Oh my goodness. It seems like only yesterday that Big Seymour and I were Celotexing in Number One’s embryonic bedroom a year ago. Back then, the air was thick with choke-inducing, man-made dust and our breath was visible in amongst it.
And now? We are still in The Shed. The exterior continues to look a bit like Steptoe’s yard, only worse. In addition to the old and new tiles, scaffold boards and sprouting sand piles, we have recently acquired six warped old tea chests, some pallets, several tumble dryers and a concrete lion.
But we have heating! And a working shower! There is plaster on most of the walls – some of it is still wet, but that’s irrelevant. We have a kitchen, of sorts, and the UTILITARIAN ROOM, as I like to call it, has a new oak worktop. Things are taking shape.
The Four Little Seymours are marvellous.
Well, O.K. That is a lie. The Four Little Seymours are marvellous… and challenging. Mini Seymour has recently turned into Satan’s spawn, yelling in a very high pitch every five minutes when things don’t go her way. Boy Seymour’s selective deafness had reached a whole new level of annoying, as I find myself repeating the same request/command over and over, robot-like, changing the intonation and pitch in an attempt to initiate a response in him. Number One is all teenagey (what am I supposed to do with that?), and Number Two is downright complicated.
But they are marvellous at the same. As each day passes, I recognise more and more the fact that they are growing up, and turning into real, proper people. They have their own opinions and tastes, and are increasingly independent. Boy Seymour cooked Mini some breakfast this morning – he divided up the Weetabix giving her one, and himself three. Despite the tantrum caused by this deliberate act of kindness interspersed with a touch of control freakism, it represented the start of things to come, when they won’t need me.
Twenty Nineteen is looming. It sounds oh so futuristic, but I realise I have to stop thinking that. The years will tot up regardless. As 1919 loomed one hundred years ago, the world was reeling from a heinous war. People could only hope that the future would bring peace. ..
Then the Funny Little Bungalow witnessed World War Two. I frequently imagine Spitfires flying overhead, on their way to play their part in the proceedings. How many times must the first occupants of our house have wondered if their brand new property would stand to make old bricks? And what future might it have had, under Hitler..? Luckily, that never happened.
When I was a child, we unknowingly passed our bungalow every New Year’s Eve on our way to the annual party of all parties in Henfield, down the road. Oh, how I loved those parties! New Year’s Eve was my last night of freedom, before exam revision began in January. That’s just the kind of kid I was.
New Year’s Eve is always a nostalgic one. In reality, tomorrow is just another day. But nothing hammers home the passage of time more than THE END OF ANOTHER YEAR. What will 2019 bring? Dare I even wonder? Will The Four Little Seymours’ debut on BBC 2 go down well? How will Number Two do in her S.A.T.S.? Will I cope with another secondary school transition? Will we move in to The Funny Little Bungalow? And might one of my books be published?
Ultimately, none of those things matter. They are in the future. And right now is all that is certain. So Happy New Year’s Eve, everyone! And if we all survive in 2019, that will do me. (Plus, if we could sort out Brexit satisfactorily, that’d be a bonus.)
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