Extreme measures

I do own a skirt, but it’s not often I wear it.  Today is a day of extreme measures, however, and so the jeans have been abandoned in favour of something a little cooler and more seasonally appropriate.  Wilf – who doesn’t have a skirt – is going round saying ‘Quelle chaleur’ and looking hot and bothered.  I don’t think he’s ever been so aware of the weather impinging on his enjoyment of life or his ability to move around, and it feels as if this might be, for both of us, about the right time to leave the city.

But we’re not programmed to leave for a while yet, and consequently we’re a little out of synch with the rest of Paris, which is already showing clear signs of shutting up shop and leaving its city guise behind.  I’d forgotten how very literal and date-driven the French are about their holiday season.

Wilf has got that end-of-term look about him, too, and it seems that, from his point of view, all the serious work has been done for the term.  But it’s dawning on me that, when it comes to serious work, it’s me who’s about to take over.  So I’m becoming increasingly receptive to suggestions as to how to entertain a small and sometimes restless boy, and I’m coming into contact with hobbies I didn’t think I’d ever be associated with.  We’ve got two whole weeks to fill before leaving for the sea, and I’m turning into the kind of mother who sends her child to art class one day and to ballet the next, but not because I think it’s good for him but because I think it’s good for me.  So if Wilf isn’t the most accomplished young man in the whole of Paris by the end of the two weeks, I’ll probably be wishing I was back at work.