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Nice to see tweets from kickstarter backers who've received their rewards for supporting our stupidity. All those drawing cocks on snowmen and angels and writing stupid extra questions feels worthwhile. Thanks so much to all those of you who continue to make this idiocy continue.
I continue to go slowly mad in the countryside.
I am enjoying foraging for wood for the fire a bit too much. But there’s nothing like building a fire out of wood that you have harvested yourself. I imagine that it feels better if you’ve actually chopped down the tree, rather than picking up some twigs that have fallen from a tree and then awkwardly carry them home. But even that feels good. And it’s true what everyone says, it warms so much better if the wood is your own. Everyone says that. Fuck you, if you don’t. You’re the only one. And you’re a dick.
Yesterday I saw a good small branch as I walked Phoebe home from nursery and picked it up to carry home. One of the other mums saw me struggling to juggle it and said. “Yeah, my one collects sticks too.” I smiled along as if this was all Phoebe’s doing. But it was all mine. Kids are a good cover for all kinds of eccentric behaviour.
Is it OK for a reasonably well-off 50-year-old man to be searching the woods for kindling? I think it is. it’s more the circle of life than the fact that it’s saving me about 36p in burnable fuel a day. And it’s not about the money, it’s about living off the land and being at one with nature. By burning it. But only when it is already dead and deserves to be burned. And the warmth of dead trees keeps me alive. It’s the circle of life.
As I have only two more bits of work til February (if you don’t count some writing jobs that I have to start thinking about and this blog, which is increasingly an incredible struggle to fit in), I am now almost a full time male housewife (they should come up for a name for that as it’s a bit sexist). Kids, housework and cooking take up a lot of time. And Catie is still doing loads of it (most of it?) as well, even though I am trying to take on the lion’s share so that she can hit her work deadlines. Our heads are both bowed by tiredness, even though Ernie is now only waking once or twice a night, rather than every hour. It’s great to have a job where I can take my foot off the gas (and to be fair I worked enough in the first nine months this year to justify a quieter final quarter) - but how do people who have to go to work every day cope with all the demands? It’s just a constant struggle to try and get ready in time to get where you’re meant to be. And we always fail. And the only way to cope with it all is to get drunk every night and hope there are no emergencies
God bless parents everywhere. It’s a beautiful Hell. But it’s still Hell. The rewards are huge: big smiles from my baby son and a spontaneous cuddle from my daughter. But for every rewarding moment, there are a million moments when it’s just like living in Satan’s pants.
Luckily this is what I always wanted.
Ten years ago we fell into step and exchanged a few words that made me feel like my life was about to change.
Tonight we sat in front of a fire that burned fiercely because I’d picked up some bits of branch whilst walking our dog. Catie could never have guessed this was what she was getting herself into.
