They come straight from Crossfit or the beach. Beautiful bronzed bodies that have pulled and heaved, squatted and squirmed under the weight of car tyres or such like. Crazy fitness stuff that we oldies can only lift an eyebrow to. That’s because that’s about all we oldies can…uh, lift.   Sometimes they smell good. Most times not, but not half as bad as the bags of laundry that get lugged in and dumped all over the floor in piles, waiting turns in the washer. They also bring what seems like a weeks worth of grumbling hungry-tummy. Friends often join in and beers, wine, water and whatever flow freely.

Lincoln laughs, the lord of the manor content.

I hover and flutter and hug and dance around each of them wanting to know EVERYTHING and detail that’s happened in the week.   Humouring me, out the computer comes to show off the latest on the website, or a phone to click through some pictures. The youngest unmarried and I side-eyeball each other and pull faces to see how long we can last without laughing. We perch on kitchen counters and in comfortable couches and it’s loud and raucous and the rugby rattles on in the background.

We move to the heirloom table, on which generations before have laid their handprints and whacky souls. Candles are lit and we all sit.

For supper.

Where conversations spill from mouths as fast as food fills them. The discussions – some deep and some light and peppered with humour, some sublime and others ridiculous, then there’s the intelligent and academic but mostly the words end up in the gutter with far too much mirth accompanied. Oh.dear.me!

          

And oh.dear.me! to the times that all is not so rosy and hands slap the table in frustration and words come before thought and the air stills – heavy and hard.

Stuff happens – this is family.

And this is

HOME.

Where my heart is.

It’s the end of the weekend – Saturday here in the Middle East and the kids have come home.

Oh the sacredness of Saturdays.

How I adore everything about them.

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