Missing you...
'Will you come and watch me play cricket tomorrow?' asked son number two on Saturday afternoon as I was recovering after three hours of artistic creation on Mrs S's fireplaces.
'Of course', I said. Notwithstanding that I try to be a supportive mum to all my offspring, I actually quite like watching cricket. The weather looked good, so a few lazy hours in the sunshine on a Sunday afternoon seemed like a grand idea.
When we eventually found the cricket pitch, 'our' team had been bowling for almost an hour. Sitting down in the newly purchased fold up chairs (according to the slightly camp gentleman I bought these from, they have a handy drinks holder...well I never) the husband, who had been dragged along under duress, went off to chat to someone he knew, leaving me and son number two's BFF as the only team supporters.
The team they were playing were a strange breed, I had some trouble understanding what they were saying as they seemed to be using too many vowels (I say 'years', they say 'yaaaaaaaaaaaars') and the men who weren't playing all wore a similar outfit of baggy cargo shorts, polo shirts with the collar up (like they were all Elvis) and deck shoes. The wives were in stripy shirts (also with the collar up, and pearls). Unfortunately for them, they were also rather loud.
Son number two had been asked to bowl at rather short notice, and he wasn't having a good day. As his bowling went from dreadful to terrible (almost decapitating the umpire a couple of times and wiping out the wicket keepr) the other supporters started to talk rather loudly about how terrible he was, and how he should have stayed at home. Now I was thinking the same, but as his mum I am allowed to. God help anyone else who disrespects my children in my company.
Getting slightly fed up with all the nasty comments, the BFF was starting to bristle, and I thought it better if I said something rather than sending her in (she looks like a Labrador but where son number two is concerned, she can be a Rottweiler protecting her friend).
'He hasn't bowled for quite a long time, and could probably have done with some practice before today'.
Glancing across at me over their score sheets, one of them said, 'Not sure there's enough time till the end of the world to give him enough practice.'
Well, he had a point...
'Of course', I said. Notwithstanding that I try to be a supportive mum to all my offspring, I actually quite like watching cricket. The weather looked good, so a few lazy hours in the sunshine on a Sunday afternoon seemed like a grand idea.
When we eventually found the cricket pitch, 'our' team had been bowling for almost an hour. Sitting down in the newly purchased fold up chairs (according to the slightly camp gentleman I bought these from, they have a handy drinks holder...well I never) the husband, who had been dragged along under duress, went off to chat to someone he knew, leaving me and son number two's BFF as the only team supporters.
The team they were playing were a strange breed, I had some trouble understanding what they were saying as they seemed to be using too many vowels (I say 'years', they say 'yaaaaaaaaaaaars') and the men who weren't playing all wore a similar outfit of baggy cargo shorts, polo shirts with the collar up (like they were all Elvis) and deck shoes. The wives were in stripy shirts (also with the collar up, and pearls). Unfortunately for them, they were also rather loud.
Son number two had been asked to bowl at rather short notice, and he wasn't having a good day. As his bowling went from dreadful to terrible (almost decapitating the umpire a couple of times and wiping out the wicket keepr) the other supporters started to talk rather loudly about how terrible he was, and how he should have stayed at home. Now I was thinking the same, but as his mum I am allowed to. God help anyone else who disrespects my children in my company.
Getting slightly fed up with all the nasty comments, the BFF was starting to bristle, and I thought it better if I said something rather than sending her in (she looks like a Labrador but where son number two is concerned, she can be a Rottweiler protecting her friend).
'He hasn't bowled for quite a long time, and could probably have done with some practice before today'.
Glancing across at me over their score sheets, one of them said, 'Not sure there's enough time till the end of the world to give him enough practice.'
Well, he had a point...
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