I’m starting to think I may have to stop listening. It’s getting beyond a joke, I cut my finger quite badly this morning while chopping onions for the goats cheese and caramelised onion mini tarts I’m making to stow in the freezer for a party a few weeks off. I was already weeping when the mention of that damn gorilla suit made me sob convulsively and viciously slice my digit.
Sunday mornings won’t be the same but it’s getting ridiculous and the kids are concerned. What you have to understand is Nigel has been in my life since I was a child. Of course I’m grieving.
Bloody Archers. God I love them.
I used to hate them. The tumpty tum music was part of a Sunday at home. My mum didn’t have the time keeping abilities to listen to it during the week but the Sunday omnibus was a soundtrack to my childhood. We didn’t have a TV so the radio was on a lot and I clearly remember Mum talking about the characters as though they were family friends while I sneered, wrapped in teenage angst. Sulkily helping prepare for big family sunday dinners, peeling veg while Elisabeth acted up, Nelson was suave, Tom protested GM crops. I remember sunny mornings sat in the veg patch weeding with the radio jammed into the gap in the kitchen sash window while mum hoed.
Now I’m not the kind of person who can commit to anything on a regular basis and my lifestyle in younger days (ah me) was not one that could fit in an appointment with Ambridge on Sundays easily. But there were occasional catch ups and my mum could always be relied on to pass on big family news.
When I met Steve they came back in a big way as he regarded them as the de rigour back drop to the sunday papers and the habit has persisted. The radio is usually on as I potter about and the sound of it now produces a pleasant feeling of domestic achievement as I pot seedlings and peel veg and bake. (I am not unaware of the irony as I catch Z’s lip curling from the corner of my eye).
What I like is how it’s all in real-time. Instead of TV’s fast track story lines things unfold in an organic (ahem) manner. Jack’s altziemers has been progressing over the last five years. I’ve grown up with Elizabeth. I was pregnant at the same time as her. I honestly feel heartbroken hearing her and the twins grieving. Does this make me a credulous fool or emotionally literate?
I just said to Z that he’ll find himself listening out of choice when he’s older and he’s rolled his eyes spectacularly. We’ll see. I’m sewing the seeds.