Shuffle, creak, thud. Down the ladder he came, the wrong way: a man on a mission.
Yes, Boy Seymour was so adamant that my birthday on Sunday would be “a good day” that he took it upon himself to get up and prepare a treat. Yes, that ol’ chestnut, breakfast in bed.
I heard him approach. I opened one eye to see his funny little silhouette lowering itself from The Shelf. I knew what he was up to. He waddled off to the “kitchen end” of The Shed, and spent some time banging and crashing about. The kettle boiled. Packets rustled. Spoons chinked. He flashed before my half-opened eyes to the “other end” of The Shed, to the printer, to steal some of its paper, and back again, on the hunt for a pen. Some things were dropped onto the floor. Mess was happening.
An eternity later he appeared with his offering.
There, upon the tray he had prepared, was a piece of raw bread on a plate, with a knife, a bowl of high-fibre cereal with milk, and a luke-warm cup of tea. Oh, and an A4 sheet of paper with a scribble that simply said, “I Love You”.
Oh bless him. What a curious little creature he is.
The trouble is (and you’re all going to hate me for admitting this), I’m not good with breakfast in bed. There are crumbs. There are spillages. There’s the sitting up before you’re quite ready. But I hauled myself up regardless, briefly, smiled at my dear darling son, and thanked him profusely, for he was very proud of himself. Rightly so.
But I am ashamed to say that the luke-warm tea went unconsumed, and the cereal went soggy.
I AM SUCH A HEINOUS HUMAN BEING.
Whilst I was awake, I wasn’t yet ready to face the day. I wanted to think horizontally. If I have my eyes closed, I can’t see the mountain of Tesco trays over-flowing with six people’s clothes. With my eyes firmly shut, I don’t have to look at the rivulets of condensation cascading down the inside of the windows. If I don’t open my peepers, I can pretend to be in Barbados.
Soon enough, I was forced up by the escalating wrestling match that was happening literally on my head. Maniacal laughter was interspersed with thumps and kicks, as Mini Seymour versus Boy played out next to my ear. Those two can battle it out for hours.
I took my tea and heated it up in the microwave. I toasted the solitary slice of bread. (I tried the cereal but it was way past soggy.) And once I had come to, and commiserated with myself about being so old, I opened up the birthday card that my Four Little Seymours had written “in secret” last Friday in the toilet – the only place you can go in The Shed that’s behind a door. It was the best card I have ever had.
I do realise how lucky I am!
(I particularly like the part that says I am hilarious.)
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