2nd March 2008

At precisely 12:57 am on Tuesday, we were rudely awakened, along with the rest of the country, by the violent shaking and rumbling of an earthquake. It was genuinely frightening, especially considering our bed sits directly beneath the chimney. I suspect we’d have been even more alarmed had it been daylight and we could have seen the furniture bouncing around like something out of Poltergeist.

Sarah burst into our room in a panic, convinced the world was ending, while Jamie emerged a few minutes later, casually asked, “What was that?” and then promptly went back to bed, clearly unfazed by seismic activity. Sue and I drifted in and out of sleep until around 4:00 am, when another minor tremor rattled the house and something large in the loft crashed over with a bang. Come daylight, a full inspection revealed no damage, unless you count our nerves.

Seizing a golden teaching opportunity (and happily ignoring the constraints of the Literacy Hour), I got my class to write about their earthquake experiences. The result? Some surprisingly lovely poetry about tectonic terror, far more moving than anything the national curriculum would’ve prescribed.

On Thursday, the rest of the oak doors I’d ordered finally arrived. I managed to christen the occasion by dropping one squarely on my foot. OUCH. It’s moments like this that make you wonder if carpets weren’t invented for a reason.

Friday saw Sue and me at the Little Theatre watching Only, a film set in Ireland about the music industry. It was very entertaining, I recommend it, especially if your idea of a good night involves a screen, no tremors, and both feet intact.

On Saturday, Charlotte came to stay overnight with Lucas while Suraj stayed back in Balderton, enjoying a poker weekend with friends and neighbours. The house was thus briefly transformed into a crèche and nail salon.

Earlier that day, I coached the Colts against a local Northampton side. In a moment of idiotic enthusiasm, I demonstrated to our penalty taker how to kick into the wind. Cue a sharp pain in the foot, yes, that foot. You’d think I’d have learned by now, but I’m old enough to know better and still young enough to ignore it.

Saturday night brought Jim Crawford’s 60th fancy dress party. Thanks to my hobbling foot, dancing was off the cards, but I did manage a (limping) run across the room to reenact a try-scoring pass from his 50th outing. Rugby-themed nostalgia meets middle-aged recklessness, very painful, very predictable.

Meanwhile, Sarah was at a Swimming Gala, competing in the adults’ section and, rather impressively, winning a couple of races. Afterwards, she and Charlotte stayed up late painting their nails and cleaning up after a rather queasy Lucas. Honestly, I think Sue and I got the better end of the deal at the party.

Mother’s Day arrived on Sunday, with Charlotte, Jamie, and Sarah showering Sue with lovely gifts and even doing the washing up, something of a family miracle. Sue, naturally, still insisted on cooking Sunday dinner, and no one had the good sense (or bravery) to object.

The afternoon passed in classic Sunday fashion: I planted gladioli, Jamie washed his car, Lucas and Charlotte snoozed on the sofa, Sarah vanished into the internet, and Sue enjoyed some peace with the newspaper.

All in all, a week that started with the earth moving and ended with muddy flowerbeds, sore feet, and a few unexpected victories, both in the swimming pool and on the dance floor (sort of).