This week, Birmingham has claimed Timothy for work purposes. Tsh.
I think it’s a bit of cheek, frankly. I understand that sometimes Birmingham might want a Timothy of its very own. But Henry is not sleeping very well and I’m still on a lethal cocktail of drugs, and all-in-all it’s the kind of week where, left to our own devices, a baby and me might spend twenty minutes laughing hysterically at cheese-on-toast. (We did.) Tim is our anchor to sanity and many other things, and we miss him horribly.
However, I am not the sort to pass up a week of doing the sort of stuff that Timothy, bless his loveliness, would go along with but not really enjoy. I am talking about the holy trinity of You’ve Got Mail (while painting my fingernails if possible), nerdy literary documentaries on iPlayer (I’ve been enjoying this one, if you can get past James Shapiro’s voice), and old Agatha Christies.
Example 1: in a few minutes, Henry and I will sit on the floor eating pizza in the ruins of an untidied house, and discuss the Hay Festival line-up. (Dudes. Have you SEEN this year’s Hay line-up? Get in there quick.) Afterwards, we will read the first chapter of The Moving Finger. Aloud. We will consider who might be the murderer. I will try to forget that I already know.
Example 2: We might also go for a late screening of the Washing Machine Spin Cycle, if there’s time.
Not an Example, but an aside: I have also been considering the World Street Food Festival, which is held on London’s Southbank between 1st-5th June. Same weekend as the Hay Festival, cursed be the fact. Fish finger sandwiches or Hilary Mantel? These decisions are terrible. Perhaps Henry and I will also discuss this over pizza.
After this, I will have to go away for a week so Daddy and son can throw frisbees, talk about science, and generally even up the score a bit.
I won’t paint his nails, though, I promise.