note from a small island

getting to know my children on holiday, plus a song

I am writing this from the Spanish Balearic island of Mallorca.

The boys and I flew over here from London a couple of days ago to take care of a miniature schnauzer called Pip (pictured above). Our reward for this pleasurable task is free lodging in Pip’s house, a renovated old farmhouse on the outskirts of colonial village, owned by friends of friends. Every angle of house is perfect, art-directed almost, like something out of a magazine, except that it’s also comfortable and unpretentious. I’ve even found the world most ideal reading nook — assuming you don’t mind the occasional football-sized lemon dropping on your head.

I wish I could post more pictures of the house so you can see what it’s like but that feels a bit weird, like the kind of thing an influencer would do, so I won’t. But trust me when I say it is perfect.

The conversation has been good, for once. Sustained, meandering and funny, a minimal amount of moaning and bickering. I think this is because my sons are now eight and twelve and able to hold actual conversations, both with me and each other? Anyway, it’s been brilliant.

Frank keeps saying amazing things, like, ‘Oh man, I keep losing my yawn! Don’t you hate it when that happens?’

YES I DO. Honestly who doesn’t?

During the day we’ve been hanging around the house reading, going on hikes with the dog, visiting old friends and eating paella on the beach. In the evenings, after Frank goes to bed, Solly and I have been having a war movie marathon.

Turns out, during the past two years he’s spent locked in his room in the evenings with the internet refusing to speak to his brother and me, he wasn’t, as I’d naturally assumed, perusing snuff porn on the dark web and being groomed into an incel by culture warriors on YouTube. Instead, he was messing with me in a different way — by transforming himself into a self-styled military history expert. Last night I suggested he watch Oppenheimer, and he said he already had — twice. Meanwhile I’d honestly believed he’d lost the ability to speak in full sentences. Kids are deviant— don’t have any. Seriously.

Last night we watched a documentary about the history of the Indian rice famine. Tonight it’s the recent BBC adaptation of War and Peace. And on the drive to the beach today, it was his turn to control the music. In between two violent bangers by Lil Tecca and a Centra Cee, a beautiful Russian folk song came on. When I asked him about it, he said, ‘This is the song the Soviets played on loud speakers to demoralise the Nazis during the Battle of Stalingrad. Do you seriously not know it?’

No, I do not know it.

After some research, however, I now suspect the tale is apocryphal. The songs origins remain shrouded in mystery. My son’s tale, gleaned from ‘this guy on YouTube,’ seems to have been mixed up with the true story of Shostakovich’s 7th Symphony which premiered on stage during the siege of Leningrad. I actually bought the kid a book on the subject a couple of months ago but he obviously refused to read it. Anyway, no matter. Regardless of its origins, the folksong is gorgeous and eery, and well worth listening so I am posting it here in lieu of more house porn.

Talk to you in a week.