Access All Areas

There was a gentle thudding upon my roof on Sunday afternoon. It sounded like a bird plodding across the old felt surface, only slightly heavier. I stopped what I was doing in the kitchen below and pondered for a moment; Big Seymour had been putting the steels in. This involved a certain amount of cutting holes in the ceiling, and some strategic lowering of enormous metal strips with our own bare hands – Big Seymour on the roof, and me in the kitchen beneath.
The gentle plodding, however, only happened after the steel manoeuvring. And it was with a wry smile that I realised the inevitable had happened: Boy Seymour had found his way onto the roof.
I didn’t panic. He’s six now, and better kept busy on a roof than unoccupied in, for example, a sister’s bedroom. I listened out for his footfall, and tried to work out, from the angle of the plods, whether I suddenly needed to rush out with a bed sheet or a trampoline.
He wasn’t alone. Big Seymour saw fit to let Boy Seymour up there. Who am I to argue? Together they discussed the shocking state of the roof structure, and bemoaned 1960s construction laws.
Funnily enough, being on the roof seemed to make the boy calm. His usual haphazard gait and jerky twitching movements gave way to a still, ethereal, sylphlike being, who did as he was told, and who didn’t answer back when it was time to come down.
Perhaps this is the answer. For a little boy who can’t sit still on a chair long enough to avoid falling backwards on it, maybe thrusting him into obvious danger will focus his mind. The fears I have had about scaffolding and tiles and heavy machinery may be unfounded. Perhaps – shock horror! He is capable of being sensible after all.
Sadly, however, he can’t do his schooling on a roof. Nor his judo lessons, either. If he could, he may not be asked to sit out during the fun and games session, in case he goes crazy in his judogi, like he did this week.
Boy Seymour is a conundrum. He’s a bright little button with a big sense of self-importance. He has manners, but sometimes forgets to activate them. He loves me and hates me in equal measure, depending on whether I have let him scoot to school or not. He does well in his lessons, until he decides not to, when he’ll huff and puff and look daggers at anyone who dares to dish out reprimands or offer him platitudes. I became excited yesterday when he told me that he is in “Boys’ Writing Club”, until I thought about it some more. Now, I’m ninety-nine per cent sure that’s more akin to occupational therapy than the Dead Poet’s Society.

For some reason I cannot fathom, Boy Seymour has been allocated the role of Joseph at the upcoming Nativity Extravaganza. He’s not impressed. And after last year, when his mortified teacher had to ask me to “have a word with him” after he was a pure embarrassment during the dress rehearsal, I am a little nervous about Joseph Seymour’s temperament on the big day.
But it’s looming, like everything else to do with Christmas, and there’s very little I can do to coach him. Boy Seymour will either conform, or he won’t.
And unless they plan to have the Nativity play on the roof, I suspect I will spend an agonising hour gritting my teeth whilst he scowls at his Mary, gurns at Baby Jesus, or falls off the stage accidentally on purpose. Like he did last year.
At least this year he’ll have Mini Seymour to upstage him. She’s bound to add her own touch of class to the proceedings. I wonder what it will be? Maybe she’ll trump the child who managed to projectile-vomit all over the assembled hordes during the two-minute silence last Friday. (He got to one minute and ten seconds in and let rip, poor chap.)
Whatever they get up to, I’m sure it will all be “videoed” for posterity, and available to view whenever we parents need to reminisce. Come to think about it, last years Nativity DVD remains unopened, still in its cellophane wrapper…

There’s more steel action planned for this weekend. I can’t begin to comprehend what is actually going to happen, but one thing is for sure – I’m going to need to keep an eye on Boy Seymour. He’s been on the roof once. He has a taste for it. Perhaps I can use it as a bribe? Nativity practice = roof time.
Unless, of course, the roof’s days are numbered… Oh, I do hope it lasts until Christmas!