As we all know too well, life on earth is a continual series of disappointments and tragedies, punctuated by a few ever-so-fleeting moments of joy. Keeping your chin up can be hard.
It is easier, however, to live with raised spirits in the school summer holidays, which are now upon us. This is even true when the weather is shocking, as it is here at the moment in North Yorkshire.
As soon as the teachers pack their boxes and head to the pub (I mean home) to wind down (ahem *** cough *** splutter), the memories of past summers come flooding back. Family, friends, heat, water, beaches, endless trips to the supermarket and shops with my mother, reading Asterix comic books, taking the ferry to France, long vacations in Poland, counting the seconds between thunder and lightning, making out shapes and faces in the clouds, playing football in the garden, dressing up as superheroes with ski goggles and blankets and climbing on the garden shed roof [what? — Ed].
One of my brothers recently asked me what my best summer holiday ever was. I went for 1992. I was 15, I think. The Barcelona Olympics were on, and for once (as far as I can recall), we did not travel abroad, as my Dad had to work and he had been hit badly by a recent recession in the UK. Instead, I spent most of my days cycling to my school’s tennis courts in the morning with a friend and playing a few sets, as the courts were open to use for pupils out of term time. I was rubbish at tennis and my friend was not much better, but we had great fun. There were some other pupils from the school who would turn up to swing their rackets as well. One older boy who was regularly there that summer would copy Boris Becker when he was losing a match. He would scream and shout at himself just as the mad German had at Wimbledon when he was struggling to defeat an opponent. He even had red hair and a similar hairstyle to “Der Bomber”. Back at home in the afternoons I would watch the Olympics and distinctly remember the diving competition, which was held outdoors. Each diver would get to jump off the board or platform with the city’s skyline in the background.
I look back at that time with great fondness.
Now, hopefully, our boys are making the same memories. I for one, can’t wait for the rain to stop so that I can take them to the park and kick a ball about with them, which is currently one of my favourite activities. Until, that is, the boys start trying to seriously hurt each other, and hurl more insults at each other than a Turkish barber and Greek kebab shop owner would if they met in a Cyprus-map painting evening class, and my blood pressure goes through the roof and we all only manage to get home alive by the skin of our teeth.
An added bonus in the holidays is that the wife can spend more time in the mornings looking out for a recent arrival in our garden, rather than having to rush around getting the kids out of the house. Yes, that’s right. Basil — the rogue cat, deceiver of men, bird killer, sofa scratcher, human bed seeker — has a rival.
A hedgehog. Yes, a hedgehog.
Curiously, it may have been yours truly who spotted the hedgehog first. I saw a strange creature running across the road earlier this year at night and I actually thought it was a rat — I have been known to mistake cows for horses in the past [Are you being serious? — Ed.]
Apparently, a hedgehog can run faster than a tiger over a 1-metre dash [this can’t be right?!?!?! — Ed] and they are thought by some scientists to be more intelligent than dolphins and pigs [what?!??! — Ed].
Every evening, the wife leaves food out for the little creature in a hedgehog house we have (don’t ask) [I won’t — Ed] and someone eats it. Everyone in the house thinks it is the hedgehog, but I am of the opinion that it is Basil — the rogue cat, deceiver of men, bird killer, sofa scratcher, human bed seeker who consumes the hedgehog’s midnight meal.
The mother-in-law spends most of the night looking out of the window to see if she can spot the hedgehog and now does not sleep at all, while the wife is completely obsessed with the hedgehog and Basil — the rogue cat, deceiver of men, bird killer, sofa scratcher, human bed seeker. Her every thought is consumed by the hedgehog and the cat. So much so, that she misplaces her mobile phone, keys and glasses even more than usual, which is a lot. On occasion, we can be sitting at the table eating a meal and the merest of movements in the garden, such as a falling leaf, can result in her springing up from her seat and frantically scanning the scene for the prickly creature. Special hedgehog food and cat treats are always top of the shopping list. And they probably cost an arm and a leg. Luckily, we are not paying a lot for water at the moment as the rain is keeping the grass green.
On that point, the grass has grown, and it has grown gloriously, and if an experienced gardener came to inspect the lawn now, he or she would probably estimate that it had been there for years, and if I entered it into a local competition I have no doubt that I would win, and then I would go the lawn World Cup and have to take some of the lawn with me in a special air-tight but moist container, and snip little bits off the patch at each stage of the competition and then win a trophy and then be put on the front cover of Sports Illustrated and win a sponsorship contract with a hedgehog food manufacturer [What the actual… oh forget it — Ed].
Progress update:
The first draft of The Anchorite (my next novella) is at 15,287 words and is nearly complete.
I am proofreading/editing The Fragment from The Shroud (my next novel) for the fourth time (I think) and it’s taking shape nicely.
Take it easy. And thanks for reading.
An enjoyable read Marek. So funny how the whole household is mesmerised by the hedgehog.
We've got a book by Pam Ayres called The Last Hedgehog.
She starts in rhyme:
Farewell, farewell for what it's worth
From the final hedgehog left on earth.
She goes on to describe how the hedgehog's relatives met their demise.
'Drowned in rubbish, drowned in junk,
That's why our population's shrunk,
You threw down stuff you couldn't use,
The plastic rings from packs of booze,
Polluted, poisoned, burned and mowed,
And ran us over on the road.'
Sounds as though you are a hedgehog friend. Well done!
More musings from the southerner who can’t tell a horse from a cow - love it!