Blog post Draft Two, because the Stoic Spouse read Draft One and pronounced it inadequate. He also objected to the fact that I abbreviated him to SS in my hand-scrawled jottings for this post, which is fair enough because he really isn’t a Nazi.
But surely I’m allowed the occasional abbreviation? And I’m less extreme than the teen twinnage* who send me messages littered with NVM and TYSM and PLZ.** Sometimes I ask them what they do with all the free time they gain by not typing any vowels whatsoever, but they don’t really have an answer. I’m thinking of starting a Vowel Movement in protest. That said, my ageing brain benefits from working out these abbreviations and initialisms and acronyms, and I kinda enjoy the challenge.
Also I don’t want to be the sort of parent who disparages what young people do these days without even trying to understand or appreciate it, because I’m sure today’s kids are no less intelligent and creative than we were an embarrassment of decades ago. And boy do I feel like a hypocrite for trying to persuade the twinnage to do their homework on time, wear a coat during winter’s extremes, and generally behave themselves because, well, um…
This post could also be titled Draught Too, as we endure the eleventy-seventh day of January cold in this old converted brewery home. Prior to this chill, the rain was relentless, and by chance we found ourselves back in the nearby village where we used to live, contemplating the floods and worrying about whether our old riverside home might have been inundated. Update: actually I’ve spent so long writing this post that we’re now back to wind and torrential rain again. But yeah, we were in our old village and saw sights like this:-
Actually whilst I’m mentioning that old house, may I just show you a photo from our bedroom window from circa 2009, because HOW awesome were the icicles and the snow? But the house backed right on to the River Thames and by 2011 we had nearly-walking toddlers, so the fears were real and we had to move.
With all the rain, the cellar in our current house has probably flooded yet again, but in recent years we’ve taken a don’t-even-want-to-know approach to that particular issue, ever since I persuaded the SS (sorry, DEFINITELY-NON-NAZI STOIC SPOUSE) to go downstairs and check during a rainstorm and heard step, step, step, step, step, step, step, step, step, step, SPLASH, AAAAARGH! These days, we prefer not to find out what’s happening down there. It’s easier that way.
As you can see, I’m hooking as fast as possible in order to bring you the crochet version of the Four Seasons Cowl. That said, the rate of hooking (and food-growing, and running, and staying on top of the laundry to any meaningful extent) has been hampered by the fact that I’m temporarily working double my usual hours in the day job (clinical psychologist) in order to try and get our waiting list down to less shameful proportions and my bank balance up to less shameful proportions. If only the two could be miraculously reversed.
So time at home with family and cats and knitting/crochet and a glass of wine beside the fire feels even more precious than usual. Oh, did I mention the cats? They’re goofy and adorable. And the mutual love between twinnage and cats melts my heart on a daily basis. Jack watches the world go by with wide-eyed confusion, and Hunter attempted to kill a spider by sitting on it. By the way, Jack and Hunter are the cats not the twinnage – just in case there’s any confusion about what I just wrote. Hunter didn’t succeed in his murderous effort, but the spider must have had the mother of all headaches as it scuttled off to hide behind my great grandfather’s sea-chest. Now there’s a sentence I never anticipated writing.
Life with cats: always nonsensical. Actually life without cats was fairly nonsensical, too. Oh dear, I fear I’m the common factor here…
.* Oh how very recently I was calling them the Toddler Twinnage. Far too soon they’ll be the Twenty-Something Twinnage, then the Teetering-On-The-Edge-Of-Midlife Twinnage.
** Translations: Never mind. Thank you so much. Please. Gosh, now I think about it, maybe my sons do have some manners after all, albeit abbreviated ones. That last sentence was a reflection, by the way, not another acronym.