There's an exhilarating sense of liberation when you do something impulsive and wacky. Especially when most people would think you were mad. And so it was when we stopped at a petrol station on the last leg of our two day drive from Lyon to Edinburgh. We'd only gone in - or so we thought - to buy snacks, and there it was, one of those containers with stuffed animals. And there he was, a monkey with an appealing face, the sort of thing I might have purchased for my son when he was younger.
A few moments of anticipatory flutterings followed as I waited for the inevitable 'for goodness sake, no,' from the man of the house. As it was, without even a resigned note to his voice, he asked me to find out what this creature cost. £9.99. And five minutes later, it was ours. Of course I rationalised this extravagance away. If even one of us had been hungry enough to want a meal, we might have forked out nearly that sum on a plate of mince and tatties. The last hour and a half of the drive was spent deciding on a name, with the usual derisory comments about each other's suggestions. Surprisingly quickly - by our standards - we agreed on Rosco, having debated the merits or otherwise of Rex, Charlie and names too ridiculous to mention.
Rosco spends most of the day suspended from a wrought iron screen in our sitting room, mainly to prevent him from being savaged by our increasingly agile kittens. In the evening, when we watch telly or a DVD, he is lifted down and sat upon my partner's knee. By day, my partner co-ordinates a large EU science project. At night he demonstrates that he could have made a career out of puppeteering, as we question Rosco and he nods or shakes his head. It's now clear to me that I will never completely grow up. And I'm cool with that.
Acceptingly yours
Jane
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