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rowdyandthebobcat

Let’s go to BARRY ISLAND

The Bobcat: “Let’s go to Barry Island!”

This is because the sun is out. If the sun is out The Bobcat is convinced some kind of beach excursion is THE PLAN.  He doesn’t remember other beaches he may have frequented. He only remembers Barry Island.

“Bar-ry IS-LAND! Bar-ry IS-LAND! Bar-ry IS-LAND!”

Ever been to Barry Island?

It isn’t like this.


This is Barry Island.

And I’m an introvert.  And the weather report said that the sun would show up around 0814hrs just to fool everyone, wait long enough for them to venture out for a £4 one-use barbecue, some sausages, some 6% export and an iceberg lettuce and then sod off behind a large black cloud until Thursday.

The Bobcat has been to Barry Island once, Rowdy twice.  On the last occasion the stars had (and I don’t know how) aligned as the weather was nothing short of amazing: the sea was warm enough not to leave me hypothermic and the ice creams had to be guzzled pretty quickly before they slid south and left you licking your elbow.  We made a sandcastle. We climbed rocks. We splashed in rock pools. We made bum-prints in the sand and watched them fill with water.  We buried Daddy in the sand and we made Rowdy into a sand-mermaid.  We watched strangers get hot and disgruntled and pretend not to care about winning mini-golf. 

In Rowdy & The Bobcat terms this is a paradise-like haven.

“How about you go and live with Uncle Cardiff and then he can take you to Barry Island all the time?”*

Bag packed. Sunscreen packed. Raisin snack packed. Little expectant face waiting at the front door for Uncle Cardiff to pick him up.
We went stick collecting instead.  He was thrilled.  And he got an ice cream to shiver with happily under his pacamac.

*This was a done deal. Uncle Cardiff has a cow onesie.

The Sock Scoffer

One of Rowdy’s recent school projects has been to design a monster that she would see if she were in ‘Where the Wild Things Are’. Luckily we have a second-hand copy.* 

However, given that Mummy has a new toy (IPad) and that Mummy/daughter bonding time is often over scribbling and sketching the exercise developed from self-directed creativity into directing Mummy.

“No. There not there.” 

“That should be pink. Not that kind of pink.”  

“You’ve done that wrong.”

Quality bonding time.

She will be doing her own interpretation by hand. When she’s stopped being distracted by her new shiny ‘not-for-outdoors’ shoes which she keeps trying to sneak into the garden.

*The Sock Scoffer has also been inspired by our stupendous friend, author, gin-appreciater and child entertainer, Sue. One of those folk that make the world a bit brighter.

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Eggs-acerbation.

Every home (I think) builds its own traditions. On top of the bunnies/chicks/eggs template we add the fertile imaginations of small children fired by refined sugar.

Leave no logic undefied.

The Bobcat: “Are you sure da Easter Bunny will come?”

Rowdy: “Shush! And act like an egg.”

British Summer Time

I don’t know the person who sets British Summer Time.

What I do know is that they don’t like their mum.

0605hrs is when this happened this morning.

Thoughtful? Yes. Punctual? Yes. Achieved maximum impact? Yes…but not in the way idealised by Clinton Cards. I don’t object to Mothering Sunday. In fact, seeing Rowdy & The Bobcat’s excited little faces (in extreme and unnecessary close-up) in presenting their school and preschool gifts respectively actually lends weight to the argument for keeping it. (Rowdy, in particular has come on leaps and bounds since arriving home with a brown paper bag containing a cereal bar with the sellotaped label ‘Breakfast in Bed’. Before sitting down and scoffing it right in front of me.) 

The one day where media (in general) supports mums nationwide in having vast amounts of chocolate just because AND an extra bit of kip and BST scuppers it good and proper.

Add to this that I was then barricaded from the kitchen while their creativity was spontaneously retriggered into more gift preparation (what mum does not favour a glue&feather parrot mask? TWO parrot masks? Bring it on). 

THREE HOURS they were in there. Their dad tried to lob tea and biscuits in my general direction to placate the beast (the PMT, carb-deficient, early-roused beast) but to no avail. The cry of “Just 5 more minutes, Mummy!” didn’t offer any consolation either as their grasp of the concept of time runs roughly parallel with their grasp of the concept of where cows magically turn into beef burgers.

Bedtime should be oddles of fun.


Daddy: “So who took the box from the top of Daddy’s wardrobe?”

[A forcibly distracted silence. The sound of crickets.]

The Bobcat: “Uuuuuuuuummm. I dink it was da wabbits?”

Daddy: “The rabbits?”

Rowdy: “Rabbits can’t climb.”

The Bobcat: “No, wabbits can’t climb, Daddy. So maybe the monkeys helped dem!”

Domestic blizzard.

Inspired by a friend’s experience the other day where all started much like an Enid Blyton picnic and descended into a rerun of Police Academy 65 by lunchtime.

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