This is how it starts. Having been allocated half of the dining-room table for his studies during the latest bout of not being in school, Ottawacker Jr. has gleefully accepted and decided he will use that half to store sundry papers, pencils and materials, and will use the other half of the table to sit and work. It is, I suppose, reasonable enough.
A less focused day as I had slept poorly and was not in the mood for doing anything other than drinking coffee and wishing I was still in bed. He soon snapped me out of my stroppiness though, and we were able to get back to areas again, which - thanks to my mastery of Google - I was able to teach with a little more authority.
Afternoon was given over to the Arsenal-Liverpool semi-final, which the forces of good won convincingly. I'm increasingly irritated by Mikel Arteta: I've always found he had one of those Fisher Price Man sort of faces and hairstyles, and his jumping up and down on the sidelines makes him look like a Poundland Guardiola. It was always going to go badly for them once they decided to venture out of their penalty box.
Evening was spent reading Great Northern? to the boy. My name is in the book, so I know it was given to me when I was about his age. It's taken me long enough to read it. Then he asked to put himself to bed...
This is how it starts.
Currently, Mrs. Ottawacker and I are spending our evenings watching an Irish drama called Single-Handed which was OK. The first episodes were little lightweight, but tonight's featured the amazing Stephen Rea as a survivor of one of the Christian Brotherhood's schools. As we learn what they did to indigenous children hear in Canada, it is horrific to know the feckers were just as prolific in Ireland. I hope there is a special place for them in that dimension they call Hell.