There is a vague recollection of waking up far too early this morning, and hearing a little person ask “can we go downstairs?”, followed by a grunt from W, and a retreating “thump thump thump” as the source of the question headed off in search of cartoons.
After finally sliding out of bed at some point after 8, I finally arrived downstairs to find Miss Seven sat on her own in the lounge, absorbed in the latest adventure Scooby Doo was having - her sisters still tucked up in bed upstairs, snoring peacefully. Miss Eight appeared a little later, walking around purposefully in her rugby kit, leaving our eldest in bed. I poked my head around the corner of her bedroom door, and found her sat cross legged in her pyjamas, playing some game or other on her DS while listening to the radio.
It’s funny really - we let her listen to as much radio as she wants, but hell will freeze over before we will let her have a television in her room.
Over the course of the next half hour Miss Eight vanished off with her Mum to an away-match - to do battle with boys twice her size that curiously also cry twice as easily. After releasing the chickens from the overnight prison, feeding the cats, washing up, and clearing the kitchen, Miss Seven’s elephantine memory for promises kicked in.
“We going to play park yet Dad?”
And so it was that a little after 9 this morning we walked out into the frosty morning air, and made our way into town… or rather we did on the second attempt. Twenty yards into the first attempt I noticed Miss Seven’s hair bore more relation to a tree than a little girl’s head, so turned about and ordered her home to be made more presentable by force.
One of the great virtues of arriving early at the playpark in town is that you arrive before the masses descend. You get to sit quietly with a coffee and a pastry while your children run here, there and everywhere with no queues, no arguments, no pushing, and no shoving. You get to sip your hot drinks together, wander around the park together, and walk the riverbank without dodging designer strollers that cost more than your car.
As we left the park, I overheard a walking advert for GAP, Billabong, and O’Neal remark to his catwalk model partner “let’s go to Starbucks instead - this place is wretched”. Quite. And it will be immeasurably better in your absence.
I like Sunday Mornings. There is something simple about them. Time with little people, in the sunshine, invariably at the park, or the rugby ground, and no other cares to distract and annoy. Of course if every morning was like Sunday morning, then Sunday morning wouldn’t be special.