So we are now into the second week of the holidays and the boys and I are in the midst of their summer tennis campaign. In between the driving and competing I am trying to manage my publishing endeavours, write and do all those other things that mothers are supposed to do. (Excluding ironing which I try to avoid as much as possible - it's the feminist in me.)
And the rest of the time I am trying to catch-up with the TV series Ashes to Ashes which I highly recommend, especially if you want a taste of less politically correct UK in the 1980s and surreal drama, or string tennis rackets. Master Jacob, in particular, has a beast of a forehand and even though he is now restringing most of his rackets himself such is his skill at breaking tennis strings I still have to chip-in and string some when we are pressed for time. Stringing tennis rackets is mind-numbingly boring but unfortunately requires a lot of concentration otherwise it can all go pear-shaped. (Which in my case is quite often.) In fact I would go so far as to say that stringing rackets is a job that makes ironing seem almost pleasurable.
Almost I said. Almost.
|And before anyone asks - yes that is vast layers of dust on the stringing machine. Dusting and me do not|
go together. Rather like the ironing and cooking.