Country life
I'll go and stuff marrows
Leanda de Lisle
The rabbits are dying too — in dozens. This has nothing to do with our attempts to dent their numbers with gas, air rifles, dogs and birds of prey. Myxamatosis is back Our vegan gardener can hardly contain her delight, but I cringe away from the fly- infested corpses that litter the lawns. At least the children won't see them. They are back at school for the new academic year. This, however, brings its own worries. How is my dyslexic nine-year-old coping with his first pair of shoelaces? Badly, I'm sure. This is bound to annoy some of his school- masters and I suspect they'll share my hus- band's view that 'dyslexia is no excuse'. Frankly, it makes me want to run round the room shouting, 'Bastards, bastards, you're all bastards!' — but in my saner moments I'm glad they expect much, rather than lit- tle, from my son.
There are plenty of people who would have me accept that my son is some kind of sad case. They talk about encouraging him in those things he is good at. How can I apply this principle to a boy who tells me he wants to be a historian when he grows up? When he's in bed he stares for hours at his favourite book — Neil Stevenson's Annotated Guide to Architecture. He tries to make out the words, although it's like read- ing a foreign language. Should I tell him not to bother? He has noticed that differ- ent historians say different things about the past. How, he asked me, should he resolve this? By making pottery ashtrays from dawn till dusk, as some would have him do? I explained to him that a historian must read widely and learn to cross refer- ence. My mother might as well have told me to learn to swim the channel if I wanted to travel, but I'm sure my son is just going to have to work twice as hard as anyone else. His schoolmasters certainly won't for- give any slacking.
I'm also spending a lot of time thinking about Christmas. You may think this mad, but those of us who bought a Buzz Lightyear before they sold out last Novem- ber know that it pays to plan ahead. This year I'm on the look out for a labrador puppy. My eleven-year-old has been asking for one since the old dog died. As he's offered to clear up any messes, I think he may be old enough to have one; and as no respectable dog breeder sells puppies at Christmas time, I'm going to have to organ- ise something now. The trouble is, once you start organising things for Christmas, you can't stop, and I can see that I'll spend November reorganising what I organised in October, and December reorganising what I organised in November, until it's Christ- mas day and I forget to put the turkey in the oven.
Perhaps I should just focus on our dead chicken. Was it really the cold that killed her? Is there a more sinister explanation? Does her death mark the coming of a new age as well as a new season? Oh, I don't know. I think I'll just bury her and get out my recipes for stuffed marrow.
'Now there's something you don't see ever), day, a 1963 Gottlieb with twin ticklers and luxury trim.'
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