It’s now less than 24 hours to go. I am being industrious, keeping busy, busy, busy.  The house is in uproar.

Cutlery trays are cleaned and repacked, the cutlery lying within is gleaming with polish, glinting even in the grey drizzle of the day.  The shoe store is cleaned out – the 12 pairs of Roscoe’s various sports and school shoes (he has grown  one and a half sizes this summer..ouch!)  are ready  to accompany the two black bin bags of his now too small clothes.  Craig’s clothes are tidily arranged into colour, shape and form, ready for him to muck up the new order within 48 hours. Soft linen drawers stuffed full of napkins and table cloths are sorted and rearranged, towels lie askew in the bathroom floor waiting to be folded and reorganised in the empty cupboards.

Grocery shopping has been done, menus planned for the week.  Shoes have been re-heeled, dry cleaning dropped off.  Roscoe is now with a friend, the constant requirement for him to pack and re-pack is not bothering him.  He is full of excitement that fresh from the fun he had with his buddy Ned in Ibiza, a rapid turnaround to visit Cupar, Fife, so to be with his Aunties, he is now having fun with James, another wee mate from school.  He is worrying about South Africa and the mosquitoes, sharks and potentially scary locals who have little to lose in their daily chore of survival.  I am worrying about South Africa for different reasons but I don’t tell him this, only mentioning that his Dad and I wonder if we should wait until it’s warm again.  Truth is, this is all on hold. We have not organised Rand, accommodation, car hire, internal flights, packing.  I have not looked out our travel insurance, avoiding any jinx of fortunes.  We have booked no more, done nothing else. Not until we know tomorrow’s news.

These past three weeks have been tricky.  There have been moments of blissful forgetfulness in the joy of digging toes into warm sand as the sea pulls me forward, of talking future plans with Julia, of sharing sunsets and gin,  of yelling at the moon
and doing yoga while watching Es Vedra.

There has been curiousity particularly in the tour of St Leonard’s in St Andrews by the delightful outgoing Head of History.  This curiousity is heightened when we stand in the (haunted) bed chamber of Mary Queen of Scots as the dog lies whimpering at our feet.  As the new Head of History, Auntie Jan’s classroom comes with its own balcony and turret and is complete with spectacular views over the sands of St Andrews.  I imagine Roscoe learning there, history wound in history as the chalk marks and scratches on the turret walls attest.  It’s not the place for a child of faint heart but a warrior child will progress beyond the stone grey walls and into the world to make their mark.  It’s a place of boy-men and female heroines.  A place which has all the potential to shape my child into the man he will become.  A place over 450 miles away…

Friday, I’m picked up by some lovely girlfriends and driven to a local spa where we spend the day sorting out the world and its woes, gossiping, having treatments and then hanging out at the bar.  I wasn’t thinking about tomorrow,  much, and only when asked.  I don’t ponder, its okay to make some remark or comment which allows the conversation to move onto more jocund topics.

Saturday arrives and with no child and no football pitch requiring a consenting adult to stand on the sidelines, biting tongue and shivering in the wind, we can make our plans unfettered.  We have a  true middle-aged moment and decide to have a National Trust day out at Kingston Lacy.  We forget about tomorrow as we stroll around the house, gazing at the vast collection of sculpture, fine art, architecture and paintings on display.  I stand transfixed at the most exquisite Rubens of Marchesa Maria Serra Pallavincino.   I can almost touch the silk of her dress brought to life by the skill of his brush.  So much to see and hear, so much to take in and understand, by the time we reached the Egyptian room I am done in and need the respite of the garden to allow my mind to slowly absorb the visual feast of art.

The Bankes family, who previously owned Kingston Lacey, originated from Corfe Castle further into Dorset, so we head down and I play memory games of happier BG times as we used to be sent here to learn about the rocks and geology of the Jurassic coast.  Replete with fabulous seafood we gaze at the blush pink of the sun as it set over the castle ruins.  On Sunday we reunite with the boy and to celebrate drive from Southampton to Portsmouth to have lunch by the water and watch the boats.  But all this driving allows the mind to roam free and the stress bubbles underneath, catching us all by surprise as we yell about where to park.  We are thinking about tomorrow while trying to stay in the day.

Now it’s today.  And tomorrow is tomorrow.  The big day.  The day of answers to questions.  When uncertainty is removed and replaced by who knows what.  I wonder if I will long for the ignorance of this moment or will I sigh relief.

In the meantime I have a towel cupboard to sort, an outfit to plan and a gin to drink!