It's Sunday evening. I'm in my study with a cool drink at my side and some even cooler Sarah Vaughan on the sound system.
The kids have retreated to their respective caves; one (allegedly) in order to study, the other (almost certainly) in order to dream up further compelling reasons why she should be allowed to dye her hair.
My daughter turns eleven tomorrow and, having endured being blonde from birth, she now advises me that she feels "more like a brunette on the inside". Fortunately, I can point to past precedents and re-state the rules - no tinkering with hair colour until you're sixteeen. Her two older sisters had a brief flirtation with being redheads in their late teens but quickly reverted to natural. Perhaps it's true that blondes have more fun! If so, I need to think about getting my own act together before silver establishes complete domination of my scalp!
I picked Pam up around 10am yesterday. As usual, she was dressed very smartly but I suggested she also grab some old jogging shoes, shorts and a T-shirt for wear out on the water.
I've mentioned it in passing in previous blogs, but maybe a brief explanation of where I live would be helpful at this point.
In the early nineties, when our oldest child was approaching High School age, Jennifer and I agreed that we wanted to live close enough to civilisation to enjoy its shopping and educational amenities, but still far enough away from the bright lights for us to raise "free-range" children.
We purchased eight acres of semi-rural land on a narrow isthmus which has a large estuarine system to the east and a lake and then unspoiled surf beaches on the western side. Here, on the crest of a gentle slope, we built our dream house. Over time, we added the swimming pool and its pool-house and a grass tennis court. It's a huge house, but then we planned a large family and we both wanted the house to be one to which our children and grandchildren would always want to return.
I vividly recall my father-in-law - a great worrier - telling us we were over-capitalising and that we'd never be able to sell the place without making a loss. He missed the point - we built with no thoughts of re-sale.
Our dream was to always have a home full of laughter and children and love. What we could not have foreseen was that I would be the only one who'd live to see that dream realised.
Anyway, the children were still fast asleep when Pam and I reached the house. She used the pool-house to change and we headed to the estuary to launch the kayaks.
It was a good half-hour before Pam worked out how to maintain her balance and paddle at the same time. It was an uproarious half-hour and we were both pretty well drenched before some semblance of order was restored. What amused me most was how tiny Pam looked in my son's flotation vest. What pleased me most was how little she seemed to care about her appearance.
It was a glorious day. Brilliant sunshine, no breeze and water like glass. After a while I began to sing some of the silly songs my family and I like to sing on long car-trips. Pam joined in after a bit and we sang and laughed our way around the estuary for a good two hours. People on passing craft may have been startled by these two crazy people singing "Row, row row your Boat", but who cared? What mattered most to me was that Pam was wholeheartedly enjoying herself. I was too.
We paddled back to shore with a burst of "Paddlin' Madeleine Home" - a song my grandmother taught me long ago - and secured the kayaks in the shed beside what I laughingly call "the jetty" - in reality, just two rotting planks on equally rotten piles that I put in some sixteen years ago!
We strolled companionably towards the house, stopping for a while to rest in the shade of the "climbing tree" I planted when the kids were little. We were both a bit puffed and feeling hot from our exertions. That didn't stop me from demonstrating what a good tree it is for climbing and I clambered up to the kids' old tree house - more rotting planks - like some aged Tarzan!
Once I'd descended, we rested quietly for a while more in the shade.
Pam said she was having fun. I told her that I was too. "Really", she said "you're not just pretending?" I gave her my permission to search the house on our return and see how many Academy Awards she could find hidden there!
Then Pam said: "I've been thinking about what you said last week. About counselling."
"Shhh" I said, putting a finger to my lips. "All serious conversation is outlawed until the sun goes down. OK?"
At the house, while Pam changed again, I found my daughter upstairs tweeting to her cronies. My son was what he describes as "almost awake" - in other words, fast asleep. He tells me that he needs extra sleep because puberty is just so demanding! One might add that puberty also seems to demand extra downloads, extra food and extraordinary parental patience! Anyway, I told them both that lunch would be ready in about 45 minutes.
I fired up the barbecue by the pool-house while Pam and my daughter threw some salad together in the kitchen. I think my daughter intended me to overhear her asking Pam if she agreed that she'd look better with brown hair. She must have been pretty crushed when Pam instead admired the beautiful hair she already has!
Lunch was both a simple and enjoyable affair - steak and salad, with fruit and a cheese platter to finish. The conversation flowed easily. I believe children must learn good manners and I also believe they should be encouraged to acquire the old-fashioned art of conversing. So I felt very proud of Miss Soon-to-be-Eleven and Mr Fifteen as, without being precocious or asinine in any way, they happily chatted with Pam as though Dad having a (single) female visitor was an every-day occurrence.
We lounged for a while, letting our meal settle. Pam offered to do the dishes but my daughter valiantly offered to do them herself. I think that was another ploy in the "great hair-colour war", but I didn't feel at all moved by it because I know that her version of doing the dishes is to simply dump everything on the bench near the dishwasher!
My son then suggested we all have a game of tennis. Pam demurred, saying she'd never played in her life and would be useless at it.
"Hah! Wait till you see how bad Dad is" my offspring chorused (which I thought a little unfair as neither of them has ever managed to beat me ... yet!)
Our property is fairly well-fenced, but only the pool area, the flower garden and the tennis court are fenced well enough to repel the kangaroos and rabbits who graze our grass, shrubs and even small trees with impunity.
Though protected from marauding 'roos, the court has received no loving care from me this winter - the grass needs mowing, the lines need re-painting and the net needs mending. Neverthless, we did proceed to play some hilarious form of mixed doubles until we were all exhausted by laughter and the score stood at a ridiculous twenty-all in the first and only set!
The most wonderful thing for me about this magical Saturday was that Pam had so obviously enjoyed herself. I felt a bit like Professsor Higgins, but this particular fair lady was not enunciating: "In Hertford, Hereford and Hampshire, hurricanes hardly ever happen." Instead, she was dishevelled, laughing and a bit burned by the sun. That's what I call serendipity.
As the sun began its abrupt descent into the sea, it was time to drive Pam home and I knew that - either en-route or on arrival there - we would need to engage in some hitherto outlawed "serious conversation"
The kids have retreated to their respective caves; one (allegedly) in order to study, the other (almost certainly) in order to dream up further compelling reasons why she should be allowed to dye her hair.
My daughter turns eleven tomorrow and, having endured being blonde from birth, she now advises me that she feels "more like a brunette on the inside". Fortunately, I can point to past precedents and re-state the rules - no tinkering with hair colour until you're sixteeen. Her two older sisters had a brief flirtation with being redheads in their late teens but quickly reverted to natural. Perhaps it's true that blondes have more fun! If so, I need to think about getting my own act together before silver establishes complete domination of my scalp!
I picked Pam up around 10am yesterday. As usual, she was dressed very smartly but I suggested she also grab some old jogging shoes, shorts and a T-shirt for wear out on the water.
I've mentioned it in passing in previous blogs, but maybe a brief explanation of where I live would be helpful at this point.
In the early nineties, when our oldest child was approaching High School age, Jennifer and I agreed that we wanted to live close enough to civilisation to enjoy its shopping and educational amenities, but still far enough away from the bright lights for us to raise "free-range" children.
We purchased eight acres of semi-rural land on a narrow isthmus which has a large estuarine system to the east and a lake and then unspoiled surf beaches on the western side. Here, on the crest of a gentle slope, we built our dream house. Over time, we added the swimming pool and its pool-house and a grass tennis court. It's a huge house, but then we planned a large family and we both wanted the house to be one to which our children and grandchildren would always want to return.
I vividly recall my father-in-law - a great worrier - telling us we were over-capitalising and that we'd never be able to sell the place without making a loss. He missed the point - we built with no thoughts of re-sale.
Our dream was to always have a home full of laughter and children and love. What we could not have foreseen was that I would be the only one who'd live to see that dream realised.
Anyway, the children were still fast asleep when Pam and I reached the house. She used the pool-house to change and we headed to the estuary to launch the kayaks.
It was a good half-hour before Pam worked out how to maintain her balance and paddle at the same time. It was an uproarious half-hour and we were both pretty well drenched before some semblance of order was restored. What amused me most was how tiny Pam looked in my son's flotation vest. What pleased me most was how little she seemed to care about her appearance.
It was a glorious day. Brilliant sunshine, no breeze and water like glass. After a while I began to sing some of the silly songs my family and I like to sing on long car-trips. Pam joined in after a bit and we sang and laughed our way around the estuary for a good two hours. People on passing craft may have been startled by these two crazy people singing "Row, row row your Boat", but who cared? What mattered most to me was that Pam was wholeheartedly enjoying herself. I was too.
We paddled back to shore with a burst of "Paddlin' Madeleine Home" - a song my grandmother taught me long ago - and secured the kayaks in the shed beside what I laughingly call "the jetty" - in reality, just two rotting planks on equally rotten piles that I put in some sixteen years ago!
We strolled companionably towards the house, stopping for a while to rest in the shade of the "climbing tree" I planted when the kids were little. We were both a bit puffed and feeling hot from our exertions. That didn't stop me from demonstrating what a good tree it is for climbing and I clambered up to the kids' old tree house - more rotting planks - like some aged Tarzan!
Once I'd descended, we rested quietly for a while more in the shade.
Pam said she was having fun. I told her that I was too. "Really", she said "you're not just pretending?" I gave her my permission to search the house on our return and see how many Academy Awards she could find hidden there!
Then Pam said: "I've been thinking about what you said last week. About counselling."
"Shhh" I said, putting a finger to my lips. "All serious conversation is outlawed until the sun goes down. OK?"
At the house, while Pam changed again, I found my daughter upstairs tweeting to her cronies. My son was what he describes as "almost awake" - in other words, fast asleep. He tells me that he needs extra sleep because puberty is just so demanding! One might add that puberty also seems to demand extra downloads, extra food and extraordinary parental patience! Anyway, I told them both that lunch would be ready in about 45 minutes.
I fired up the barbecue by the pool-house while Pam and my daughter threw some salad together in the kitchen. I think my daughter intended me to overhear her asking Pam if she agreed that she'd look better with brown hair. She must have been pretty crushed when Pam instead admired the beautiful hair she already has!
Lunch was both a simple and enjoyable affair - steak and salad, with fruit and a cheese platter to finish. The conversation flowed easily. I believe children must learn good manners and I also believe they should be encouraged to acquire the old-fashioned art of conversing. So I felt very proud of Miss Soon-to-be-Eleven and Mr Fifteen as, without being precocious or asinine in any way, they happily chatted with Pam as though Dad having a (single) female visitor was an every-day occurrence.
We lounged for a while, letting our meal settle. Pam offered to do the dishes but my daughter valiantly offered to do them herself. I think that was another ploy in the "great hair-colour war", but I didn't feel at all moved by it because I know that her version of doing the dishes is to simply dump everything on the bench near the dishwasher!
My son then suggested we all have a game of tennis. Pam demurred, saying she'd never played in her life and would be useless at it.
"Hah! Wait till you see how bad Dad is" my offspring chorused (which I thought a little unfair as neither of them has ever managed to beat me ... yet!)
Our property is fairly well-fenced, but only the pool area, the flower garden and the tennis court are fenced well enough to repel the kangaroos and rabbits who graze our grass, shrubs and even small trees with impunity.
Though protected from marauding 'roos, the court has received no loving care from me this winter - the grass needs mowing, the lines need re-painting and the net needs mending. Neverthless, we did proceed to play some hilarious form of mixed doubles until we were all exhausted by laughter and the score stood at a ridiculous twenty-all in the first and only set!
The most wonderful thing for me about this magical Saturday was that Pam had so obviously enjoyed herself. I felt a bit like Professsor Higgins, but this particular fair lady was not enunciating: "In Hertford, Hereford and Hampshire, hurricanes hardly ever happen." Instead, she was dishevelled, laughing and a bit burned by the sun. That's what I call serendipity.
As the sun began its abrupt descent into the sea, it was time to drive Pam home and I knew that - either en-route or on arrival there - we would need to engage in some hitherto outlawed "serious conversation"
