When I was a little girl I would spend hours hitting a tennis ball against a cement wall in a barn on the farm we lived. One of the few advantages of getting older is that I can now pay someone to hit a tennis ball back to me.
I am sure that anyone who is a parent thinks their children are having a nicer childhood than they did. Last night we sat watching our three jump in and out of the pool, climb the almond tree to pick some almonds and push each other in the hammock squealing with laughter eating figs from the fig tree.
“I’d like to have my childhood again,” said Rupert. “Here.”
I agree with him. But the children of course don’t see it. Last Wednesday as I spent my whole afternoon driving them around to their various sports activites Olivia was complaining.
“When I was little I didn’t have anyone to drive me anywhere,” I said, sounding like the Monty Python ‘we had it tough’ sketch. “I had to walk three miles to the local stable, muck out horses all morning and then in return I would get to ride for an hour.”
“Why didn’t you cycle there?” she asked. Good point. Wish I’d thought of that.
Anyway, back to tennis. During my lesson this morning a young man who looked like a cross between Rafael Nadal and Feliciano Lopez arrived on the court next door to me.
In my seven years here I have yet to spot what men would call a ‘total babe’. In about three seconds this man made up for seven years of babe deprivation. Then he took his top off.
I am going to call my catholic friend Mary with whom I had a heated discussion last night and tell her she’s right. There is a god.