Yesterday I was all about posting about the sun, the sea, the sand and gloating that the spud and I had sat happily on the beach for an hour and came away with, dare I say it, a small amount of colour...
But one must not tempt fate I have learned and, having composed this pean to Biarritz in my head we awoke this morning to the weather we were actually promised by the outlaws, ie, dreary grey, cold and threatening rain or snow or something equally similar to the weather in London at the moment.
It's probably a good thing this, not only will it make returning to that sceptered isle slightly more palatable, it also means that we're not fumbling around in our wardrobes trying to find something that is both summery and voluminous enough to cover up our drifts of pale winter flab.
Les Biarrots, of course, are already sporting sleek, tanned musculature, possibly because they've not fully lost the tan they got every year since they were born, possibly because they've already been to the salon for a spray-down; but there they were, lined up gamely on blankets watching each other throw rugby balls and lie about looking fashionable and French.
We've entered another new phase I noted this morning. Now that the spud is beginning to show signs of wanting to talk (having gaily repeated 'coquillage' for his beaming grandfather yesterday... has he said 'Mummy' yet?...oh but I digress...) communication in this household is becoming confusing. Normally if the frog says to our son 'What has Mummy fed you' I'm supposed to answer 'it's banana'. If I say to him 'what on earth has your Father dressed you in?', the Frog is supposed to walk in looking all aggrieved and claim that they were All The Clothes He Could Find. We communicate quite a lot like that: 'Where are your shoes?'... 'That's a dirty face!', 'What do you think Daddy's done with your nappy bag?' - all these and more we ask each other through the medium of our son. Today however I heard the frog say 'What have you got in your mouth' so I called out 'it's just a bit of a cough drop for his throat' where-upon he replied 'I was asking him, not you'. That shut me up. How am I supposed to know when the frog is talking to me now?
Right now our little bundle of curls is fast asleep after a Very Large morning spent in the playground and entertaining his grandparents. On the beach yesterday he was not quite as brave as he is in the comfort of the playground and for the first time since before he could crawl he sat still for an hour playing quietly with a stick and pointing at the rugby balls as they came flying towards us, a feat which makes me want to transplant the sea to the chaos of our livingroom for a moment of peace.