Obviously I wish to spend as much time as possible with my darling boys, each discarded wrapper handed imperiously to me is a privilege and every impenetrably puzzling cruelty or injustice one has inflicted on the other that I am required to unravel is a gift from the heavens. Neverthelesss, I must try and scrape a living in ever more implausible ways and a week off is out of the question right now, so I am grateful for the wide range of extra-curricular activities provided by the enlightened society in which I am fortunate enough to live. This week I have enrolled them in the Jolly Holiday Gulag for Obedient Children. Look how much fun it is! Welcome, children!
I must get you more photos of this venue (which is a school, suddenly the real Gulag looks as soft, welcoming and cuddly as the Tellytubby house crossed with a boutique hotel). It is very much rocking the "Romanian Orphanage Chic" interior design vibe and looks like it would make an excellent venue for an avant garde fashion shoot. I keep expecting to see moddles in Ann Demeulemeester leaning languidly against the tiny hard metal chairs, their cheekbones reflecting the yellow toned strip lighting. I had to sneak this one whilst delivering Fingers to something called "Collage". Not "collage" in the English sense, just your basic "sticking". I thought I had signed him up for "Peinture, Dessin, Collage", but it turns out those were three different activities. I mean, you wouldn't want things to get TOO exciting. A tube of Pritt Stick between ten is quite sufficient entertainment, surely (Head of Holiday Gulag Entertainments: O. Cromwell Esq).
I asked him how it was going, with some trepidation. Oddly, he appears to be enjoying it greatly, though he did have a couple of practical comments.
"It's very cold"
"Yes. There's a broken windowpane. We had to wear our coats all day".
"Goodness. I'll give you an extra jumper tomorrow".
"And we aren't allowed to drink. I'm soooo thirsty".
I asked one of the heavily bearded supervisors about this, mildly, as he sat, slumped against the gymnasium wall with an expression of defeat I recognised, having seen it often on my own face after prolonged exposure to groups of small children. He looked shifty.
"We give them a beaker of water. At ... intervals".
I love this. So marvellously Soviet.
In the meantime, his elder brother is in the basement, doing "Science", though all I have seen so far is four coffee filter papers that are supposed to represent the northern lights. I think they are actually building a life-sized replica of Sputnik 5 out of egg boxes and an makeshift glue (Atelier Collage having all the real stuff) made from Speculoos and tears. Either way, he is also, it appears, having a whale of a time. I dread to think what this implies about my parenting.
At the end of the week there is an "Exhibition". I can hardly wait.