There is a moment that comes on the best of days. Towards the end of the day, but before H arrives home from whichever far flung extreme of the Midlands he’s been travelling to. The chores are done, or at least I’ve made my peace with the ones that aren’t going to get done, and the house is at rest.
We used to spend the time in the garden, cloud gazing and reading stories but the squally showers that swept though this week, and the rose bramble making insistent and repeated requests to enter through the window make it clear that those days are gone for now.
So we sing, we make funny noises with cardboard tubes and many shaky rattley noisy toys, we play tents, and we snuggle together to read a story, before Kitty takes on the most important task of her day; emptying the bookcase (again).
It isn’t a saccarine-soaked picture of rosy-cheeked perfection, straight from a Mabel Lucie Attwell drawing; sooner or later there will be a nappy to be changed, a little hand will stretch for some out of reach contraband, and given Madam’s predilection for Mummy’s big books, something heavy will often be carelessly discarded on my toes. But it is my present and my memories, and to me it is perfect.