I wish I had conversations like this everyday

I take a day off today from persecuting my own home educated gritlets and I try it with someone else's child on a school visit instead. I meet Marcie. Age 6, in Bewilderwood, Norfolk.

Bewilderwood* is a giant playground in a wood, supposedly inhabited by small and wild green goblin creatures like crocklebogs with spikes coming out their heads, pointed ears and frog faced grins.

While Squirrel, Tiger and Shark swing about in trees, I collapse my ancient arse and lungs on a piece of wood shaped like a snake, and up comes Marcie. She stands in front of me, puts her hands on her hips and looks at me defiantly, through suspicious narrowed eyes, like I am someone about whom she might yet scream POLICE! if it suits her. And we have the following conversation.

M: Who are you?
G: I'm a boggle, in disguise.
M: Really?
G: Yes.
M: You don't look like a boggle.
G: That's because I'm in disguise.
M: Why are you in disguise?
G: Boggles like me put on human disguise so we can come here and sit on this bench.
M: You are not a boggle.
G: Yes I am.
M: Not.
G: Am.
M: Not.
G: Am.
M: Not.
G: Am.
M: Well you don't look like a boggle to me. Except for the hair.


* Go, but don't go in the school holidays when it will be standing room only.

Overwhelmed by great flood

Drove back from Whipsnade Zoo just in time to make the drama group at six o'clock. Life is like this. I rush from one moment to the next in states of urgency and near panic. Then, when I eventually slump down in front of the computer, my brain shuts off. Sometimes I swear it leaves the room. Perhaps it goes off and has a cup of tea or a walk in the garden. It may even go shopping, but it probably forgets what it went for, so it doesn't come back with anything useful, like dinner.

I suppose this is a way of saying I had planned to sit here all calm and composed and type up a proper story of our trip to Whipsnade Zoo today, but my brain decided to up and leave. It has probably had enough, what with being hounded to find lemurs, chase cheetahs and run about after fish before they shut up the aquarium. Anyway my brain left my fingers on the keyboard, as you can see, so they still tippytappy away and even post photos of a sitatunga, peacock tail and cute otters that squeak nearly as loud as Squirrel in delight when she sees them and wants to go live with them forever, since they are a better option than her present family, apparently.





Or I could post a picture of Tiger. She is learning to do what mummy Grit does. She is running across a field at full pelt under a deluge.

Day off

Before he heads off to South-east Asia, Dig is overcome by a need to spend some daddy-daughters time. He volunteers to take Shark, Squirrel and Tiger off to the kiddie theme park while I catch up on some work. Strangely, he seems to have already acquired a season ticket for himself.

Dig's day

We all go to a kiddie amusement park. We have a free family pass that Shark won in a drawing competition for us last Christmas.

At first she thought of drawing two robins, each pulling one end of a worm, fighting over who got the juicy bits. I suggested, since it was a Christmas card, she might drop the worm and don't mention the fighting. Strangely she was happy to follow that idea and, apart from the worm that's not there, it's all her own work. And she won. Two Robins Talking is the title of Shark's Christmas drawing and it got printed and made into a real card. We're very proud of her for that. We'd like to show off a lot about it. Quite frankly, we don't have a lot to show off about, so we have to grab what we can.

Anyway, today's the day we use the free family pass. I tell Dig he has to come. It has been his birthday and there should be something we do. I reckon that a kiddie amusement park might be it. Dig looks indifferent. He says it is a waste of time and money, even though it's not costing him anything. He just looks a bit sulky, being peeled off his computer at 11.30 on a Saturday morning, and looks like he might be secretly determining not to enjoy himself.

Shark, Squirrel and Tiger love the kiddie park. They love the plastic of it all: the bubblegum colours and the sparkling carousel horses and the fairground rides that swing them up and swoosh them round. They love the boats and the funny tea cups and the musical instruments they get to sit on and ride. They draw up a hit list: the carousel, the tea cups, the train, the ferris wheel.

Dig says he doesn't like anything. He says he'll go on the spinning tea cups but only if he can teach Squirrel something about momentum. Then he says he'll take Tiger on the monorail you have to pedal yourself. He heads off there and is back in two minutes, scowling, with a relieved Tiger in tow, saying it's typical, it's closed, so he starts to eat cheese sandwiches and grumble a bit about the weather.

Next, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger want to go off to the revolving swing thing where everyone sits in swings and gets spun round. I say I'm not going because last year I was sick after the tea cups and, what's worse, we had to pay to get in for me to be sick then, so I'm not going on them now. Dig volunteers to go on it with everyone. I say it's not necessary but he doesn't seem to hear me, even though I'm right next to him.

When he's off that, Squirrel and Tiger bound off to the swinging pirate ship, which Shark doesn't want to go on. Momentarily, Shark looks all alone. Dig tells her he'll take her on the roller coaster, which she says she's not sure about because it looks very big and very fast. Dig tells her not to be silly while he's strapping her in. After that Dig goes on the roller coaster a total of ten times with different children, sometimes Shark, sometimes Squirrel, sometimes Tiger.

After Tiger's third go on the roller coaster, I begin to suspect Dig is offering doubtful parents some sort of chaperone service for timid children because it's quite difficult to get him off it. In fact we can only get him to come down by suggesting there's a really brilliant log flume thing where you sit in little boats, get pushed down a pretend waterfall, and may get sprayed with water when you hit the bottom at 30 mph. He goes on that three times before I lure him off it by saying Tiger wants a go on the spinning boots.

At 6pm there's groans and wailing all round when I say it's time to go home because the park closes. I suggest that we could get season tickets if everyone really enjoyed it that much. Tiger, Shark and Squirrel squeal with delight at the idea.

Dig goes all thoughtful for a moment and asks which parent would get the season ticket to accompany them. Well, I say, I look after the kids everyday, so in practical terms it would have to be me. 'Oh' says Dig. Then he rather sadly says, 'So I'll have to buy my own, then?'

Theme park

Here's a secret bit of Grit history. I grew up in Nottingham, and went to school opposite the Forest rec. Come the first Thursday of every October, there would be Goose Fair, one of the largest travelling fairs in Europe, right opposite the school. All the fourth and fifth formers were allowed at lunchtime to go to the fair across the road. We could be thrown about on twirling parachute rides, strapped into seats to be spun round and round while going up and down, and sucked up in the air to be plunged down one second later, leaving your stomach somewhere in the clouds. To my schooled peers, this was heaven. To me, it was agony. I used to try and wangle a day being ill so I could avoid being sick after coming off the cakewalk.

It's no better now. Last year I took Squirrel, Shark and Tiger to a kiddies theme park and the staff forced me on all the rides because the kids were under 120cm. This was misery. By the time I'd spun round in the giant tea cups with Squirrel dancing up and down thinking the whole thing is hilarious, it was about to be mother's demonstration of projectile vomit all over again.

You can probably guess we don't do theme parks. They're crowded, expensive, noisy, plastic, and I vomit. But today is different. Because today we have free tickets to a new theme park as part of its soft launch, so off we go. And in anticipation of this event, I've got Dig with me, who will have to go on all the rides instead of me. I just feel a bit sick in the car on the way.

But hey! First surprise! There are not many rides! Some strange plastic vegetables that sing, a few plastic pigs in a field, some Tesco carrots buried in woodchip and a few dinosaurs probably nicked from Norfolk.

And if this isn't enough to make me squeal with delight, what comes next? Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are measured at over 120cm! If it jiggles, spins, or bumps, I don't have to do it!

It gets better. Jol and Elibee and Mart are there and I get to do some quality chit-chat while Squirrel, Shark and Tiger are being jiggled, spun, and bumped about on the few rides that there are. They do rock-climbing, canoeing, being jiggled up and down in the jiggly up and down thing, they eat ice cream, play in the ball park, wear a puzzled expression in front of the plastic singing vegetables and go ooh and aah over some gravel.

So I'm going to count the day a success. No vomit, no jiggling, no being dragged on and off the teacups by a jumpy about Squirrel and no obligation to keep smiling or nod painfully when Squirrel, Shark and Tiger ask me if I am having fun.

Just sitting down, all day long, complaining, mostly about theme parks like this one. Bliss.