I'm getting tireder by the second.
Last night, late, the phone rang.
A crisp voice at the other end (female).
We'd be collected early this morning; taken by car to see Ming.
(Good. Trains and lay-bys don't mix!)
But I wish she'd explained 'early'.
The car arrived at five.
I woke the children and found Didcott had aged a few years and Worthing was eight months old.
(Or around that.)
I wanted to scream - "Why? Why now? What's wrong with being ten? Isn't it nice being ten? I thought you said you like throwing coats on the floor and not washing!"
But the driver might have heard.
(He was in the kitchen, taking cereal packets from the cupboards and making tea.)
(I expect he's used to helping families like this.)
Didcott carried Worthing to the car while I went into the garden and took breaths of morning air.
The buds on the Madame Alfred Carriere Rose are distinctly red. They always are. Why? The flowers are cream. (Though with a revolting pinkish tone.) It was a mistake, this rose. It's big and floppy and I didn't want pinkish when I bought it and I still don't.
(Monet would have liked it.)
The buds on the apple tree are bigger now, even bigger and more open than yesterday, but I still don't know if they are for flowers or for leaves.
I began to pull one open to see but the driver came and quietly said,
"That isn't a good idea. Not really."
(Of course, he was right.)
Then he said it was time go.