Well, we have a future, but it’s not in the countryside.
We are moving to the local market town. It’s perfect in so many ways – close to the children’s school and easy access to the rail network if I need to commute – which I may well do in order to pay for our pretty new home. It does have a garden – a house-width streak of looking green with a substantial shed at the bottom (I do love a good shed!). Not chook country, alas, though I could attempt the odd potato, I suppose. At the moment the grounds are mainly laid to Early Learning Centre plastic play equipment, and drying lines of midget pastel clothing – the present incumbents have small children.
I’ve been using the impending move as an excuse to get rid of thing the children have outgrown. Number One Son’s cast offs naturally leach down into Number Two Son’s overcrowded bedroom, so last weekend we were able to exercise Number Two Son’s passion for car boot sales with car-full of books, toys and prepubescent clutter harvested from his floor.
Not sharing Number Two Son’s passion, I had to be emotionally blackmailed into participation, particularly when I discovered it meant getting up at 5.00 am on a Sunday morning. But, came the dawn (and even before that) I found I didn’t mind nearly as much as I thought I would.
It was fun driving the empty roads under an eggshell blue sky that boded well. It was fun laying out our humble stall amongst the other car-booters, who proved a jolly, charming, helpful bunch. As not a lot happened, I lounged in the spring sunshine happily reading a book from our stock. And when the pace eventually hotted up, I had the pleasure and surprise of watching my normally quiet, thoughtful child transform himself into a red hot salesman and patter-merchant.
We ended the day £50 up and half a carful lighter. The highlight for me was the box of Pokamon cards. At 2p per card these were never going to make a hefty profit, but they proved an outstanding crowd-pleaser. Small heads were bent and grubby fingers scrabbled all morning, as eight year old Pokamon aficionados shared expertise (‘No, that’s Charmian, it evolves into Charmander’), and no doubt nits, before relinquishing their stickily warm 10 pences.
His father has been worrying lately that our second-born may not grow to be financially astute. But I detect a definite entrepreneurial streak. I’m keeping quiet, though , about his plan to supplement his future zoo-keeper’s salary by writing science fiction novels. At least he's not selling out.
We are moving to the local market town. It’s perfect in so many ways – close to the children’s school and easy access to the rail network if I need to commute – which I may well do in order to pay for our pretty new home. It does have a garden – a house-width streak of looking green with a substantial shed at the bottom (I do love a good shed!). Not chook country, alas, though I could attempt the odd potato, I suppose. At the moment the grounds are mainly laid to Early Learning Centre plastic play equipment, and drying lines of midget pastel clothing – the present incumbents have small children.
I’ve been using the impending move as an excuse to get rid of thing the children have outgrown. Number One Son’s cast offs naturally leach down into Number Two Son’s overcrowded bedroom, so last weekend we were able to exercise Number Two Son’s passion for car boot sales with car-full of books, toys and prepubescent clutter harvested from his floor.
Not sharing Number Two Son’s passion, I had to be emotionally blackmailed into participation, particularly when I discovered it meant getting up at 5.00 am on a Sunday morning. But, came the dawn (and even before that) I found I didn’t mind nearly as much as I thought I would.
It was fun driving the empty roads under an eggshell blue sky that boded well. It was fun laying out our humble stall amongst the other car-booters, who proved a jolly, charming, helpful bunch. As not a lot happened, I lounged in the spring sunshine happily reading a book from our stock. And when the pace eventually hotted up, I had the pleasure and surprise of watching my normally quiet, thoughtful child transform himself into a red hot salesman and patter-merchant.
We ended the day £50 up and half a carful lighter. The highlight for me was the box of Pokamon cards. At 2p per card these were never going to make a hefty profit, but they proved an outstanding crowd-pleaser. Small heads were bent and grubby fingers scrabbled all morning, as eight year old Pokamon aficionados shared expertise (‘No, that’s Charmian, it evolves into Charmander’), and no doubt nits, before relinquishing their stickily warm 10 pences.
His father has been worrying lately that our second-born may not grow to be financially astute. But I detect a definite entrepreneurial streak. I’m keeping quiet, though , about his plan to supplement his future zoo-keeper’s salary by writing science fiction novels. At least he's not selling out.
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