A typical day in summer

The temperatures are beginning to settle into the mid-to-high 30s, which is, quite honestly, very pleasant for me, but less so for those that have been enrolled into an outdoor camp for the week. The good news, if you have not been enrolled in an outdoor camp for the week, is that the remnants of Hurricane Beryl, probably now downgraded to a post-tropical cyclone (but still called Beryl), will hit tomorrow (Tuesday), so while the temperatures will still be warm, they won’t be as warm, and the embarrassing sweat stains will be hidden by the diluvian drenching. By an astounding coincidence, Ottawacker Jr. has been enrolled in an outdoor camp this week, so I shall be able to relate in great detail how this week’s weather affects him.
 
July 8 marks the anniversary of my father’s death in 2017. It just hit me, as I wrote that, that 2017 is seven years ago. I still have a bit of trouble comprehending how time works and how something so recent can have taken place more than half a lifetime ago for my son, but other than that, the anniversary is one to look back on and then forget. A very sad event, to be sure, but I prefer to remember the 50 years I knew him rather than the one day I lost him.
 
While Ottawacker Jr. was out at his camp, which is actually a half-day camp run by Atletico Ottawa/Madrid out at the old Maple Leaf Almrausch fields, I spoke to my stepmother in England (who seems to be doing very well), and had a very nice Skype call with G&I out in Victoria (for G’s birthday). I also pretended to concentrate on the New Zealand job at hand, which is, you will be delighted to learn, the same as the old New Zealand job, and driving me to the edge of reason. As in the edge where I lose reason as opposed to the edge where I find it.
 
Upon his return from the camp around 12.30, Ottawacker Jr. told me that his football boots had developed a hole and that he needed some goalkeeping gloves too. For a second I was almost glad I had been doing the New Zealand job. Off we went to Di Salvo Sports, where Ottawacker Jr. tried on every combination of cleat he could find, none of which seemed to fit. None, of course, except for the $389 Nike Gold Dust and the $427 Adidas Unicorn Tear. For a second he looked hopeful, but then he realized that the smile on my face was in fact the start of a manic laugh, and put them back on the shelf next to the $544 New Balance Promise of Alchemy. In the end, he had to settle for a $90 generic brand, which will probably just last till the end of the summer season, i.e., long enough for his feet to have grown big enough for him to need the next size up.
 
My wallet feeling significantly lighter, and his soul no doubt commensurately heavier, Ottawacker Jr. then offered to make dinner for us. He’s 11, so there is still some fear about leaving him in charge of sharp knives and an oven (after all, he once walked into a wall while reading a book). He suggested quesadillas and salad, which sounded fine to me, so Mrs. Ottawacker accompanied him to Farm Boy (our appallingly named local greengrocers-cum-convenience store) and let him pick put what he needed. Allowing him to walk to the store with my credit card, purchase the stuff himself and then bring it home was a little too far down the road of being a permissive parent; besides, he would have to walk past Second Cup, and the lure of the “FroCho” might be too much. And not just for him.
 
In the end, he bought the ingredients, wielded the knife, and cooked the dish with some verve. There was also a splash of tabasco sauce added to the meal, which was unexpected, but pleasant. It was a most definite step up from the time he tried to make me garlic tea (tea, milk and garlic powder), and the kitchen was left in a most definite tidier state than when his mother cooks.
 
Having thus cooked dinner, Ottawacker Jr. was in a stronger bartering position to ask to be taken to the cinema to watch Minions IV, so I said yes. Mrs. Ottawacker stayed at home to make some calls and rearrange the spice rack. Minions IV (in 3D) was not quite as good as the rest of the franchise (the minions were too well behaved for my liking), but there is still a lot of credit in the bank from the earlier films, so it gets a pass. Son of Gru was a step too far in the suspension of disbelief for me. Not in the “I can’t believe what he is doing” stakes, but in the “I can’t believe he exists” stakes. I mean, I have seen Gru’s body shape, and there is no way Lucy can be flexible enough to …