'I Want to be a Widow:' More Summer Musings

I was picking my husband up from the train station the other day. It was dark, freezing cold (England-style) and the train was very late. Like forty minutes late. Three kids in back seat, all fighting to see out of two misted-over car windows is the perfect freak-out, big-needle-injection for a tired mum.

The nearest I could park to the main doors was about 200 yards away. And when it started drizzling (Bristol style), I couldn’t help allowing a low groan to escape my throat. Pretty soon every guy who came out of the train station looked like, ‘Daddy’ through the mist. And for a moment I was tempted to bring one of them home, just to get away from the diesel-run trap I’d found myself in. (I do love my family. Honest!)

At one point a tall man walked out of the train station wearing a dark suit and what looked like a pink shirt – the same outfit ‘Daddy’ had left home wearing that morning. He looked around expectantly and began walking towards the short-stay car park where we were parked.

‘There’s Daddy! There’s Daddy!’ my son bellowed. I wound down the window and was prepared to call out to the man when I noticed that he was balding, and had already had what looked like the introduction course to a beer belly.
‘That’s not Daddy, son’ I said. ‘But he looks like he’s looking for someone.’
‘Who’s he looking for, Mummy?’ my little one said.
You know when I tell you this that she’s still young enough to believe that I actually have a brain and not only know stuff, but know all the stuff about everyone’s stuff. My older daughter will soon set her straight. She is wise enough to understand that Mothers – especially her mother – know nothing at all.

Anyway, back to the pink shirt wearing man; ‘He’s probably waiting for his wife and children to pick him up,’ I answered.
‘He might not be married, Mum,’ my oldest chimed in. (See, what did I tell you?)
‘That’s true. He could just be waiting for his mum or his girlfriend... or a taxi.’ I replied.
‘When I get older,’ my son, Gabs said, ‘I want to be a widow.’
‘A widow?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, I’m never getting married. Girls are yucky.’
‘Don’t you mean a bachelor, son?’

So, I like, spent the next ten minutes explaining the difference between a widow, a widower, a bachelor and a spinster. It took my son a long time to realise that since he was neither a woman nor married, being a widow would be an extremely difficult scenario for him to find himself in. Meanwhile, he’s got to live down the girls calling him Mr. Widow for probably the rest of his life. His dad (who actually came out of the train station twenty minute later) is already planning to include this little faux pas in his son’s wedding speech. Uh, huh, we just had to tell him about it on the way home.

And you know what? I suspect that the girls did not know what a widow was before Gabs asked that question. But we girls, eh, we know how to pretend we know stuff.

I Have a Joker on my Hands (A Light, Summer Ramble)

I was waiting in the schoolyard yesterday afternoon for my son to come back from a beach trip with his class. The bus was supposed to arrive before the bell sounded to signal the end of the school day, but was running about twenty minutes behind schedule. I guess this was understandable. England was experiencing what is commonly known in most parts of the world as, the season of summer. The difference between summer in England and summer in other parts of the world is that here, the word refers to Wednesday and Thursday of the last week in May. You would understand therefore, why everyone and their uncle’s Hawaiian, flowerdy, short-sleeved shirt were out on the streets causing massive traffic mayhem (otherwise known in these parts as the big better-walk-about-now-cos-we-not-gettin-no-more-summer day).

But I digress. My daughters and I sat on the bench in the playground waiting for my son, Gabs to arrive. You see, we were looking forward to getting home so we could re-acquaint ourselves with the bit of land we have at the back of our house which we vaguely remember spending time in about twelve months ago. After five minutes or so my youngest daughter, Mo noticed that the school choir was practising in the gym about ten feet away from where we sat and got up to have a peek at them through the open window.

The window was right across from where I sat on the bench basking in the strange, whitish, yellowy light that came from sky, the colour of which – I have to add – was blue. Blue? Who ever would’ve thought that the sky, behind that permanent grey mask was blue?

The choir master had his back to the open window while he played the piano to accompany the kids’ robust singing. They sat on the floor, legs crossed, with their books in front of them singing their hearts out. I hadn’t really recognised their song until I noticed Mo doing the YMCA dance routine. When I listened carefully, I realised that the choir was singing a very upbeat version to, ‘It’s fun to stay at the YMCA!’ Which explained why my young child was standing outside the open window, back to me, facing the entire choir, doing the elbows together for the Y, palms together – elbows apart for the M, arms above her head – twisted to one side for the C, and palms together, elbows apart for the A.

Needless to say, some of the kids in the choir started desperately trying to hold in their giggles. Needless to say again that the choir master looked behind his shoulders.
Mo ducked!
Then stayed tucked under the open window for a moment or two. I know you must be thinking that at this point I marched over there and made her come back to sit with us. If you’re thinking this you would be slightly, well, no heavily wrong. I was going nowhere. Even if I wanted to, I was in no condition to move because there was this uncontrollable urge, coming from somewhere deep inside my belly, to wet myself. This was most likely partly or entirely due to the spasming laughter which took hold of my being.

After a moment, when Mo gauged that the choir master had turned his head again, she was up and doing the YMCA dance again. During the verses of the song she substituted the YMCA routine for the Stavros Flatley dance, and if you don’t know what this is, look here . (No, don’t just pass it by, really, watch it. It’s amazing). It’s an original (Irish slash Greek) dance routine devised by a Greek father and son who made it big on the Britain’s Got Talent shows. Somewhere in between Stavros Flatley, YMCA, and the ducking combination, my eyes began to weep, my stomach began to convulse and my older daughter (who had joined her little sister at the open window) came back to wipe the tears – tears from laughing that is – from my face.

The choir master never found out who was behind the window. He could only look back so many times while concentrating on playing the piano while keeping his group in tune. I know I had a great summer this year with a belly laugh that still threatens to erupt every time I remember the incident. Now with England’s summer gone until the 25th of May 2010, I’ve got sweet thoughts to remember it by.

This is on top of the laughs I had a couple of weeks before, when I took the three kids to the cinema. We had already taken our seats in Screen One. The salted pop-corn was bought and divided and I’d told the kids again (for the seventieth time) that no, they couldn’t plump their bottoms in the large leather seats because you had to pay extra to sit in them.
‘But how’s anyone going to know?’
‘I will.’
‘But that’s not fair.’ Etc., etc.,
Amy Winehouse’s rich voice came through the speakers and Mo had suddenly scooted to the very front of the cinema by the stage – in view of everyone sitting there, and had begun to dance wildly with a huge grin on her face.
Nah, didn’t tell her off. Just belly-laughed my head off and enjoyed it like the rest of the people sitting there. I would say I’ve got a joker on my hands. Would you?