I wanted to go out road-tripping in today’s nice night, but I’m off to Somerset tomorrow on a family errand, and I thought it was silly to drive long distances two days running. So instead R and I went to Compton Verney – looking stunning in the winter sunshine – where we strolled round part of the permanent art collection, ate excellent cake, visited the beautiful Chapel, and finally took a quick turn around the lake as dusk was falling.
It was certainly a more pleasant way to spend 11th December than I managed twenty nine years ago, when I was into the second day of labouring to produce Child One. She eventually emerged at tea time (after 33 hours of one in three contractions), spent six days quietly recovering from her ordeal, and then started the argument that carried on between the two of us, more or less uninterrupted, for the next eighteen years. These days however, she’s so charming that if it weren’t for my really quite strong recollection of having given birth to her, I’d seriously doubt that she could possibly be my child. Happy birthday L!
Oh – before I go – there’s an evening grebe here, if you’re interested.