This mini break has been a comedy of forgetfulness, as usual with any journey that has me in it. All the more so, given that for the first time in 20 years I’m travelling abroad without Mr Suburbanite as the responsible adult. I’m sure one day there will be a name for the disconnect in my brain that causes me to leave something crucial behind every time I leave the house… in the meantime I am diagnosis-free, and as my mother has the exact same symptoms and still managed to found and run an international charity I’m not going to worry about it too much.
No, but seriously?
There is a battle going on around here about the adoption of the Mini Holland proposals (aka a generous pot of money from the Mayor of London to increase cycling in outer London boroughs). Continue reading
Last Sunday we had what has become an annual event on our street – a spot of carol singing followed by more than a spot of mulled wine. (Okay, I made 12 litres. Oops.)
A neighbour suggested it three years ago. I was enchanted by the idea of what she called ‘bellowing in the street’, and realised that I have only once seen a group of carol singers out on the streets in the local suburbia (and that was up in the next postcode where they are all quite posh white and English). Three years later, I can’t seem to stop organising it.
Yesterday some neighbours’ kids came round on their own to play with mine, as is becoming the norm. When I told them that my children had exceeded their screen time and therefore they’d have to find something to do without a screen on it, they choose to conga round the sitting room. Continue reading