Yesterday we all worked in the garden together. Andrew planted some vegetables whilst Bear and I painted the wall. The four of us working in the garden together is Andrew’s idea of heaven, and often it can be quite nice. Quite Waltons-ish; especially if we have sunshine and 6 Music and a little bit of wine and a me-sitting-down-in-a-deckchair type situation. But this weekend has been so cold that this morning it snowed, last week Raffy broke the radio so we can only get 4 Extra and I’ve suddenly and inexplicably gone off wine (and no, it’s not that).
But despite all this it was nice doing the painting because again, it was me and Bear doing something together and it’s nice to see the results so quickly and we even got to paint over a few ants. (At all other times we are very kind to animals but after getting badly bitten last summer, ants we make an exception for, bitey little bastards.)
I would like to say that I had painted my nails to show that girls can wear nail varnish and still do manual labour, but the truth is I’d watched Indian Summers the night before and there’s something about a period drama that leads to an irrepressible urge to paint my nails and drink gin (I am the opposite of going off that that).
Then Bear went to help with the planting, and this scene looked so lovely I nearly joined Instagram.
And then about three seconds later this happened.
And although I defo get feminist points for putting my boy in a pink playsuit, (which really does cause a lot more confusion than you’d expect in 2016), the real point of the story is this: when it comes to doing any kind of constructive or manual labour when you have young children, you’re really better off not to bother.