This afternoon the family headed up to the local wood to look at the bluebells. I’d missed out on a similar excursion last week because I was away, so I think this might have been for my benefit. But this is the kind of thing that you couldn’t really do in London: drive for five minutes to find a magical wood carpeted with blue. On the downside, it’s a 20 minute drive to the nearest Nandos, so plusses and minuses.
This is what I was yearning for at the weekend, just frittering away my time with my favourite people (and dog) and seeing my daughter excited at a bee buzzing past or a fallen tree that she insist everyone must look at, or a branch on the ground that she thought looked like a crocodile.
There was a dalmatian running around with another family and my wife pointed out that that was like Marshall in Paw Patrol and Phoebe seemed to think that it actually was Marshall. And asked where Rider and the pups were. And wondered if the dog could talk. I vaguely remember that weird point in life where you’re not sure what is real and what is made up, largely because you’re encouraged to believe nonsense. She was excited to be seeing a famous dog, but confused as to why he was on his own.
The wood did seem magical even to me and when you stopped to look and listen full of the most miraculous things. Hanging out with a three year old means you do start to look at the world anew again and that can’t be a bad thing. I wish I believed that a cartoon dog from a confusing cartoon series about a boy who has been entrusted with a town’s emergency services, with seemingly a limitless budget and who still decides to leave most of the rescues to dogs (not even dogs, child dogs) might be taking place in real life, two miles from my house.
Phoebe and I agreed the wood was magical, but I told her that it really was, as all of the trees produced oxygen for us to breathe. She breathed in deep in gratitude. I mean when you think about it that symbiotic relationship seems as ridiculous as the premise of Paw Patrol. Trees release an invisible gas that keeps us alive and we produce an invisible gas that keeps them alive. Come off it.
Ah Jim Carrey, why didn’t I listen to you? All these years wasted working when I could have been walking in bluebell woods. And as long as the bluebells turn out to edible (which Wolfie seemed pretty certain they were) then me and my family won’t need any money, we can just live in one of the lean-tos made of branches that local kids have constructed and harvest bluebells in April and then eat them dried for the rest of the year. The oxygen is free. For the moment. Not once old Theresa May has her way, am I right?
At bath time my daughter likes to see “her numbers” by standing on our scale.Tonight she asked me to find out my numbers. I was reluctant as I’ve been avoiding checking my numbers for a while now. But I checked them at her insistence. And it turns out my eyes haven’t been lying to me. My numbers were quite a bit higher than I’d feared.
Tonight we went out to celebrate our anniversary and I ate, drank and was merry. For tomorrow I diet. For reals this time.