The trip out had been put on hold, while the storm was belting.
The sky was getting darker.
It seems that nothing much will get done.
Granma is in the kitchen, filling up the kettle. Grandad is looking for his phone/glasses/keys/other item: he’s on a rolling programme of searching.
All four grandchildren gather in the next room, out of sight, well in sound.
Grandchild 3 says, with musical clarity, ‘You get on the naughty step RIGHT NOW!’
Grandchild 1 says, with a sense of subterfuge, ’You see, that’s why I don’t like her!’
Grandchild 4 (most likely recipient of the command) simply growls.
Grandchild 2 says ‘What the?!’ (She implies an expletive with a comic shrug.)
Grandchild 3 appears in the kitchen, dressed in the snuggle blanket. It trails behind her, majestic and soft.
‘I’m Elsa,’ she informs. ‘Let the storm rage oooonnnnn!’
Grandchild 4 appears, drawn to stand on the trail of the blanket.
‘Lie down,’ Granma instructs, picturing a head injury.
This is how the dragging game begins.
From the broad space in front of the fireplace, where letter blocks spell CARIAD, past the Christmas tree, where an elf has shinned up to the top star, all the way to the kitchen bin! One by one, then two by two, then a bump or two, and the game is halted by Grandad, picturing lots of head injuries.
It was fun though, with nothing else planned, to grab a blanket corner and be caught in the flow of what is.
It’s late.
Grandad the Hero gets 1-3 grandchildren tucked into bed.
Grandma has cooked bolognaise and walked dogs.
Grandchild 4, last kid standing, asks for a story, one of Granma’s stories.
He sits up in bed, so as not to be fooled into sleep.
It doesn’t work. She tips his head gently onto the pillow.
Four guileless angels, lightly snoring; bright threads going somewhere.
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