Having fun

Grit went off to play this afternoon, so can record no gruesome reality.

I have to find something, obviously, otherwise this blog will be hopeless. So I have complained to the BBC about a foolish article from the Devon news website. Satisfyingly, I have used words like 'irresponsible' and 'insulting'.

And I have complained about the weather, which is cold. English goose-pimple cold.

And I've had a Tuesday grumble about Hitler's art class, which is as fun as being forced to drink a glass of mud, three times a day.

Dig, meanwhile, has had an excellent full-length gripe about the Post Office. He sent a letter of complaint to a company who thought it a good idea to rip several hundred pounds out of our bank account for a service we don't want, and have previously cancelled. Dig sent the letter of complaint by recorded delivery, only the Post Office seemed to fail to record it, but then later claimed Thomas had signed for it.

There you go, all the usual grumbles. And yet Grit is still smiling. So you may be wondering why the lack of grievance?

It is because today, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger took San and mummy Grit into the woods where, with En's little sister Zee, all four girls proceeded to chase En into the undergrowth, whooping. They ran through ditches, hedges, over trees and through puddles to get a hold of him. A good runner, he has cunning tricks up his sleeve to avoid capture, like shouting 'OWL!' at the top of his voice, whereupon all the girls turn to look, and En runs off.

Eventually the ferocious woman tribe chased the outlaw En fifteen meters up to tree-top height. Shark, Squirrel and Tiger pinned him down and squealed with delight, crying 'What shall we do with him!' to which Zee replied, steadily, her eye on the target, finger pointing, shouted 'Sacrifice him!'

And not a word of complaint was uttered all afternoon. Even when Zee fell in the river.

Building the sacrificial flame

Two households

It's lunch and we're the second lot of visitors today who land in San's house. We're offered forbidden hoola hoops and great hunks of bread with salad. En and Zee, San's two children, nick too many hoola hoops, twitter about things like robots and pizza, and then Zee jumps up to run around in her knickers, mostly in the house but sometimes up into the street and round the cul-de-sac before turning back. San smiles and laughs and chides, all made of pretend-shocks, but filled with generosities and fattened out with happy good humour. And when the talk around the house is not of happy things, San meets it all with good sense and positive encouragement.

All the house is like San. There's an enormous word on the wall, made up all of photos: FUN. And that feels the rule, without it ever being spoken, at San's house. Here, it feels like the ground rules have been decided, all made up, safe, and we all know who we are, where we are going, and that we are all loved by someone. We just need to remember to show good sense, because whatever happens it will all turn out for good in the end, and we'll all be at ease.

A visit to San always helps and usually sends me back home with a glow.

We're back at the Pile by teatime. Here we are sloppy and disarranged and without clear lines or rules about any of us. So I promise to myself that I'll do better. Which is just as well.

Dig reminds me that he's off out the country tomorrow, so he's in a trouble about the airport unless we give him a lift, and the electricity bill has still not been paid and, by the way, Amanda, the girl from France who's coming to live here as an au pair but until when we don't know, is arriving on Thursday. So better pick her up. Oops, the flight arrives in the evening and the kids will be tired out and bickering. Dig says there's probably nothing he can do about that, just suffer it and anyway it's not a long drive.

By supper time today, Dig's taken Shark and Squirrel off to the last walk of the summer with the parks department. They're off to try the bat detector.

And I'm at home with Tiger, who's gone Kaboom! at departure time. The trigger? Shark had the bat detector, and Tiger wanted it. Shark and Squirrel and Dig are gone to safety and I've stayed guard while a whirlwind hit us and Tiger tore up her room, screamed and raged that she hated us all and wished she didn't exist.

After an hour she's calmed down and, sobbing, got into the bath, saying how horrible she is, and that she thinks she must be the worst person in the world. At this point, I know the rage is subsided, and the worst is over, so I can tell her that I think there are probably a few other candidates who've had sharper tempers on them than she'll ever manage, but I'm still yearning for a comforting order to settle on the house.

Which is why, at bedtime today, I've ditched the unicorn story for Tiger and I'm to be found reading the only thing I can put my hands on right now. The Unesco 1997 draft document Declaration of Human Responsibilities.

In order

Tiger, Shark and Squirrel have a play date with En and Zee, San's two children. This is excellent. I can take a break from moving boxes and furniture around the house and spend the afternoon nattering.

I discover that San's doing just the same as me: new shelves, new boxes, new homes and new places to go for games, books, paper, pens, glue, jigsaws, cloth and dominoes. We can talk for hours about creating order in chaos, about having resources where we want them, when we want them. I see San's new shelves. Everything looks neat and ordered. Set against the chaos we've been living in, these regular shapes containing so many diverse things is inspiring.

Tiger, Shark and Squirrel are putting out a lot of screaming noise. Suddenly they're tearing around the house, chasing each other, with Shark shouting 'I must get the bucket!' She belts through the front room chasing En, who has his hands over his head.

San just laughs and we get back to talking about accessible storage options for pipecleaners, wiggly eyes and pom poms. Things like this are not just idle fill-in-the-gap stuff that schooled children might consume and dispose of in the meagre hours between school runs and school desks. These pipecleaners, wiggly eyes and pom poms are our educational resources. They're the practical items around which we'll be discussing the human nervous system; they'll be the planets Venus and Mars in a cuddly solar system; they are the craft activity that emerges from hours in the garden, studying a dead beetle or a bit of bark on a forest walk. And they all need storing. We have enthused conversation about boxes, margarine tubs and trays.

Then San's little girl Zee appears. She's leaving home. Even Zee's declaration has a sense of order about it, the pursuit of a goal with firm and calm purpose. I think of ours. When Squirrel's leaving home she shouts at the top of her voice 'I'm leaving this family!' then, red with anger, flings octopus in her suitcase and marches to the front door.

San meets Zee's declaration with an equally good sense of order and proportion. She's very calm and never once shouts out 'I'll call you a taxi!' like we sometimes do. Then, when Zee decides she might stay a bit longer, San says OK. It's all straightforward, and doesn't end with tears or broken toys. Me and San just get back to the subject of how to shelve reference books and store cloth and scissors.

Today has been like therapy. Everything has a place, and everything's in proportion. I'm keeping onto these thoughts when I get back to the chaos, noise, furniture moving and box-clearing. Thank you, San!