To village hall on Friday evening for postponed Horticultural Association talk on Growing And Showing Daffodils, carrying as contribution to advertised Refreshments my batch of mini-quiches, which husband says Definitely Look Home-Made. Speaker knowledgeable but friendly, and regales us with inside tales from The Daffodil Society (highly competitive but much less cut-throat than The Chrysanthemum Society, apparently) and numerous photographs of completely perfect specimens grown from £10 bulbs. Chair reminds everyone about our Annual Quiz Evening in a fortnight’s time, and I do my best to give impression that question-setting is at suitably advanced stage (have almost completed one round).

Football season now in full swing and am allowed to attend son’s match this afternoon on strict condition that I Don’t Say Anything. Do not, naturally, obey, but make some effort to be less Vocal than usual, and enjoy listening to seasoned co-supporters’ very definite views on every aspect of the game. Own knowledge of football remains rather rudimentary, but am at least able to explain with some confidence to one player’s grandmother which way our team are shooting.

Read daughter’s copy of “The Great Gatsby” and wonder whether I have finally found my perfect novel.


When Sunday Comes

Elder son shows me first draft of French essay discussing His Hobbies (sport), How He Stays Healthy (sport), What He Did When He Was Young (sport) and His Plans For The Future (become professional footballer). Suggest that he could perhaps a) include a little variety and b) use brain rather than Google Translate; final version a slight improvement, but agree that His Plans For The Future should probably not include degree in modern languages.

Watch last game of younger son’s football season. Remember all those children’s football stories, where plucky underdogs (bottom of the league and with One Man Down) would triumph in closing moments against cocky opponents who treat referee and each other with angry contempt; sadly, Life does not imitate Art, and Our Lads are rewarded only with usual Moral Victory. Loyal parents gather round team with fond pride – and relief that season is finally over.