Monday, December 19, 2005

freedom and incarceration

Friday provided a rare glimpse of what real people do. Pupster No1 and the Puplette went for a sleepover at Thom's friend Lilith (3 years old a mixture of Czech, Oz and Southend on Sea). It was interesting to hear, on my whispered farewell that morning to Thom (he gets upset if he doesn't see and have breakfast with me before I go to work. This is very touching but the tantrum that erupts if he wakes just as I am going out the backdoor can be somewhat diverting - enough to make me miss a train, should I be catching one, which of course is quite rare as I am dedicated to bipedular transport), "Daddy, tonight I am sleeping with Lilith!". His harem is developing.

His mother and I were able to attend the first annual Xmas party of the SitCom Trials/SitsVac members, led by the Kev F Sutherland, artistic director of The Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre and caricaturist. Kev has been described a "Pant-wettingly funny". He is very nice but we managed to get away without any changes of underwear. We ate rather small pizzas in Soho listening to the Earl Lewis Duo , the leader of which (or should we say the one who did the talking - the other one said nothing) had hair that could only be described as James Brown meets loft insulation. We returned to Lilith's (myself driving, having restricted myself to the two glasses of wine in 4 hours) and pciked up a sweet smelling and curly topped Puplette who then allowed us to sleep through to 9.30. A delightful extesnion of our normal sleeping hours, but a bit of a bugger if you have to be off at 10am to your mum's for lunch.

Managed to make to her's with all on board (despite a hangover for one party) only 90 minutes late, something remarked upon by the 4 aunts and 3 uncles who were also present and hungry.

Thom was, by now, declining. Despite the provision of a new trainset (Tomy - not as good as Brio, IMHO), he became quieter and quieter, in need of more and more snuggles, finally saying in a weak and feverish voice that he wanted to go home.

Both he and, it transpired, I, had been hit by the general lurgy that is going around.

Sunday was spent with himself in and out of bed, on and off the sofa, in and out of the Tesco trolley as we shopped, and then in and out of the bath before being back in (and out at about 2.30 for a wee)

His first word this Monday morning were "Daddy, I am still poorly, I'm afraid".

I, of course, was cyclo-togged and ready to leave for another winding down for Christmas day at the office...

... of which, more (or less) anon. Or, as the Rabbi at the South London Liberal Synagogue said of Hanukah a week ago, OR my father (his Imperial Pompousity - to whom we travel on Christmas Eve) would say... in due course


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