is THIS made of?"
He's holding up the ultimate test; a slice of salami.
I can't do it. No matter what my principles on keeping my children in touch with where their food comes from, I can't risk his refusing to eat it ever again by 'fessing up that salami is essentially fat and pig's blood. It's a step too far.
Me: "I don't know, darling. Tell you what, when he gets back from Russia, you can ask Papa... I'm sure he knows."
I'm not sure I'm going to make it in the post-apocalyptic world... Pass me the car keys; sod the eco-friendly walk, I'm driving to the supermarket to stockpile chocolate before it runs out. Or melts.