The 23-hour day

Tonight, in the small hours of Sunday morning, 2 am becomes 3 am in the blink of an eye. There are only 23 hours in this Sunday. And I have to be awake for most of them. I know, we get the hour back in the 25-hour day in October but that is six months away so it’s cold comfort.

My parents are visiting. As I expected, they wanted to spend a lot of time with their new great-granddaughter, but this has meant me driving a lot. There are two buses a day out here, no trains even within earshot and the nearest taxi firm is 12 miles away. So I have achieved bugger all publishing work this week and since the office is also the guest room, haven’t even been able to keep up with emails.

Still, the enforced holiday has done me some good. It’s like a refreshing dose of procrastination and I’ll be back with a vengeance after Monday, when they fly away home.

Granddaughter is doing very well and at seven weeks, already has the beginnings of a particularly wicked smile. She is having reflux issues at the moment and wearing her parents out but that will pass. It’s ‘only’ heartburn, which to an adult is a bit of discomfort. To a seven-week-old it is the most agonising thing life has thrown at her so far. And she is very, very capable of expressing her displeasure with a level of unbridled rage that makes her granddad very proud.

Tomorrow is their last full day and they want to spend as much of it as possible with the new arrival. So I have to drive them to Son and Daughter-in-Law’s house and I don’t mind at all. I hope, if I make it to great-granddad age, my son or daughter will do the same for me.

Monday, they have an early flight (by my reckoning) so I might be shattered Monday night but then, it’s back to business.

Having a new granddaughter does mess with a one-man business but I hope everyone finds that understandable. I couldn’t prioritise anything over training a new family member in the Way of Dume. She has to learn taunting, double entendre, insulting the pompous in ways that sound like compliments, and much more.

She’s probably too young to appreciate a toy shrunken head or to inherit my first war axe (I still have it, now well over 40 years old) but I think she needs more gore around her room.

It’s a bit girlie in there…