Wednesday, February 20, 2013


Sometimes I think I’ve lost my voice – my blogger’s voice. It’s not really true, but it’s what it feels like when stuff is happening that I can’t talk about, and I have to post about what isn’t in my heart.
But yesterday was different.
I may have two granddaughters  who live too far away for comfort,

but I do have two grandsons very close by. Zoe brought them over yesterday as it was half term. I admired their latest Lego acquisition: a derelict house on fire with flames that disappear when the fire engine arrives with foam and water. Then we got out the Lego boxes that live upstairs and messed around on the sitting room floor. But the boys were full of beans, and it was a bright cold sunny spring day, so we walked down the Monsal Trail to Hassop Station.

These two guys are such good friends with each other, it warms my heart. Yesterday they were just like those idealised kids you get on adverts. (They aren’t always like that.)
On the way home they played Romans and Celts. When I was little, it was cowboys and Indians. I know it’s no longer acceptable to say “Indians,”  and I don’t, usually, but you have to admit that “cowboys and native Americans” doesn’t have the same cadence. Whatever the factions – it’s blood and death. I’m a pacifist, and my parents were pacifists, and yet my Gran made me a Davy Crockett hat, and all five of us had pistols and holsters and contests to see who was the quickest on the draw. Those were happy days. Yesterday I had another to add to my collection.

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