BETH’s card for Mothering Sunday. Very appropriate for nutty dog-lovers like us.
Today she rang to tell me she’d been woken just after midnight to hear knocking on her flat door. She ignored it, assuming someone was there by mistake. Fifty minutes later it came again: not urgent or particularly loud, but still a bit disturbing at one o’clock in the morning. This time she opened it – to discover Charlie standing there in her pyjamas. She’d been wandering round the block in the small hours, in her sleep. Oddly, she was vaguely aware that she’d been up and didn’t really know what she was doing there. How scary. Fifty minutes on the stairs is a long, long time.
Earlier in the day we’d said goodbye to them: they’d been down for Mothering Sunday lunch with us. “Us” being Morag, her partner Sylvia, friends Michael and Jilly, and Millie the dog, all of whom had travelled up from Oxford on Friday. It was the perfect weekend that you picture when you move to the country, but think will only ever exist in your imagination. This was for real – a lovely walk from Ballowfields to Carperby on a perfect spring Saturday, a vase of flowers on the doorstep on our return (from Mo) a pub meal Saturday evening, Beth and Charlie on Sunday. A waterfall walk for the guests while I did the lunch (my choice of activity, needless to say), then collapsing with the Sunday papers when they’d all gone.
Mothering Sunday gifts – flowers from Mo, canisters from Beth, Momiji doll from Sal.