The day is every shade of grey in the aftermath of Storm Angus. Rain is pounding down so hard the puddles are full of bubbles. Little Owl skipped nimbly between them on the way to school, while I trudged behind with the double buggy. When we got home Finch’s right arm was completely drenched from where he’d had it hanging out of a rip in the rain cover, like some sort of boy racer in his revved up Vauxhall Nova with his elbow on the window rim.
At the weekend we made mincemeat. The house smelt so Christmassy. Finch is baffled by the season’s festivities. I heard him wondering aloud to himself whether the firework display he’d seen on Bonfire Night had been a Christmas firework display.
He and I went on a special outing last week. It was time for new shoes. He was chuffed to bits with his purchase and took giant moon-leaping steps around the shop to put them through their paces. “ ‘Mazin’!” he pronounced.
Afterwards we went for a cup of tea. The cafe had one of those low glass-fronted refrigerators full of cakes. “Cake!” Finch beamed at me. Then he took a deep breath, bent down and licked all the way across the glass front, leaving a slathery trail.
I turned to the lady at the counter in embarrassed shock. Fortunately she found it funny. “The number of children we get in here who don’t get fed at home, I tell you!” she chuckled. I think those ‘mazin’ new shoes had gone to his head. When we got home Finch had a suggestion. “New shoes and cup of tea tomorrow?” No, Finch, I don’t think so.
