It’s A Wonderful Life

DSC_0196 (2)

This is my son cutting out a sewing pattern. He decided he wanted me to teach him how to sew, and wanted to make a bag with a Nirvana face on, with all his badges, for the Green Man music festival we’re going to over the summer. What is there not to be happy about looking at this picture? We were happy. We are happy. The sun came through the window and warmed his little back while we pinned and cut and organised our work.

Later we walked from Sunnyhurst woods to Darwen Tower. It felt wintery and blustery. We drank coca-cola at the summit and sat and looked out at the spectacular views – rainclouds swarming and bursting over different patches of our 360 degree vantage point.



Today I felt no fear, no trepidation, no anxiety, no agitation, no regret, no discontent, no despair, no sadness. A father carried his young son, who was wearing crocodile wellies, on his shoulders, steadily up the hill and we watched him. When he reached the top I congratulated him. His son smiled with glee and his father puffed out his cheeks and looked proud.

When our son was young he would say ‘I am happy and proud!’ very often, so it became a motto we all said very often which made us laugh and smile. Every day he tells us his ‘joke of the day.’ More often than not they make no sense, but here’s one he said today:

‘Why was Cleopatra so negative?’

– ‘Because she was queen of denial.’

Today most of the rain missed Great Harwood. The clouds have lingered and threatened but we ate sausage and chips happy indoors and watched Pointless and I won the jackpot with Joni Mitchell.


One thought on “It’s A Wonderful Life

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s