And there was the weekend...

Its quite funny, that I only have 3 social things going on this month (which is more than the last 5 months put together, really), and I managed to confuse the dates of 2 of them. 

So it was, that it was my in-laws Golden Wedding Anniversary celebrations this weekend just gone.  Which I thought meant that I was then free to attend, on the 18th,Hooting Yard and Outa_Spaceman’s Evening of Lugubrious Music and LopsidedProse.  I asked my mum about babysitting, only to find her sadly  and quietly insulted that I had forgotten it was HER birthday that weekend, and I was sposed to be going to dinner with her and Number One Son, Fry, that evening…OOPS.  (See, this is what happens when you don’t remind people its your birthday for about 3 months before the event, at regular intervals, as I often do – you know, to save friends and family embarrassment.  I am the soul of consideration, you appreciate…) 

At least I can’t be confused with the last thing, which is definitely next weekend, and definitely involves week late fireworks and Halloween food with Alias Morrie, Alan and Brilliantly Haired Teenage Son of Theirs.  Hooray, looking forward to being fed, and comforting Fluffhead from the noise.

Isn’t 50 years an amazingly long marriage?  I’m not going to say ‘by today’s standards’, as I think its amazing by anyone’s standards; and also says a lot about how young people used to get married.  Considering what a whopping long time frame that was, the actual celebration was quite small in terms of time, and smaller than the massive Social Occasion I had been dreading (in my hermity socially phobic type way).  Though for a smallish thing, it demanded a lot of logistical work.

The travelling with a Small Fluffhead does demand the taking of an astonishing amount of stuffs – all the food for a start (milk and squishy chewy, in case the food on hand proves unsuitable and a starving child is a quick route to screeching enjoyment).  And food accompaniments – the bottles, spoons, jars, little Tupperware type containers.  Food for the journey (raisons, little organic crispy stick thingies, ginger biscuits, cream crackers – things not too messy to wreck the excellent impression of for once, a Tidy Boy in a little corduroy trousered outfit in shades of brown and beige and with a squirrel on the front of the sweater vest thing).  Then there’s the wipes and tissues, the change of clothes, the Calpol or Nurofen (in case of sudden teething, fever, head banging etc etc etc).  Scissors to cut open the milk.  Beakers for water.  Water.  Muslins and toys for the comforting, and the journey.  Change of clothes, nappies.

And then theres the travelling with Me: various headache remedies and Sumatriptan (in case of migraine). The Herbal Sominex stuff (which is really crap at aiding sleep, and really brilliant at taking the edge off social panic – always carry, hardly ever use: talismanic).  Sudden Onset of Femaleness supplies in small metal container free with products – handy, that.  Change of clothes for Stanley and I (in case of outrageous Fluffhead Vomiting, which does occasionally occur, and usually in completely unsuitable circumstances).  Pack lunches for Stanley and I, and Fry, so that whoever ends up being Somewhere Else with the Fluffhead, because he got righteously tired of sitting still with a bunch of grown ups talking, and wished to explore the wider world; whoever that is, still gets fed even if they missed the food portion of the event.

Fry came down the night before to plot the route to drive us all down into Gloucestershire, to a tiny village I have actually now forgotten the name of.  We were sposed to leave at 9 a.m., but I completely forgot that I was going to dawdle getting ready (as I always do when anxious about social things; I can get hostile too, which Stanley deals with very well considering how bloody annoying I must be).  I also forgot Fry doesn’t move quickly in the morning (though 21, he still has the mindset of a total teen; anything before 11 should really be tackled from a prone sofa-ed position).  I also forgot Stanley is outrageously late to everything, even when I’m not helping.  (I am usually very punctual; I only become selfish and late when worried about events.)  I don’t know what it is about Stanley and his time keeping, time just…gets away from him.  (The lounging on bed with laptap, ‘checking’ things; and the in his computer room ditto, doesn’t help.)

We eventually left at 10.30, and I still didn’t have a migraine yet (!), despite the geometric loading of stuffs into the car and the threading of the sewing machine which was how getting the carseat for Fluffhead in the back to actually fit felt like.  It’s definitely winter now.  I watched so many different shades of leaves on the way there. I watched the landscape go from the wavy, to the completely flat (much of Oxfordshire), and back to softly wavy again.  Fluffhead was very good, and sat watching the scenery for a bit, looked at his books for a bit, then hugged Taylor the Giraffe and went to sleep for an hour.  I hypnotised myself watching the treeline and the sky passing: all a gorgeous blue.  Fry and Stanley chatted desultorily in the front, but I couldn’t really hear properly over the noise of the car.  Stanley kept trying to talk to me, but I had gone dopey. 

We weren’t late, which was quite something.  The small village was filled with dry stone walls, and houses with arbours, and trellises.  Beige stoned houses, not a shop in sight.  It was two and a half hours from home.  Quiet and with a wonderful hill in the background that Stanley really wanted me to go walking with him on, but we didn’t have enough time.  We wheeled Fluffhead down to the Royal Oak pub’s function room, through a cobbled street and a lovely beer garden with sunken tables and sandstone steps.  The contrast from the cold street to the close function room was huge.  Fry and I immediately wanted to go outside again.  There were about a hundred people in there already.  But Fluffhead was happy and ran about, threading his way through arrangements of round tables and chairs, and pulling small boxes of Thornton’s complementary chocolates off the tables.  (They had heart shaped chocolates inside – one pink and one gold…being starving by now after strangely not hungry on the journey, I wolfed mine immediately.)

I was introduced to so many relatives, by the ever informative Stanley; despite telling him there was no way I would remember them all.  I do remember one Aunt who had a beautiful West Country accent and a very playful way; and another Aunt who was dressed beautifully and had a kind smile.  And a cousin who used to be a professional footballer who had nice messy hair.  They were all, without exception, very kind and friendly, and I wondered why I had been so uptight about coming[1]. The in-laws themselves seemed very happy, which was excellent, and of course, the point of the whole thing.  There was a buffet, and only 1 speech, during which Stanley’s father gained a good ripple of laughter for thanking everyone of behalf of ‘my wife and I’, which sounded wondrously posh and out of character.  Stanley’s father is mild mannered, kind, deliciously witty in a slow burner way; and never pretentious.

Pretty soon though, Fluffhead did do the wailing, ‘I am bored now’ thing, and no amount of extra niblets would satisfy the Need to Roam.  So Fry and I got out the reins and took him for an outside walk for what must have been a couple of hours, like the small inquisitive little doglet he can be.  This was most refreshing.  We looked at the hill from many angles, and appreciated its many shades of green.  The sheep on the side of it looked so far away they were small maggots laid out for the feast of a large black bird.

We explored all the surrounding streets, and Fluffhead made the reluctant (on the part of the owners) acquaintance of 2 dogs and 2 horses, also all on reins.  Fry kept going off to the car to check the footie scores.  We walked in the funniest pattern; I wished a mathematician were present to plot it and tell me it was the very evidence for order in chaos.  Back a bit, to the side a bit, back to where we were, no, turn about, come away again.  Up this little verge, down, up it, half way up, turn round, go down again, go back up.  I let Fluffhead roam where he wanted.  He collects stones at the moment.  All carefully (as far as I can see) selected for smoothness and colour gradation – that day we were doing shades of darker grey.  He collected holly berries from the trees, and put them in a small pile at the foot of a different tree.  He tried to eat a very yellow flower with large tight petals.  Fry and I got increasingly cold; little Fluffhead seemed quite warm to the touch and meandered about happily. 

Sometimes we would bump into other refugees from the Do: Stanley’s nephew and niece, walking about, texting on their phones.  We chatted about TV, university, riotous parties in Bath (they do happen, he was going to one that evening).  Sometimes Stanley came out to find us, and encourage us to come and play closer, in the garden surrounding the pub.  But that was taken up by noisy older children.  Fluffhead tried to run and play with them, with that marvellous innocence and assumption of inclusion children have at that age; but they ignored him and almost knocked him over several times.  I saw his little face look confused, and felt for him.  I let him wander back to the street with the friendly dogs and the many berries and stones and flowers and driveways with crunchy slate and gravel for stomping.  He presented Fry and I with many soggy leaves, and happy smiling.  The other children eventually tired, so we went back to the garden and Fluffhead climbed carefully up and down the steps fifty or so times.  Relatives came over to say how cute he was; I met all the smokers, being outside. 

Another function was going to start soon; I had been observing people leaving for a while, and the light was failing gradually.  I was starting to have to carry Fluffhead.  I made him a bottle and we sat in the garden at one of the sunken tables to have it.  Goodbyes took ages; I hung about at the fringes with Fluffhead drooping on my shoulder, Fry went to be with the car (and the Saturday early evening football summary).  Everyone seemed to have had a good time.  Stanley’s mother looked flushed and happy and hugged everyone.  Fluffhead batted at her hair with his tired hand.

The minute we were in the car, he conked out and I covered him up with 4 muslins and Taylor again.  This time I was hypnotised by the lights of cars in front and going past.  Yellow and white, flashing past in the darkness.  There were fireworks the whole journey home, white and blue and red and green, sparkling and breaking into flowers; falling, sinking.  Just as we passed Chipping Norton, the most arresting sight:  at the side of the road, a HUGE bonfire of old crates.  And hundreds of people surrounding it.  None of them moving at all; just standing immobile, facing the fire and watching it grow higher.  Eerie.  Then the darkness ate them all and they were gone.

When we got back home, I felt we had been out for a hundred years: my book-room looked strange and alien to me.  Fluffhead hit his second wind, and we ate our pack lunches for dinner, watching downloads of Not The 9 O’Clock News.  Fluffhead made a long line of his stones over the living room carpet and then messed them all up, looks of joy equal for both activities.  I never did get a migraine. A good day.

---

[1] Some events I go to are horrible of course, and I am rightfully worried about awful feelings of dislocation whilst there.  But I SHOULD, probably, stop worrying about things solely involving Stanley’s family, as they are always utterly kind and nice to me.