Everyone I know (practically) is down with a grippe. Strange, don’t remember all these winter flues hitting everyone simultaneously. I remember we all used to get one or two colds a year. Sometimes a winter cold, sometimes a summer cold, which, oddly, we thought was worse than winter colds. Or maybe not.
Sara has her gym tournament tomorrow. Hammed, our neighbour, knocked on the door to ask when we (her loyal father and mother) were going over, so we could pick him up on the way over. Feeling Rather Guilty, I said neither Sara's father nor I had thought of going to the tournament. So, Plan B, I will pick Hammed up at twelve, and my loyal husband generously says he’ll do the ironing.
Reminds me of the last year I danced in the Nutcracker at Les Grand Ballet Canadiens. My mother's friends kept on saying how wonderful I was and my mother had to admit that she hadn’t seen me that year: though to give her credit, she had seen me all the previous years. There was a lot of tisk-tisking and so off she went with my grandmother to see me.
Every time I came on stage, my grandmother would say very loudly, “There she is. Isn’t she wonderful?” After the initial ruffling of feathers of the nearby audience for talking out loud, my mother said most people got into the spirit of my grandmother’s enthusiasm, and someone even pointed me out to her later.
(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)
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