Descale kettle
Jacob has a new-found passion for the music of Kate Bush. Which I’m thrilled about because a) it’s Kate Bush and b) it’s not the German version of ‘The Gummy Bear Song’, which at one point he was playing around the clock, absolutely screwing my Spotify algorithm.
At least, that was what I’d thought, before we sat in the car on the way home from fencing club on Saturday morning and we listened to ‘Wuthering Heights’ approximately 18 times. Now, as I pile laundry into the washing machine, I find myself singing along to the earworm in my head. It really isn’t a song you can just hum gently along to, is it? You can only give it all you’ve got.
‘OUT ON THE WILY AND WIINNNNDY MOORS WE ROLL AND FALL IN GREEEEN…’
‘UHMIGODDD.Mum. Seriously?!’
Leo is at the utility room entrance in full muddy rugby kit, his face twisted into an expression that suggests he doesn’t appreciate my vocal skills.
‘No offence, but you sound like a tortured cat,’ he huffs.
‘Glad you said, “No offence” because I might have found that insulting otherwise,’ I reply, but he can’t dampen my mood. It’s only this morning that I realise how much more energetic I’m feeling since my HRT started to kick in.
Then I notice the kitchen floor, which is literally covered in mud from his boots.
‘Oh, Leo! Look at the state of the tiles!’
He casts his gaze over them and shrugs. ‘Calm down. It’s only a bit of muck.’
‘Yes, but I mopped it an hour ago.’
‘It’s not like it won’t come off,’ he huffs, heading to the fridge.
‘You’re right. The mop’s in the utility room. Off you go,’ I say, nodding to the door.
He tuts and emerges with a block of cheese. ‘Can’t you do it? I’m busy.’
‘Doing what?’
‘The match is about to start.’
‘Well, I hate to disrupt your hectic schedule, but no, I can’t.’ I fetch the mop myself and thrust it into his hand as I go in search of Jacob, who is in the garden bouncing on his trampoline.
‘Come on, sweetheart. You really need to get this maths homework done. I’ve asked you twice this morning already.’
I finally managed to get Jacob a maths tutor, who would only do video calls rather than in-person lessons, and seems to be doing very little to stoke my son’s enthusiasm for the subject.
‘I can’t. I’ve got a headache,’ he shouts back, before performing three progressively higher bounces that culminate in a full 360-degree somersault.
‘Maybe stop trampolining then.’
‘That makes it feel better,’ he says.
‘Jacob, get in here,’ I say, tersely. ‘You’ve got twenty seconds.’
He ignores me as a text arrives from Denise Dandy.
Hi Lisa. Just back from Paris and was going through the inventory of PTA equipment following the Wine Quiz in my absence. There seems to be one trifle bowl and a fish slice missing. Can you explain please?
What I really want to do is reply with: Thanks for asking – the event went well and we raised a record £1,300! Also, we only ate cheese and drank wine. Trifle and haddock weren’t on the menu.
I decide to be the better woman.
Sorry, Denise. I don’t recall seeing either. Hope you had a nice anniversary.
