|The Bear Grylls de nos jours|
Grandson Zach is nine, going on ten, and now well beyond my abilities.
He is staying with us for a week or so and today attends his second session of Krafti-Monkeys at the community centre. Just what this involves I am unsure. But I do know (via a message he passed first to VR) that in preparing the ham sandwich for his lunchbox I must not use too much butter as I did two days ago.
On an earlier occasion, this time via a message passed to his mother (Occasional Speeder), thence to VR and thence to me, he complained that I added insufficient milk to his breakfast cornflakes.
I tried to engage him yesterday about soccer. That there was a certain malicious pleasure to be gained from playing in a defensive position, taking the ball away cleanly from a glamour-boy forward and depriving him of a chance of scoring a goal. He listened attentively then gave me to understand - quite politely - he didn't agree with the malice concept.
At lunch yesterday at Wagamama, one of a chain of Japanese fusion restaurants, he ordered his own main course of noodles, chicken and a mess of vegetables plus a special foaming crushed apple drink. I have no idea what these items are called.
During the day he plays a soccer game on VR's laptop. But kicking the ball seems a minor element; mostly he stares at tables of statistics which he must master as the team's manager. I tell him this looks like office work to me and he smiles faintly.
The days of walking him to the boulangerie in St-Jean-de-la-Blaquière are long gone. Soon he’ll be reading Colette aloud to me in French as I maunder at an old folk’s home.
|Slouching near new planting bed chez RR|