I was exceptionally naughty last Monday. The children and I bunked off for the day and we went on the train to London. My son and daughter are avid Chelsea fans and I had always wanted to take them to the stadium for a tour. I had been feeling particularly miserable and as a result the children have suffered my moodiness so I wanted to counter balance this by making some good childhood memories. They were so excited when I told them the plan for the day. All the children were well behaved on our travels and waited patiently at Clapham for the train which would take us to West Brompton. We arrived at West Brompton station and used the delightfully defaced urine scented lift to get to street level. Opposite was a small Italian pizza restaurant and I popped my head around their door and asked for directions to Stamford Bridge. The young waitress said the easiest way was to take the route she used to get to and from work, which was straight through the cemetery and turn right. I thanked her and headed towards the huge entrance to the cemetery just up the road. Now, I really do not like cemeteries. The whole concept of them makes the hairs on neck stand up and kick starts my brain into thinking about whether or not I have adequate life insurance. Usually I avoid them at all costs. I even divert my eyes if ever driving past one as if the mere sight of a headstone would make the old grim reaper come tapping on my door sooner rather than later. However, the weather wasn't pleasant and rain was due so I put on a brave face for the children and we launched off down the path, the children wide eyed and with myself feeling slightly nervous. I scuttled with my head down as fast as I could without losing a child in the process. Any onlooker, be they of this earthly plane or from the spirit world, must have wondered if there was something medically wrong with me as my head was bent at such an odd angle to avoid direct eye contact with the various tombs and headstones. After what seemed like an age, we ventured out of the cemetery and I breathed a sigh of relief. I shook off the make believe cobwebs and with my gang headed right towards the stadium. The tour was fantastic. We went round the players changing rooms and the press room. We walked through the players tunnel and sat in the dug out. My son said it was the best day of his life. I was thrilled he had such a good time. Feeling giddy from doing something right for a change I took the children to the megastore and spent far too much money on new hoodies and goalie gloves and shin pads. The children had their photographs taken with the trophies. We walked round the Chelsea Football Club museum and we all had a rather underwhelming lunch at "Frankie's". The children were happy. I had overspent. I had spent the equivalent of two weeks worth of food shopping. We would be eating beans on toast for the rest of the month. It was about half past four and I decided it was time to return home. We gathered our bags and set off toward the cemetery gates. As we plodded along with me making mental calculations regarding the financial state of ruin I was now in, I had forgotten all about my phobia of the graves. As we walked along the path I absentmindedly started looking at the crooked crosses and weather beaten angels standing guard. And it was beautiful! I put down the shopping bags and we started to look about the place. The big black crows with their sharp beaks stared right back at us, but I didn't feel uneasy. The hard fonts on the large tombs gave names of family members, when they were born and the date of their demise. It was fascinating to think that the angels standing watch at the graves for over a hundred years had held their posts for so long and were still able to tell the world the details of the people who had lived their lives and then died. There was one particular plaque, I unfortunately forgot the names involved, which proclaimed there lay a husband and his devoted wife. They both had died some time in the 1800's. Few things nowadays stand the test of time. Here were two people who had lived as a couple and were now over a hundred years later still being recognised as a devoted partnership. It was incredibly moving.
The children and I had spent a good half an hour looking around the graveyard but it had started to rain and we needed to get home. We picked up our bags and set off again. We had only been walking a few minutes when out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of colour among the ancient headstones. I turned and looking straight back at me was an enormous fox. It was twice the size of a standard one. It wasn't the usual scruffy urban fox either.This fox had the most extraordinary fur that was the colour of fire. The creature was a flame against the black and grey graveyard backdrop. The fox was confident and must have known that it stood ethereal because they was a slight air of arrogance about it. The children couldn't believe their eyes. Yes, we have foxes that come into the garden at home but unfortunately they all have varying degrees of mange and the children have renamed them "fox-rats" due their furless, rodent like tails. The garden looks like a scene from Lord Of The Rings when the fox-rats are on the prowl. We stood and watched the fox for about five minutes. I must admit, I got a bit bored of him as he just stood there staring back with attitude in his black shiny eyes. I had to resume the long trudge home so saluted the fox (who I'm sure shrugged his beautiful glossy shoulders and stuck his nose even further in the air) and dragged the children out of the cemetery and onto the train home.
The talk on the train was about the fox. The discussion over dinner was about the fox. The buzz at bath time and bedtime was about the fox. The hundred of pounds spent at the football stadium and the effort of trekking up to London (on a school day!) was totally forgotten about. With the children tucked up in bed, presumably dreaming about the bloody fox, I sat on the sofa and looked over at the bags of clothes and toys and memorabilia I had purchased which were now sitting discarded in the corner of the living room. I had been upstaged spectacularly. In retrospect, I guess it was a childhood memory made, as usual a slightly odd one but a memory nevertheless.
