My enthusiastic petitioning for family walks up the nearest mountain or trips to the lake are therefore usually met with a raised eyebrow and a cautious “we’ll see…”
Don’t get me wrong – he’s as adventurous as me (probably more so). But I guess it’s hard to muster up the enthusiasm having spent a long week out winning that bread.
Anyway, the question didn’t even arise today as I had absolutely no inclination to leave the house – just look at the weather:
So today has consisted of finally getting out of our PJs at midday (well Alpine Boy, Alpine Girl and I did – Alpine Papa is still wearing his. It’s nearly 11.00pm…); making about five litres of carrot soup (a veritable family production-line of peeling, chopping, cooking and whizzing); playing with Lego (Alpine Papa spends more time doing this than Alpine Boy does. I think Lego will form a large part of Alpine Papa’s Christmas wish-list this year); and doing Alpine Boy’s half-term homework for with him (and doing it badly – I printed out a beautiful photo montage with “Mes Vacances” written across it in a lovely cursive font. Well, I thought I had. After I spent far too long on this and we had printed it out, Alpine Papa kindly pointed out that I’d written “Mes Vacanes”. Léo’s teacher wouldn’t be impressed – no “point vert” for me).
So, due to our lazy day indoors, the house is a total tip, there’s washing everywhere, and there was no food for dinner (except a LOT of carrot soup). We carefully planned where and how we would hide if anyone popped round, as I was wearing my maternity jogging bottoms and hadn’t washed my hair, and Alpine Papa was in his PJs. (In London this wouldn’t be a genuine concern – people don’t ‘just pop in’. ‘Ad hoc’ cups of tea are diarised days in advance. But this is the countryside, you know – people DO just pop in. Which is great, really – I love the fact that I now have friends here who will/can do that. But I am the sort of person who does no cleaning all week and then is up until 1.00am frantically tidying and dusting the night before someone is expected. That doesn’t work now – last week a new friend ‘just popped in’ one afternoon. I was asleep on the sofa surrounded by dirty mugs and drying washing. My guilty secret life of daytime naps and dirty floors has thus been exposed…)
But you know what? I don’t care. I could get used to lazy weekends like this (they’re certainly safer than action-packed weekends like the one we had last week – I fell over roller-blading at 15 km/h and still have the wounds, bruising and battered pride to show for it). The house may be a contender for some gritty Channel 4 voyeuristic documentary about manky houses and their lazy tracksuit-wearing owners, but the kids are happy, fed, entertained, and are now snuggled safely in bed. I have my wine (and my Milka of course). Alpine Papa and I are curled up on the sofa watching a 1960s French musical (Les Parapluies de Cherbourg - what better choice for a rainy day?). Maybe I’m old before my time, but this is the perfect Saturday night for me. Is that tragic…?
Now, where’s that Lego? It’s my turn…
We don’t do things by half here: not content to watch only one 1960s French musical in one night we’ve turned it into a Catherine Deneuve marathon… I think it might be a long night. We’re now on to Les Demoiselles de Rochefort. Of course.