A 22 degree roaster in Aberdeenshire today. Dogs panted, grass turned brown, women with bleached blond hair forgot to dress before leaving the house and that odd shiny, shimmering effect appeared on the roads, confusing and transfixing at the same time.
And Luca melted.
He woke happily enough at 7.40am with Dad and trundled downstairs for breakfast for some hurried toast. Tous commes normale, at least until we walked out to the car. "It's a lovely day" he opined. This state of mind didn't even last until we reached the car. "It's too hot Dad, I'm tired" he whined, before obstinately clambering into his car seat, with that oddly teenage girl strop look upon his face.
Having long since learnt to tune out his moans, we drove quickly to his football training. He then staggered through the session, only coming alive at the (peculiarly arranged) rugby kicking section of the class. Confidently kicking the rugby ball over the bar successively, I noted a couple of Dad's tell their sons to "watch what that boys doing" when encouraging their offspring.
Proud? A little. A future Gavin Hastings perchance, though hopefully without that curiously monotone Scottish public school drawl.
We departed 5 minutes before the sessions end however, as his skin colour had by this stage began to resemble that of an enraged lobster that had fallen into a vat of beetroot juice. We then drove (all windows wound down) into Aberdeen to visit the cinema. Today's "treat" was the live action/CGI version of Yogi Bear. I've had piles that were more fun.
Following successive quick trips to my office and the supermarket, his deteriorating condition forced me to take him quickly home thereafter. We arrived home to find his new bed built. Have I mentioned this previously? Luca has been (justifiably) complaining of late that his bed was becoming too small for him - no surprise as it's a toddlers bed he's had for a couple of years. See the pictures at the top of this blog, taken this evening of his first sleep in the new bed.
He does, of course, faff, tremble and complain when climbing up and down the two stepped (!) ladder. Bear Grylls our boy will surely not be.
It's my birthday on Tuesday. I'll be 36. Carole, however, last night discovered a way to distract me from my depressing descent toward middle age. She took us to what was undoubtedly our worst ever dining experience.
Having received vouchers, she booked us a table at "La Bamba" restaurant in Aberdeen (http://www.labamba.biz/). Despite it's previous questionable reputation, the appeal of vouchers combined with the fact it's now under new management convinced her it was an experience worth undertaking.
My wife is not often wrong but I suppose if the UN can err if they present incoming US presidents with the Nobel Peace prize before they'd, well, actually done anything, then so can Carole. The difference being I don't love the UN.
We arrived to find (very young) staff hanging around chatting rather than greet patrons and lead them to their table. Once eventually noticed, we were lead to our table in the corner, past a hen party, a 40th birthday and a 30th birthday. All entirely encompassing drunk women wearing clothes two sizes too small for them and enough make-up to make a test lab rabbit wince.
Having squeezed through we were sat at our table near the toilets, with it's handily "wipe-clean" tablecloth. Our order was taken shortly after - no great decisions to be made, having been faced with the smallest (1 page!) menu I've ever witnessed. The starters arrived, and the rubbery taste of my overcooked (by about 3 hours) mussels was at least distracted by the cacophony created by the hen party as they stood upon their tables belting out "It's Raining Men"
We've never eaten so quickly, and gratefully shot out as the hen party roared into the chorus of "I've Had The Time Of My Life"
Oh the irony.
But we did laugh all the way home. This will certainly be remembered. Much in the same way the Ukrainians remember Joseph Stalin.
**Useless fact of the day - Every day you breath in one litre of other peoples anal gases**
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