Ever breastfed in a cemetery?
Well, on a list of things to do before you die, I can tick that one off.
I went for a stroll yesterday with baba. Seeing as I'm not allowed drive for what feels like forever, I needed to leave the house in some capacity otherwise I was likely to go completely mental. Or, more correctly, even more mental than I already am. That's more mental than any one house can contain.
So, though it was bloody freezing, the winter sun was bright. It was quite refreshing going out, being all gloved up and baba wrapped to within an inch of her life.
I decided to walk down to the graveyard - not my usual choice for recreational outings - but it would have been my lovely, and sorely missed friend, Joan's 70th birthday yesterday. She's been gone a year, and she is missed just as much - more even - than when we lost her in November 09. So, I thought I'd pop down and wish her happy birthday.
Of course, once I got down there baba had a hissy fit meltdown - she wanted to be fed. I could tell by the level of her giving out that she wouldn't last the trip home. There was nothing for it but to feed her there.
The only bench I could find was under some trees. The trees, not too surprisingly were populated by birds. Pooping birds. So, I sat there, dodging the excreting blue tits (and, said Mr Oub when I got home, considering the temperature, probably exposing some blue tits - excuse the vulgarity) and fed the baby.
I couldn't decide if this was some very symbolic thing. Nursing a newborn while reading the inscriptions of those departed. A beautiful reflection on the circle of life (cue Elton John wafting through the trees)
Or whether it just highlighted how pointless everything really is.
(Sleep deprivation and cold boobs does not a cheery disposition make.)
But, overall, I think Joan would have been amused at me, dodging poo, getting my baps out and the general ridiculous of it all. And the thought of her laugh and smile was point enough.
*anyone get the title or was I trying too hard?