More compulsory fun en famille
It was with a mild sense of foreboding that I caught the train on Friday up to the Lake District for my mother’s 60th birthday party.
The two things she hates most in life: surprises + references to ageing.
So my sister decided to throw her a bit of a do, pretending that it was a housewarming party and inviting the entire family plus hangers on.
Dad and I have been sweating lightly for months.
The day dawns, beautifully spring-like, at which point Mum orders Dad to single-handedly lift 6 sofas into a trailer to take to my sister’s house so we can sit outside in comfort. Pre-saturated with guilt, he doesn’t put up a fuss.
I drive off into town in search of champagne (miraculously turns any nasty shock into a celebration).
Before we set off for my sister's, I ask Mum if she’s going to get changed out of jeans and walking boots. ‘No,’ she says, defensively, ‘I’ll be picking up small children all day. I need to be comfortable.’
We arrive and arrange sofas in garden. Throw sheets over tables and find fold-up chairs. It all looks, as Sicily would say, delightfully bucolic.
Dad and I are somewhat tense as Sally began to sing Happy Birthday. But we deal with it by handing Mum a bottle of champagne IMMEDIATELY. Followed by a baby.
She doesn't kill anyone, although she looks scary with a knife in her hand.
Although the first thing she says is ‘Why didn’t you make me change my shirt?’
I take a deep breath and wander off with Bruno to look at what he likes to call the Lamborghinis.
Then watch him play with a mallet. Everyone scoffs when I mildly suggest this might dangerous.
By the end of the afternoon we have moved the sofas around 5 times to follow the sun. I have talked nicely to Uncle Geoffrey about his days in the Raj. Again. The adults in the family have slid into louche drinking behaviour and are neglecting their young.
Next day, everyone decides that the best way to conquer hangovers is to go for a jolly walk. I am assured it’s not very far, and even Bruno is going to walk it.
We go halfway up Scafell Pike, the highest mountain in England.
At which point my sister and I lie down and refuse to go any further.
Lady V was born in the Lake District in 1973. She lives in London.
The two things she hates most in life: surprises + references to ageing.
So my sister decided to throw her a bit of a do, pretending that it was a housewarming party and inviting the entire family plus hangers on.
Dad and I have been sweating lightly for months.
The day dawns, beautifully spring-like, at which point Mum orders Dad to single-handedly lift 6 sofas into a trailer to take to my sister’s house so we can sit outside in comfort. Pre-saturated with guilt, he doesn’t put up a fuss.
I drive off into town in search of champagne (miraculously turns any nasty shock into a celebration).
Before we set off for my sister's, I ask Mum if she’s going to get changed out of jeans and walking boots. ‘No,’ she says, defensively, ‘I’ll be picking up small children all day. I need to be comfortable.’
We arrive and arrange sofas in garden. Throw sheets over tables and find fold-up chairs. It all looks, as Sicily would say, delightfully bucolic.
Dad and I are somewhat tense as Sally began to sing Happy Birthday. But we deal with it by handing Mum a bottle of champagne IMMEDIATELY. Followed by a baby.
She doesn't kill anyone, although she looks scary with a knife in her hand.
Although the first thing she says is ‘Why didn’t you make me change my shirt?’
I take a deep breath and wander off with Bruno to look at what he likes to call the Lamborghinis.
Then watch him play with a mallet. Everyone scoffs when I mildly suggest this might dangerous.
By the end of the afternoon we have moved the sofas around 5 times to follow the sun. I have talked nicely to Uncle Geoffrey about his days in the Raj. Again. The adults in the family have slid into louche drinking behaviour and are neglecting their young.
Next day, everyone decides that the best way to conquer hangovers is to go for a jolly walk. I am assured it’s not very far, and even Bruno is going to walk it.
We go halfway up Scafell Pike, the highest mountain in England.
At which point my sister and I lie down and refuse to go any further.
Lady V was born in the Lake District in 1973. She lives in London.
posted by Lady V at 9:37 pm
1 Comments:
Lamborghinis! What a witty child. I think he's old enough now to see Black Sheep.
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