An egg-cellent time
(L-R: Gran, Loretta, Michael, Gabrielle, Hilary (obscured), Mum, Anna for Easter Sunday in the back garden: Carlisle, England)
Yesterday was not particularly strenuous for anyone except my mother who commanded proceedings in the kitchen. Mostly we could be found lounging in the afternoon sunshine in the back garden. When I return to Carlisle for any length of time, I find my ‘normal’ life disintegrates, I spent almost all my time with family chasing unremarkable but enjoyable pursuits and I revert to being more of a child than an adult. I imagine it happens to many people in their mid twenties who return to their family home – at least, I like to believe it does.
After the slow walk with her around the corner to and from Easter morning Mass*, I set my Gran to reading the newspaper; we bought two on Saturday of which she had read one. I offered her the same papers to peruse yesterday so she could read the other (because no shops were open to procure new papers) and she mentioned that the paper she was holding was full of the same stories as yesterday’s. After I swapped them over, she could enjoy a marginally different set of news stories and was slightly less disappointed.
We had several visitors to our house this Easter Sunday; family friends – one couple and one of my mum’s friends and her two daughters, plus of course my Gran and my immediate family of mother and sister. There was a degree of revelry continuing throughout the day; my sister offering a sweepstake on whether she could still do the splits was a particular highlight. One person offered £20 if she could do it, but unfortunately the bet was abandoned as Laura decided discretion was the better part of valour, and backed out. She made this decision as her practice splits attempt failed in the kitchen leaving her in a small degree of discomfort. This is what cosy family afternoons are made of. We played games, ate and drank until we had had more than enough and I merrily spread butter on two slices of browned white toast for supper. I gave up spreading butter on anything during Lent and I was very glad to be sinking back into old habits. Toast and crumpets just aren’t the same without butter.
* I spent almost the entire church service trying to stay calm in the face of overwhelmingly hilarious odds. I watched, incredulous as an altar boy tripped over some bells, sucked the tassels of his cassock during the readings and dropped the bible with a loud thud. After the sermon, a gentleman in the congregation gave a whoop and a huge thumbs up to the priest. I know it shouldn’t have been, but I found it all deeply amusing. I have been away from home so long that I’m not familiar with any of the members of the local clergy and this particular priest would take some getting used to. He filled every sentence with such earnestness, intensity and bombast that I could scarcely conceal a trembling grin. The italics should give a clue as to the emphasis on his words and each full stop denotes a lengthy pregnant pause. “Happeeee. Easter to you all!… On this glorious morning… let us celebrate… and rejoice. ” It doesn’t help that he has the almost the same voice and accent as comedian, Rik Mayall, making him difficult to take seriously.
– Today Rosie is up to miscellaneous mischief in Carlisle, England –
