The snow is still here and I’m starting to worry that Tory Boy won’t get home on Christmas Eve. Trains, planes and automobiles have all been affected by the weather – if you haven’t heard, six Eurostar trains were trapped in the Chunnel. The public has been warned not to travel unnecessarily but, of course, getting home for Christmas is vital for millions of people. I have decided not to tempt fate anymore, because I want my child home. Fate kicked me up the backside yesterday, for daring to mock it in my last two posts.
I went out for the Sunday paper before church and my usual three-minute walk took three times the length. It has been so cold that the first snowfall turned to frost and ice and the next snowfall cunningly hid it. I navigated the paper walk by holding onto walls after my first near-miss. I even managed to call safely at my neighbour’s to warn her not to go out. I toddled off to church – literally, across the road from my house – and noticed an elderly woman getting out of her car. Just as I was thinking I should offer to help her in to church, I found myself kissing tarmac. I had slipped off the curb and fallen face-first into the road. As I was due to play a king in the nativity, I couldn’t help thinking, ‘How are the mioghty fallen.’ I was lucky that passing cars were not driving quickly. I was also fortunate to be wearing a thick and long winter coat and gloves, because they cushioned the impact. I hobbled into church and made straight for the toilet so I could blub in private. I always cry when I fall over. Thankfully, I don’t fall over a lot because I don’t like crying. Or falling over, come to think of it. Crying seems to be my body’s default reflex to inadvertent tumbles and has nothing to do with me, so don’t think I’m soft or anything.
One of the elderly parishioners had seen me fall and passed on her concern to everyone in church so, when I came out of the toilet, properly composed, all of the sympathetic hugs set me off again. What a baby! I blame it on the shock to my system: moving rapidly before ten a.m. is not my usual habit. Never mind, a few rousing carols and a strong tea after the service and I was fine. And one of the old dears offered to walk me home….
My head pounded all afternoon but a visit from the most beautiful baby in the world put paid to that. He is the most gorgeous child our family has ever produced – after my own, of course. And he is not only a gorgeous baby, but a good baby. I adore him. Here’s a picture just for the sake of it:
Once he had gone, my aches and pains came back, so the Hub and Spud took Toby out for his walk. The Hub took his camera and I warned him not to, but he always knows best. Toby and Spud enjoyed the snow, until a dog charged them, and Toby did a runner. The Hub reached down to grab him, slipped, and did the Tilly Bud flip. Adrenalin must have kicked in because, instead of putting out his hands to save himself, he instinctively held his camera up in the air and landed flat on his back. He was on grass, fortunately, so it wasn’t as hard as it might have been; but hard enough.
So there you have it: a kick up the backside for me; a sucker punch for the Hub, and no more snide remarks about the Brits and bad weather because I. Want. My. Baby. Home. For. Christmas.