More to life than housework

Isn't it funny - I started this blog out of pure boredom and frustration with my new role as 'housewife' (the inverted commas speak volumes).  Nowadays I hardly ever mention housework.  This doesn't mean I don't do any, of course; merely that I consider what does get accomplished not newsworthy.  I truly believe that when you are stuck with a situation, there is absolutely no point in complaining about it.  We can't afford and don't want the intrusion of a cleaning lady, so we have to make do with my efforts.  Life is so full and getting fuller.  I've thus pared the essential tasks right down to free myself up for jolly social occasions, such as the Mother's Day breakfast from which I have just returned.  It was at Titus' kindergarten (where else) and I was up at the crack of dawn making quiche and tomato/mozzarella salad (in itself no great feat, but it took ages to milk the buffalo).  I swear, I really tried not to be cynical, and to gaze fondly at forty kids stomping around in gnome hats singing out of tune at the tops of their voices.  It was hard, as Titus was glowering at me - he considers himself far too mature for such ventures.  The twenty-minute long entertainment ended with each child locating his/her mother - there were some honorary grandmas, too - and giving them a hand-crafted present (always the best).   I found it interesting to observe how different mothers responded to this.  Most were genuinely delighted, hugged and kissed their little darling.  But a couple of mums shook hands instead, which I thought most curious.  I didn't have time to ponder, as the buffet was then declared open and a herd of hungry kids stampeded towards the food.  Slight injuries were sustained. My quiche was regarded with some suspicion but those who did brave it were most complimentary.  This comment I overheard, and I quote: 'who knew you could do so much with spinach?'  Indeed.

Yesterday I was gazing out of our kitchen window at a meadow brimming with buttercups; butterflies and birds swooping overhead catching flies, cows grazing tranquilly beyond.  I sighed at the bucolic beauty of it all and quite forgot about de-scaling the kettle.  Then came the ominous growl of a tractor engine, and before I could say 'Weisswurst', a farmer with sadistic grin on his face mowed the whole lot flat.  I couldn't help but admire the exactness of his lines - the field could have passed for a bowling green afterwards. I suppose he was just earning a crust, as we all have to.  Beauty counts for nothing in the brutal world of dairy farming.  Grass means hay means milk means MONEY.