1. Fish Food
2. Swimming Like Fish
3. Schools
Son 1 aged 4y 9m can never pass a leaflet stand without helping himself. He has been studying a favourite for weeks; a flyer for a holiday park near The Happening Town with a mega swimming pool. The forecast today was ropey, so I decided we’d go. We stopped off at Wonder Nanny’s new house to pick up her bikini. The boys have been, I haven’t. “Fish,” said Son 2 aged 21m. “Darling we’re not going in the garden, we’re just having a quick look round and then we’re going swimming,” I said. “Fish,” said Son 2. “Not today, Son 2,” said Wonder Nanny. “I’m just showing Mummy the house.” Son 2 picked up a tub of fish food and headed for the back door. “Fish.” We went out to look at the fishpong. There are about 10 small goldfish, and one larger lighter one. The boys sprinkled fish food. “Where’s the Mighty One?” said Son 1. “I can’t see it,” said Wonder Nanny. “Fiance must have fed the fish, they’re not hungry, are they?” “That leaf on the bottom at the back looks like a dead frog,” I said. ”Where’s the big one?” said Son 1. “I don’t know,” said Wonder Nanny. “I suppose a cat could have got it.” Pause. “You know that does look like a bit like a frog.” I peered. “Ah. I think that might be the remnants of the Mighty One.” No wonder they weren’t hungry.
I’ve taken this week off thinking it wouldn’t too busy because most schools haven’t broken up. But the Holiday Park Swimming Pool was elbow-bumpingly busy. The boys loved it – there was a great baby/toddler area and Son 2 loved the little slide… there were bubbles.. there were three huge slides. Son 1 was only allowed on one, with me, and we had to queue for ages each of the three times we went down. A gent in front of us had his late father’s face and birth and death dates tattoo-ed on his shoulder blade. The pool was well worth it, but the rest of it was like being whizzed back in time. Vauxhall Holiday Park, Great Yarmouth, 1973. Shamba Holiday Camp, Dorset, even earlier. If Sugar Baby Love had belted out of the speakers I would have suspected a head injury. I felt strangely comfortable. “Was that great, or what?” said Son 1, swinging his noodle as we left.
Best Friend came round when we got back, armed with a sword, a handgun and a pistol. “Sorry,” said his mother. He had his taster session at his new school this afternoon. Pang. Best Friend lives on the doorstep of the Tiny Outstanding Village School I had my eye on for Son 1. I didn’t apply in the end, thinking we wouldn’t have a chance of getting him in. So Son 1’s staying on for Reception at his current place 12 miles away. It’s a fantastic place. But they’re so good together. As soon as Best Friend came round, they piled into the dressing up box and emerged as pirates. They played, utterly absorbed, with Son 1’s huge pirate toy collection till tea, then piled down, giggling, snorting, making farting noises, calling each other Poo Poo Head and having sword fights with the dipping vegetables. Best Fried ate great piles, Son 1 picked like a supermodel. After tea they went out in the garden with bows and arrows. After a great many threats they got the hang of not firing at Son 2.
