Wheildon

one morning i awoke to hear some activity in the kitchen downstairs.  this was a little odd, as kate was asleep in her room next to ours and ginny never woke up unless the sky fell on her head or the americans broke in to search for weapons of mass destruction.

for the life of me i was at a loss as to who it could be.  i went down the stairs wondering who had managed to get into the cottage so early without a key.

when i opened the door of the kitchen james, aged 5, was standing on a chair pouring boiling water from the kettle into a cup.  i was pretty quick to try and stop him from scalding himself.  the little fellow was having none of it.  i was told to back off and leave him alone.  he was making tea for his mother and i was not to interfere.  he squashed my arguments about the dangers of boiling water by pointing out to his dim father that a little water in the kettle made it quite light and easy to pour with relative safety.  he further explained that, if the mug was not filled to the top, there was every possibility that its contents would arrive at his mother's bedside without being spilt.

since those early days james has always made his mum a cup of tea and never once burnt himself.

notwithstanding the above, ginny attributes some of her grey hairs to our youngest child.

one lunchtime we were up at the pre-school in the grounds of the ‘laerskool uitkyk’ to fetch our young man.  the school was the highest property in the village, perched above park street with a wonderful view of the riviersonderend valley.  as is the way in every village, everyone knew everyone, making it impossible to drive off without a chat here and there.  james threw his little bag into the back of ginny’s car and clambered in after it.  chats in greyton can easily last from a minute to a day, and after a few minutes james got fed up with waiting for his parents and turned his attention to things mechanical.

he stood behind the steering wheel and, with both hands, gave it a ripsnorting workout.  this done, and with little result, he switched the lights on and off and worked the indicator lever up and down like a pogo stick.  still nothing.  he opened the glove compartment and jiggled the gear stick.  still nothing.  he worked the brake handle up and down, up and down.  still nothing.  in desperation for some action, he spied the keys in the ignition.

the gear stick was not quite where ginny had left it.  it was engaged in first gear as a result of james's efforts, and the brake was off.

brake off, and in gear!

with one hand on the wheel (did i mention the school was at the top of the hill?), james leaned forward and switched the ignition.  on, off.  on–off.  on.  the car leapt forward in violent lurches towards the steep bank on the edge of the playing field.

my best beloved yelled “'stop him!” and raced after her lurching car at a speed olympic athletes would applaud.  james was thrilled: his mother racing along beside him, and everyone cheering and waving.  what a day!

the sight of ginny trying to jump into a bucking bronco was a sight not to be forgotten.  one foot in, and the other hopping along like a scooter rider.  switching the ignition off was easy.  stopping the car, not so.  screaming mothers, laughing children and a triumphant james made the whole scene very jolly.

when we got home and had a moment to reflect on our son's first dabble into motorised transport, i casually mentioned my thought that, with a little training, ginny could win the national high jump, long jump, 100 metres, 200 metres, 400 metres and hop, skip and jump.

after three days of sleeping in the stable, i apologised and was allowed back inside.