Went back to the allotment with the water butt that R’s Mum doesn’t need and then to Wickes’ to get some guttering, so that we can catch the rainwater coming off the shed which will help us with the watering in the summer.  Only then did we notice that the felt roofing on the shed was wearing away!  Doh!

Will have to go back and get some stuff to fix that – we’ll fix the roof and I’ll paint the shed with preserver first (I love doing that but missed it last year) and then do the guttering.

More work when really I need to be digging and weeding …… but it will be good when it’s finished.

Saw R’s sister and her two little girls who were visiting his Mum; the youngest is just starting to take her first tottering steps now.

Anyway, back to our story.  We came home on the Friday, and the next day all had a trip out with the archaeology group to some nearby houses in the dockyard on a pre-arranged trip.  We had a guided tour of the whole site, seeing the houses where the officers used to live hundreds of years ago.  It was fascinating!

Apparently one of the householders had very kindly given us permission to look around inside their house and garden, and we approached with interest.  Until, that is, we saw that in the garden they had a linepost that was full of washing.  And that washing was comprised of child and baby clothes.  My heart sank.  We followed our leader into the house, past the garden swing and plastic outdoor toys, into the house past two pushchairs and a pile of tiny wellington boots, down the hallway stepping over the plastic indoor toys while the father apologised, keeping two of his children behind him out of the way, and into the kitchen where mum was feeding the baby.

I’m afraid that I didn’t take in much of what was being said, or remember what we saw of the architectural detail, because I had gone into Nightmare Shutdown Mode, and was just existing until the time came when I could escape back outside.  I think that I have come a long way since then, looking back; I was really terrible in those days.  All chatty politeness on the surface but a mangled heap of pain inside.


About Linda Weeks

About my life with the daughter I thought I'd never have - but I did, thanks to a wonderful anonymous egg donor, to whom I will be forever grateful. xx
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