I hate mornings

Dank, mountain mist swirling round the house.  Mad cat mewing at patio door to be let in, but he's just crunched up a mouse and I could hear it, even with the window closed.  Ugh.  Expecting visitors for the weekend.  They have chosen, most anti-socially, to arrive at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning.  It would have been earlier, but CG managed to dissuade them.  However, as they are the kind of keen German people who love bread and getting up at the crack of dawn to squeeze organic apple juice, and all other kinds of fun activities, I wouldn't be at all surprised if they came at seven, pretending to be apologetic but wielding freshly-baked rolls and looking for the coffee machine.  Woe betide them if they do, however.

I remember several years back, before Titus was born.  Hedda was but a little snip of a thing.  We drove, overnight, from northern Germany all the way to the middle of France to visit my father and his wife in their holiday residence.  Who on earth had the idea to do this I'll never know, but we somehow, misguidedly, thought Hedda would sleep all night in the car, and we would thus have a peaceful journey.   As it was, she slept the first thirty minutes, then stayed resolutely awake until we staggered (as much as a car can stagger) up to the iron gateway and rang my father's doorbell at 7.40 a.m.  (Gaia, by the way, had slept the whole night.)  It was a grey, misty morning and it took some time for my pa to arrive at the gate with his big rusty key chain, dressing gown flapping in the breeze.  He was not happy.  I think we'd said we would arrive later, but we just couldn't hold out any more.  France is not full of welcoming bakeries serving hot pastries and steaming coffee from the crack of dawn.  A scratchy breakfast on the terrace ensued, rain dripping off the wisteria into our croissants.  I wished we'd stayed at home.  It took a whole day for Pa to recover from the injustice of being cheated out of his lie-in.

Sad to say, I am exactly the same.  In Germany, it's called being a Morgenmuffel. I only get out of bed when I have to, or when I choose to.  You read in books of people who spring up in the morning, full of vim and vigour and anticipation for the day ahead.  Not me. I am still ashamed to this day about one birthday of mine.  Perhaps Gaia was five or six years old.  Hedda in tow, she burst into my bedroom extremely early and yelled happy birthday at the top of her voice.  I buried my head under the covers and said go away, quite gruffly if I remember correctly.  I wouldn't come out until they'd gone.  This event has been thrown back in my face many times since then.  I'll add it to all the other 'why my mother's not perfect' examples that my children are totting up.

So all in all, you can see that it would benefit our visitors to arrive at the arranged time.