This morning, cool, crisp, blowing a gale, blue, blue sky. Gorgeous, but no rain.
As I write, it looks like this. Fingers crossed it pours!
Yesterday, I wore one of the dresses I got from my recent op shop visit, in this post. It was the one that Mum suggested would benefit from some sucky-in undies, Bridget Jones style. Well, my other resident fashion critic (ie. P) told me "Mummy, you've got a big tummy. I think there's another BABY in that big tummy!". I thought about pulling some giant pants on underneath, but frankly it was too damn hot. What's the point of a cotton summer dress if you layer it up with sweaty old synthetic bloomers. So I decided to embrace my mummy tummy. I mean, really. I know if I exercised every day and ate less ice cream it would be reduced, it's not brain surgery, but at the moment I don't do either of those things so I still have postnatal flab. If you've got nothing better to do than feast your eyes on my jubbly bits then go ahead, I can't be bothered caring any more.
Spoke to Dad (Grandpa G) on the phone last night. When he was here last week I showed him my blog. Dad's first reaction was fairly predictable. He looked the blog over silently, eventually remarking suspiciously, "It seems like an enormous amount of WORK, Sarah." I tried explaining it was just like having a hotmail account or making a word document, and that it was quite fun and easy but he remained skeptical.
Last night on the phone I asked if he'd been reading it. He paused, and said, "Yes, I've looked it over. It just seems like you are putting so much WORK into it", naturally inferring that I should probably be putting more work into, say, raising my children or finding a new job. If you are reading this Dad, don't worry, I've got it sorted, P's at kindy and I've just propped the baby in front of the TV with a bottle full of juice and "In the night garden" on repeat*.
While Dad was here we also reminisced a bit about the odyssey to the Old Country (ie. Ireland) that he and I made when I was about 20.
|Dad (aka Grandpa G) representing in his navy Driza-Bone.|
The trip was noteworthy for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the obvious incongruity of a 20 year old girl trailing moodily around Ireland and the UK with her 50-something father while her contemporaries were arguably "living it up" backpacker-style.
It led to such amusing anecdotes as "That time Dad and I accidentally went to a gay bar together" and "The Fiat Punto was a bad choice", whilst simultaneously giving rise to such inciteful geo-political commentary as "Celtic Tiger My Arse!".
The "gay bar" visit showed me up for the gormless and graceless youth that I was. Clutching our Guinness factory souvenir bags in my hands, I followed sulkily after him as he strode down a Dublin road in search of a pub where he could get a pint and a toasted sandwich. Spotting one ahead, he made a beeline for it and disappeared through the doors. As I entered and peered into the somewhat dimly lit establishment I could see that he had made himself comfortable in a corner booth, so I sort of flounced over and slumped down across the table from him. Dad went up to the bar to order our lunch, and when he returned to our seats we both sat in silence watching one of the bar's employees putting up Christmas decorations.
As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I began to notice the other two or three patrons. They were all dressed in variations on this theme...
I began to notice some pictures on the walls that looked a bit like this...
"Daaaaaad, I think it's a GAY BAR!!!" I hissed at him, what little grace and poise I had going out the window at what I saw as the most embarrassing place to be with your uncool middle aged father."So what?" he said, utterly unfazed, finishing off his sandwich. I sank further down into my seat, counting the seconds until we could escape. As we left, I looked up at the sign above the door. The bar was called "Out on the Liffey", which is a cute pun, and after consulting my trusty Lonely Planet it was revealed to be the trendiest and most happening gay friendly joint in Dublin.
I reminded him of this story when he visited last week. He said earnestly, "I remember! They did an excellent toasted sandwich, the beer was cold and they weren't too busy."
Good on you Grandpa G, you are a paragon of tolerance and you don't even know it. Shame you had to be there with your red-faced and spluttering daughter because she totally brought the tone down.
*Not really. I was just using a dramatic device known as "giving cheek to your sainted parents". I wasn't voted "Most Sarcastic" at high school for nothing.