My boys are outside running wild, running free playing with their friends in the cul de sac road on a hill. Yes, yes, I know it's 8.30pm but the pasta's on and they have not yet manifested signs of hunger, and it gets dark at 10pm, is still warm and hey, who cares, it's summer.
I am idly pondering maternal guilt. I have been at work all day, they have been at school. Surely we should be doing quality time activities together. Shouldn't they be anxious to drag mummy down on the floor to push little cars around (my ancient ones which would have been worth a pretty penny had I kept them in mint condition in their boxes instead of playing them into a chipping paint, odd tyre-less state) or some mad professor experiment almost blowing the house up.
They tend to save those moments of tendresse for bedtime in order to eke out a few more precious minutes of putting off the dreaded moment. I have promised to blow up the house this weekend however, making a robot out of an old coffee tin which I should have pinched from work, some rubber bands, toothpicks and heavy old nut. Not having relieved the cantine of the coffee tin, however, we may have to turn the house upsidedown looking for an alternative.
On the other hand, I could just throw money at the problem and buy a new tin of coffee and pour the contents into a plastic bag.
The primary goal of this coming weekend however, is squatting chez friends with swimming pools. We have two offers so, happily, we'll be able to go to one on each day. Mind you, having enjoyed a cool breeze in Bouzigues whilst lunching on fresh oysters and mussels (jealous? you should be...) and sipping Picpoul de Pinet opposite the oyster bedded lagoon I'm tempted to go and camp out on the beach.
Oh well, I'd better tend to the gastric callings of my boys with pasta and sauce (homemade - tin of tomatoes, loadsa garlic, fresh basil from garden, olive oil, shallot (not lady of)).