Maybe I was born in 1872

I pick up my baby from her camping experience with the deluded gypsies, aka the Woodcraft Folk.

She had a thoroughly wonderful time. On the way home she regaled us with happy tales of disappearing badgers and little birds with tufty wings tweeting their glorious welcome to the dawn in a great chorus of celebration.

I almost wished I was aged twelve again. Then I could still anticipate the wonder of crawling in and out of holes in the ground, sleeping with the badgers and waking with the birds.

But I am forced to reconcile myself to certain truths of age. Now I am a beat up croaking and aching old woman whose daily status as an upright human being feels, on some Mondays, on a par with the miracle of the resurrection. The minimum my ancient legs now require is a decent bed, a morning injection of black coffee x2, a warm room, cosy end toes, and a hot shower where the detergent doesn't smell like lavatory cleaner.

Shark is not impressed. She equates this need of age with some sort of lack in my moral framework. If only I could see the world with the generosity that she can! She snorts a little, like I shall get my just deserts. Then smugly says that I will have a difficult time of it, seeing that I have booked the four of us on a tenting experience with the rest of the feral home educators at the back end of July.

(Hmm. I don't tell her, for that particular camping trip, I have already quietly negotiated a bed for myself, midweek.)