I can’t speak. In the Venn Diagram of hoarseness, I’m at the intersection of Patty and Selma Bouvier from The Simpsons and Richard Harrow from Boardwalk Empire. This makes me a yellow, chain-smoking cartoon character, or a facially disfigured assassin, either of which is apt enough, seeing as a nasty cough culminated - with perfect timing - in me losing my voice just in time for the half term holiday. Whilst trying to get the kids to do as they’re told, I’ve had no choice but to resort to threatening mimes, which have had little effect except as amusement generators for my cruel offspring.
But I don’t care. Yesterday, my husband and I were let off the leash by his brother and sister-in-law, who drove 160 miles down from oop north to take over our caring responsibilites for a day and a night.
This allowed us to drive down to Brighton to check in to a posh hotel, go record shopping, eat tapas, drink fruity beverages, and see one of our favourite bands, The Decemberists, play live at the Brighton Dome.
It was a perfect day and night. Perhaps not for the person next to me at the gig who had to put up with occasional squawks as I couldn’t resist ‘singing’ along, but sod it, I don’t get out much. The Decemberists did The Mariner’s Revenge Song for an encore, an insane nine-minute opus about a young lad growing up to hunt down the cad who caused his mother’s death, eventually murdering him in the belly of a whale. The band tied eachother up in flourescent gaffer tape as they did so (changing the words from “chewed” to “gaffed” alive); the crowd screamed (or rasped in my case) at the correct ‘being swallowed whole by a giant marine mammal’ moments; and I just could not stop smiling.
The evening was rounded off (and trust me, we are pretty round), with me literally whispering sweet nothings in my husband’s ear in our hotel bed. I do mean literally. They could have been the most tender endearments or the filthiest filth, because no sound was audible - I told you, I’ve lost my voice. Between you and me, however, I'll admit that in the Venn Diagram of tender endearments and filthy filth, I was firmly in the circle of filth.
We went for a walk in the woods today, and discovered some impressive shelters made from logs, branches, twigs and ferns. Either Ray Mears had had an barney with his missis and was at a loose end, or the local scouts had been on a bank holiday camping expedition. Either way, some of these structures were better put together than most of my flatpack efforts from Ikea.
I was still feeling a bit lightheaded* (*hungover) from a day of freedom yesterday. A complicated chain of babysitting arrangements, made months in advance, had allowed me and my husband to head off on a hedonistic day out. We joined up with some friends with naval connections* (*I now have this strange thought in my head of twins, attached to each other by umbilical cords, but that’s not what I mean at all) and hopped on a coach down to Twickenham to watch the annual Army v Navy rugby match.
For a day we relinquished our responsibilities, and joined up with my big brother, some old pals we’d not seen for years, and a bunch of silly but very friendly people we’d previously never met (including two Popeyes and a Captain Haddock). We chatted, sang (very poorly, according to my brother, who has an encylopaedic knowledge of filthy songs and is baffled when not everyone knows the 16th verse), shared a luggage compartment of refreshing refreshments, and along with 82,000 people watched some blokes play with an egg-shaped ball.
I can’t begin to explain how great it is to be responsibility-free for 12 hours or so. It’s a complicated process, sorting out a babysitter for more than a few hours for our daughter. It needs to be someone who knows her well, who understands her ways, who can administer the food and snack regime with ruthless efficiency, and who ‘gets’ her. Add her little brother into the equation, and they have be a mix of Mary Poppins and Supernanny.
Luckily, my mate Kay, booked for yesterday's main shift, fits the bill. Thanks, Supermarynannypoppins. There’s few people in this world I trust more. She knows what’s important about friendship (Jesus, I’m not going to go all inspirational life-coach on you, so stay with me). She gave us the chance to have a frivolous day. And that’s a seriously brilliant gift.
Chances are that everyone reading this has got someone they know who could do with a day off. Be a human KitKat, give them a break. They’ll love you for it.
Video is The Decemberists - The Mariner's Revenge Song. Nautical, and fathoms better than In The Navy.
