As well as my adoration for anything published by Persephone books and my annual binge on George Elliot, I do have some very low-brow tastes. I occasionally buy Grazia magazine. I have watched Take Me Out. I always reach for the magazine of any weekend paper before reading the news. So I tried to show Dulcie a bit of sympathy in the library this week when she picked a book that frankly appalled me.
The library is a dangerous place yet we are drawn there at least twice a week. I find it financially draining, as I break my resolve to take out one book at a time and leave with armfuls, which I obviously can’t read within the allotted time and end up with nasty fines. Himself the Elf can make anywhere dangerous. He pulls and wobbles and is drawn to sharp corners on tables and unstable chairs. He has learnt this week to throw. Not just letting go of things or flinging them, but to properly HURL. It fills him with glee and he winds himself up into a frenzy of exhilaration, and of course, the library provides many, many missiles. I find shelves empty faster than I can refill them and order is swiftly, and loudly, replaced with chaos as he ricochets around, hands always busy.
Strangely, I find this easier to cope with than the dangers the library presents for Dulcie, who cannot resist the carousels of DVDs which we are not getting out, we are just here to look at books, yes, you may look at the DVD cases, and yes, I know they have Barbie and the Magic of the Crystal Rainbow Castle or whatever it is you are clutching but we are not getting it. Because I haven’t got any money with me. Well, yes, obviously I have some money with me because yes, we did get change in the supermarket, you’re right, but it isn’t for taking out DVDs etc. etc. Continue reading
“I’m doing a grand yeti!” trilled Dulcie as she threw some rather Martha Graham-esque moves around the bedroom. “And I am as light as a fairy,” as she crashed into a chair. I smiled indulgently. I like this game; I am the appreciative audience and get to sit down. Himself the Elf is captivated by his sister’s moves and has pulled himself into a standing position leaning on the chest of drawers, all the better to squeal his encouragement to her. Peace?
Shattered. “HE can’t do ballet! He is bouncing along and only girls can do ballet,” bosses Dulcie. No-one can do self-righteousness in quite the style of a three year old, I find. “Anyone can do anything,” I pointlessly say, knowing it will be disregarded instantly. “I am taking off my tutu,” she declares. Helpfully, it is an imaginary tutu, so my assistance isn’t needed. “Shall we read Dogs Don’t Do Ballet?” I suggest, keeping in the theme and trying to be a good mother. “Just let me put the Elf to bed first…” Continue reading