6 Go Crazy On A Socially Distanced Adventure…*

* a very dreadful homage to all things Enid Blyton to hopefully offer some light-relief in these challenging times….

The 6 DNTW’s have been holed up together under one roof for less than 72 hours and the wholesome, ruddy-cheeked (feckless) children are clearly feeling the strain. As are their parents.

After a mere 2 & 1/2 days of home schooling, Mr DNTW’s could be heard enquiring at what age teachers are legally allowed to retire and Mrs DNTW’s is contemplating ingesting the hand sanitiser that her very lovely, witty and glamorous (also childless therefore explaining the non-haggard visage and aforementioned glamour!) friend sent her in the post because she has read they contain alcohol.

In a time of national emergency surely it is obvious that both should be drunk not rubbed on one’s hands?! (In the interests of health and safety please don’t!)

Mrs DNTW’s knows she should be very grateful that she has thoughtful and lovely friends who think of sending her such precious things like alcohol flavoured hand-gel in these desperate times but right now she is wondering if she can drink the contents as they do in fact contain actual, REAL alcohol. She also feels it desperately unfair that Mr DNTW’s has refuted her suggestion of sacrifice that she consumes hard liquor and remains 70% proof at all times because apparently an alcohol content above 66% is necessary to effectively kill off bacteria and she is trying to protect herself from the dreaded “C” word so in turn she can nurture her family.

Unusually given the vocabulary of child number 2, it is not that ‘c’ word that she is worrying about for the time being, nor is it the BIG C but it is definitely a very unpleasant C which shall not be mentioned herewith 🦠

It is likely that Mr DNTW’s is not thinking of the health and well-being of his wife in pouring scorn on her proposal but is rather more concerned he will be asked to aid in the SPAG (spelling punctuation and grammar for those not in the know) work that has been set as part of the home-schooling curriculum by actual teachers who are laughing delightedly and rubbing their hands with glee hand-gel at those contemptuous parents who spout such nonsense as:

“huh! 6 weeks off in the summer! They should know what hard work is really like!”

In her defence, Mrs DNTW’s would very much like it to be known that she has never been one of those smug and belittling folk. In fact she thinks that anyone who has voluntarily and willingly decided, (not to mention paid out horrifyingly large sums of money for the privilege of doing so) to nurture and cherish young mind’s – other people’s children (Sartre’s quote “Hell is….?!”) – should probably be sectioned canonised.

Mrs DNTW’s has tried to instill a respect for authority, foster a love of learning and an oasis of peace and tranquility in the classroom that was once her dining room.

In truth she wasn’t very successful imparting these qualities to her older children in the past so it is unsurprising that the younger ones reject her request to answer the register, greet her politely with “Good morning Mrs Definitely Not The Walton’s” and yell “Oi Karen and BOOMER” at her periodically. Mrs DNTW’s wonders whether telling her precious off-spring that they will enjoy working in 45 minute blocks with 15 minute movement and snack breaks might have been a tad ambitious and perhaps it should have been the other way around.

After Mrs DNTW’s has spent 20 minutes surreptitiously consulting her phone for an explanation of fronted adverbials, preposition and sub-clauses, she wonders whether she ever learned anything at school all those years ago.

She and child number 4 finally crack on with the questions relating to the Harry Potter themed English work and she has been designated scribe because Minx’s hands are tired, despite the fact she has only held the pen doodling. Mrs DNTW’s is dismayed to find that they are only on question 4 and they have already spent an hour arguing over whether Hermione would have had an easier time at school if she had learned early on about the beneficial properties of argan oil and serum for frizz-prone hair.

Child 3 has left the room and embarked on his designated movement break, disparagingly retorting that it is his right to leave after 45 minutes whether he has finished his French set piece or not.

His movement break seems to have incorporated a trip back to the bedroom on to his X-box and when subsequently summoned to return, his dulcet bellows of “I just need 5 more minutes to finish this match” ricochet off the walls from the 3rd floor all the way down.

This prompts Child 2 who is “self-studying” in his room to angrily fling open the bedroom door, music blaring from the dark, fetid cave-like dwelling to announce he cannot possibly get anything done with such inconsiderate shouting around him and he needs to assume a horizontal position on his bed, encased in a furry dressing gown until at least an hour of order and tranquility has been restored. Fortunately Mrs DNTW’s is wise enough not to engage in that battle and beats a hasty retreat.

Child Number 1 who actually left school several years ago and under usual circumstances would be at work, is also now confined to barracks until further notice. He chooses this time to grace us all with his presence and wonders down to the kitchen, bleary eyed, whereupon he opens the fridge door and gazes in forlornly until the beepy noise kicks in. With much dramatic sighing on his part, there is opening of multiple cupboard doors, also the freezer and trips back and forth to the garage for essential supplies. Mrs DNTW’s informs him that “no we don’t happen to have any lovely part-baked rolls, fluffy pancakes, nor lashings of beer, ginger or otherwise” to meet his brunch criteria.

Children 3 and 4 return to the dining room class-room and survey the bits of paper, pencil sharpernings and crumbly bits of broken rubber that seem to be peppered about the place despite Mrs DNTW’s not having witnessed any usage of items that would give rise to these annoyances. Mrs DNTW’s sighs and wonders weather by some form of stealth osmosis her dining room is absorbing waste matter from the many dormant class rooms scattered over the UK, indeed the rest of the world as the “C” word holds us all in captivity. In fact come to think of it, she notices that the room seems to be giving off an aroma most usually associated with the lingering scent of school dinners, pine disinfectant, sports lockers, lynx and farting. She makes a mental note to add Febreeze to her online shopping order which is scheduled in the earliest available slot, 9 week ahead.

Perhaps Child 1 is responsible for the odours as whatever he is doing in the adjacent kitchen (the door between is firmly closed) requires a lot of banging of saucepans, running of taps and occasional expletives.

This reminds Mrs DNTW’s that she has not time-tabled any musical activities for her sweet darlings and after briefly contemplating hunting down the old recorders and music books, she gives her head a wobble and reminds herself why she hid them in the first place. She decides that an afternoon of listening to Billie Eilish over and over again with a running commentary from the Minx detailing the video montage and seven gazillion You-Tube quips will serve this purpose perfectly. Child 3 can make do with revising his spotify play list.

After what seems an age but in reality is only another 45 minutes, the children are getting fractious and Mrs DNTW’s is feeling mutinous as she made the rooky mistake of opening the door to let the scrabbling dogs into the class-room – (what fun my darlings, we can do a live biology/veterinary course!) and caught the scene of utter carnage and devastation that was once her kitchen but is now a scourge of dirty cups, burnt bits on the hob, crumbs everywhere and judging by the greasy paw prints on various surfaces, Child 1 has left the butter out which the bl**dy cat has taken advantage of.

Dismissing the class, she briefly contemplates hauling Child 1 back downstairs and bludgeoning him with a rolling pin until the sanctity of her once pristine kitchen is restored but decides actually that some TIME OUT from her children and some vigorous scrubbing might be good for her blood pressure and rising feelings of wanting to puncture things (including people) with sharp objects.

Verily as she has cleaned down the last surface and re-stacked the dishwasher so that it contains more than one awkwardly loaded frying pan, 27,000 cups and glasses (so the off-spring had indeed previously been hoarding them in their bedrooms after all!!) and single spoon, her little urchins meander their way back into view and piteous cries of “we are starving/going to faint with hunger and die of thirst” reach a crescendo.

Equilibrium restored, Mrs DNTW’s tells her children she is just putting the finishing touches to home-made chicken noodle soup which WILL BE DELICIOUS and nutritious.

The steely glint in her eye almost but not quite convinces the heckling mob not to argue with her on this matter. Protestations are stared down (Paddington would have been impressed at the hardness of stare) and Child 1 dishes out Tiger Bread with lashings of dairy free spread that should have fed the family for a week and been usable to rustle up a couple of cakes (for the home economic lessons naturally!) but apparently merely only feeds a man-child in the last month of his teens. This causes such a cacophony of noise and uproar that Mr DNTW’s appears from the garden looking concerned, holding something that looks suspiciously like it should have belonged in the clean laundry cupboard and possibly masqueraded as Mrs DNTW’s favourite face muslin.

At this point of reappearance, Mrs DNTW’s suddenly realises that Mr DNTW’s has been suspiciously absent for his part of the educational responsibilities of the morning and her voice reaches that steely tone when you are not quite sure if she is spitting a bit whilst talking (Mr DNTW’s is standing the requisite 2 metre distance to comply with BoJo’s social distancing policy so can’t be certain) Mr DNTW’s acts afronted and tells her he has been cleaning up the garden doing vitally important repairs and necessities that form MEN’s WORK and in fact she should be responding with gratitude and affection. Oh and could she possibly wash his trousers because he had forgotten when he embarked on the pressure washing etc that he was still in his favourite ones and not his old man’s saggy bum, paint-stained jeans. Even the children realise this was a mistake of epic proportions given her current frame of mind.

Lunch is served, after hands have been scrubbed red raw for the umpteenth time, in something of an orderly fashion. Perhaps the jewels of her eyes are cognisant that Mum is not to be trifled with for now. There is the merry clinking of spoons in bowls and Mum tries not to think too hard about her lovingly purchased-month-by-month flatware, in terms of economic-chippings-to bowl- basis for it is not really the children’s fault, she supposes, that she seems to have raised a gaggle of baboons. Clearly it is their Father’s.

The lively chatter around the table turns to afternoon activities. Mum thinks that it will be delightful and heart-warming to get out for a family walk, thus sticking to the new government rules of one daily activity in the open air, en famille and exercising the pooches all in one fell-swoop!

Mum is proud of her genius and plans to allow electronics to be used for the purpose of identifying flora and fauna in the fresh, sun-light filled air, thereby covering science AND exercise in one. Whilst mentally patting herself on the back, she cajoles the children to find suitable foot-wear and coats. The children are stunned that Mum has agreed that electronics can be taken on the trip and haven’t yet figured out that Mum has no intention of letting them listen to music with gratuitous swear-words and You-Tube clips of Yoda from Star Wars giving advice on sticks, bushes of love and Sea Gulls Stop It Now! (If you have a moment look up Bad Lip Reading quips like the gem below;it’s worth a giggle in these troublesome times)

Child 4 notes that it is sunny and despite living in Northern England and there having been a hard frost on the ground when they awoke in the morning, appears in Daisy Duke style shorts, flip flops and a crop top. Mum manages not to swear and instructs child to return to bedroom and re don the sensible leggings she had on earlier. They compromise on the crop top under a wooly jumper and weekend trainers.

Child 2 appears in joggers, 7 layers of tops, winter coat with a furry lined hood and furry boot style slippers. Mum asks him to take at least 2 layers off and put on sensible foot wear.

Child 3 is nowhere to be found and when roared for, appears from the back of the car where he has been patiently sitting, wobbly of lip and wild of eye given the baying mob that are his family yelling in such unbecoming tones. Meanwhile the neighbours are wondering if contacting the police on 101 for an ASBO constitutes a genuine emergency in the grand scheme of things, especially given the “C” word crisis.

Child 1, in spite of being the oldest, is rushing around the house, whipping the dogs into a frenzy of excitement by hurling various toys at speed and excitedly yelling for them to retrieve. The dogs are delighted that FINALLY they are being given the attention they deserve and that everyone else seems to be joining in with the shenanigans, given the through traffic that is going on with various children traipsing up and down the stairs. The cat merely narrows her eyes witheringly and hopes they will all leave very soon so she can regurgitate the grass she has eaten on the parents bed. She is feeling a tad queasy since ingesting the butter.

Mr DNTW’s is BUSY doing things that involve removing all the shopping bags from the car, re-configuring seats to get the wheelchair, dog-crate and all children ensconced within. Not for the first time he reflects that he could have had a rather nice sports car for far less aggro & probably money too. He reminds himself that he is #truly blessed# & living his #bestlife though.

Everyone is now settled in the car. Although there were fisticuffs over the calling of shotgun, Mrs DNTW’s resisted clipping child number 2 round the side of the head (what would the neighbours think?!) and fought her corner so he resorts to sitting in the back, flicking his siblings randomly to annoy them and plotting 17 different ways to disembowel his mother.

Mr DNTW’s goes to start the car. However in a bid to be more ‘eco aware’ the family have recently purchased a hybrid vehicle which is still plugged into the outdoor charge point so is going nowhere. Frankly perhaps their green credentials might have been more impressive if they had resisted the urge to procreate all together but as Mrs DNTW’s is fond of saying “that ship has long since sailed!”

Sighing with effort and exhaustion from his earlier MEN’s work and the ear-splitting levels of bickering about who is breathing whose air, who has more leg room and other such scintillating snippets of conversation, MR DNTW’s climbs out of the car & disengages the charger. Having returned, clicked the seat-belt & started the engine, Mr DNTW’s is alarmed by the frantic arm waving exhibited by his good-lady wife (she is now on her mobile phone) and wonders whether she is demonstrating one of the latest on-trend dance crazes or having a fit of the vapours, when he realises she is indicating that he has left the hatch open on the side of the car where the charger had been connected. With bad grace he exits the car again to close the hatch.

Sarcastically asking the tribe if we can go now, Mr DNTW’s realises he has left the dog poo bags in the kitchen drawer so bad-temperdly goes back into the house to retrieve. When he returns, the car smells of farts which all are blaming on the poor dogs whilst Child Number 2 sniggers.

The engine is once again switched on and the family car begins creeping down the drive. Mum has now finished her phone call and asks if anyone brought the dog lead. There is an awkward silence. Mr DNTW’s is muttering viciously & attempts to re-enter the house, having forgotten the house alarm has been set. He finally emerges complete with lead, muzzle, dog-treats, gaffer tape, rope, Stanley knife and vaguely serial killer-esque grimace.

The DNTW’s collective make it onto the road and drive to the very beautiful, natural park for their uplifting outing and commune with nature. By the time they arrive, one of the dogs has been car-sick and 2 of the children are no longer speaking. At least this means it is relatively serene…. for the time being.

The dogs are let loose from the lead & promptly spot a RIVER. This is indeed a most excellent adventure and before Mrs DNTW’s has time to enquire whether anyone remembered to pack a towel, the dogs are happily wading in the shallows, ignoring the human’s instructions and proving that the doggy obedience training classes they attended really were a waste of time. Mum is reminded that there is NO SUCH thing as a BAD DOG only a BAD OWNER. She also reminds herself that since she failed dismally to train the children, it is hardly surprising that the dogs are feral and witless too.

Not THE river but a fab great big puddle anyway!

After 5 minutes of walking, child number 2 moans that he has had too much fresh air, he is hungry, he is thirsty, he is tired and he doesn’t understand why he had to leave all his bl**dy gadgets in the car, especially as all of nature is just 💩.

Child number 1 is as excitable as the throughly bedraggled and soaking dogs and has been reminded by his father that if he too enters the river, he will have to walk home. In his underpants.

Child 3 steps in something unpleasant. So does Child 4. There is much wailing; not just by Mum. The wheelchair wheels are also covered. Dad begins to wonder if nature is taking the proverbial. The dogs, now muddy as well as wet, debate rolling in the thing that their humans seem to be covered in. It might be fox 💩 which is definitely a favourite.

Child 2 asks whether he can buy a drink at the shops. And an ice-cream. Mum tuts and reminds him they are “socially distancing” and will not be frequenting the shops, especially as this does not constitute essential supplies. She retreats when he withers her with laser-eyes.

Child 2 asks if they have at least bought a picnic with jam sandwiches and slabs of cake, plus fizzy pop since this is what all good books detail as “essential” picnic food stuffs. He is unamused when Mum explains that the daily exercise allowance rules expressly forbids such tomfoolery in the time’s of the “C” apocalypse 🦠

The walk continues, punctuated by Mum’s squeals of delight that she has spotted a white flower, a yellow one & a big, twiggy-blossom-covered bush. Unfortunately, despite balancing on one leg, leaning precariously at an angle and dancing widdershins round a fallen log, she has no internet coverage and is therefore unable to identify any of the pretty flora.

It is fast becoming apparent that the children are merely a hares-breath from shoving one another & possibly their parents as well, into the river. The lovely walk turns into a break-neck speed hike back to the car in an effort to get the whole farcical adventure over as quickly as possible.

All breath a sigh of relief when the car is in sight, apart from Mr DNTW’s who realises that transporting this motley crew home, will render the previous days car-valeting that he spent many hours performing and perfecting, null and void. Ah well, when he gets home, as Mrs DNTW’s has had a lovely afternoon off, she can resume educating their precious darlings whilst he gets out his stellar assortment of cleaning products and cloths, especially the very nice, soft one he found in the clean laundry pile …..

Planes (no trains) & automobiles…..*

*also a boat(s) but that doesn’t scan as well!

** & yes I know it’s a film title..

Bonjour mes amours!

It is the end of the 6 weeks school summer holidays (in England) and we have been lucky enough to spend 2 gloriously hot weeks in Southern France, followed by a mammoth drive to Paris, a dabble in EuroDisney and now as I sit and type, we wait expectantly to board the boat back to Blighty…. for an onwards drive back ‘oop north.’

It has been epic; in all senses of the word. I don’t know if the ‘cool’ kids still use the word epic to describe an amazing time or not but it definitely falls under that.

Equally however, as per the Oxford English Dictionary classifications, our hols could be defined as a ‘heroic/grand saga’ requiring much ‘bravery’ and a ‘long and arduous journey;’ yeah definitely all of that…

It would be fair to say that when I first mentioned our 3000 mile (return) travel plans to various medical personnel involved with our enfants horribles , there was some *slightly* nervous tittering. And it wasn’t just me doing it. 😆

Apparently taking all 4 of your offspring aged between 10-19 on such a journey borders on insanity/madness. Especially if they also happen to have some issues….

And I won’t lie, it hasn’t all been champagne (not much of that actually!) and roses.

When Mr DNTW’s informed me he had booked for us to go away way back in March, Minx and I were cooped up in GOSH, awaiting the ‘big plan.’

It seems an age ago now but at the time, we were all in need of some cheering up as it had rapidly become apparent during that stay that we were in for the long haul; that the carefully laid plans thus far had been stomped on, ripped up and had gone awry. The more cynical of us *may* have argued that the plans had never been properly drawn up in the first place but that’s a whole other story…..

So when Mr D made his triumphant announcement about the booked holiday I was rather more concerned by where he had found the magic money tree to pay for said holiday (still looking 😉) or whether he had sold my collection of shoes & handbags on e-bay to pay for it!

Through the lengthy weeks of hospital time, hospital stays and subsequent limbo, having the holiday to focus on became a shining beacon of hope and something to really look forward to.

Despite Minx and G-Man’s combined efforts to throw (surgical) spanners in the works, their procedures came and went. Healings were (are) complicated and I had to stock up on the mobile equivalent of a field hospital which brought its own issues in terms of getting everything delivered in time and space in the car

No room at the inn…the grey trunks are all medical supplies…& there’s a roof box full as well!

I didn’t even really flinch (too) much at the astronomical quotes we got for travel insurance – ranging from cheapest at £1300 to £2600!!! Actually I did; I really did…. until I cried when the most reasonable company called me back after I had phoned to give them more info (like many I suspect our family don’t fit neatly into black and white questions: is …….a wheelchair user? Well yes but not all the of the time? Apparently that’s like being ‘slightly pregnant’ where insurance companies are concerned – you either are or aren’t, no middle ground) and declared that based on the additional details I had provided, Minx was in fact uninsurable!! 🙈 I hadn’t even mentioned the words “undiagnosed” – a veritable death knell where insurance is concerned!

Eventually after much research and consulting of the oracle – ie suggestions from wise friends, we went with our bank (who already provide us with an annual standard cover automatically) and just disclosed the ins and outs of our weirds and wonderful for a slightly less eye-watering cost that covers us world wide… bargain really!

The logistics of accommodating the varying needs of a large, dysfunctional family and ensuring everyone’s needs, sleeping arrangements, well-being, not to mention enjoyment, fun, food and safety could all be achieved (& without the budget of Croesus in the process) were significant but you know #nicerproblems# to have and all that.

Given our ASD’s son’s needs for a safe place to escape when overloaded and also just generally being a teenager, (🤢) we wanted to ensure he had his own room and a space for down time. So the right, affordable accommodation was paramount.

Eldest son H is now working and we weren’t sure if he would still want to come with the ‘rents on holibobs.

Turns out however that in-spite of us lowly oldies cramping his style, an expenses paid trip to sunnier climes, very much met with his approval! Funny that….

Given H works in the travel industry on contract, getting time off/shifts swapped to accommodate a break was like something out of the Krypton Factor and so he couldn’t join us for the entire trip.

I’ve already done my proud mama-bear boasting moment on my personal FB but just in case you missed it and also, well ‘just because’ here’s a little mini pic😊

He thought he could *probably* come in the car with us. He couldn’t…..whether he wanted to or not… I flatly renounced any such suggestions. We genuinely didn’t have the seat space or rather luggage space. The car being a 7 seater was neither here nor there.

In actual fact, I can’t help feeling that he rather got the best end of the deal: no long & ardous 2 full days of driving (& boat) journey to contend with, no smelly cooped up car with fractious siblings (& even more fractured parents); merely a solo 2 hour flight in blissful air con before arriving, unflustered in Nice. Nice in Nice and all that…. 🌝🌞

I’ll spare you the ennui of a day by day, blow by blow account of the DNTW’s vacation extraordinaire (almost as enthralling as looking at other people’s holidays snaps right?! 😉) but suffice to say it wouldn’t have been an “us” holiday without hospital trips… yes that’s right. Trips plural.

Surprisingly, the child I thought most likely to test-drive the French medical system and give my school-girl French a run for its money, behaved herself.

However, I was more than slightly out of my comfort zone when having to liaise with the French emergency and medical services for 2 of the rest of the gang.

It transpires my ’comprehensive’ French knowledge of menus, food stuffs in general, encore du vin (more wine!) and where is the toilet/library phrases memorised from school weren’t terribly helpful or useful. In fact I think the alleged (possibly apocryphal) Hungarian phrase “my postillion has been struck by lightning” (in French) would have been more helpful than what I do know of the French medical terminology.

Nonetheless, I attempted my best “Franglais” and despite murdering the language of lurve, (I never really thought I would fervently wish I had studied French tenses in greater detail but turns out I was wrong) some Gallic shrugging, frantic gesticulating and resorting to google translate as well as stick drawings, I made myself (sort of) understood; enough anyway that the right areas of my children’s’ anatomies/difficulties were attended too on both occasions. I think I probably gave the medics a bit of a giggle at my expense too…. intended to ask if I could sit but actually suggested I was a plate… I blame too much sun, shock & being very tired for that one and anyway, ‘assayez’ and ‘assiete’ are quite similar 🤔

Fortunately it transpires that the words for ‘jejunostomy’ and ‘autism’ in French are essentially much the same, although they sound decidedly more exotic and sexy en francaise. Pathological demand avoidance and sensory processing disorder don’t however seem to translate…. 🤷🏻‍♀️

In any event the care we received from our European brethren was par excellence, albeit if I hadn’t already appreciated our marvellous FREE at the point of use #NHS# as much as I do, I definitely would have done by the time we proceeded to the billing department.

Much like the UK, the French medical system do have a duty of care to provide emergency care irrespective of your ability to pay but they are VERY quick to demand your passport & health document details and even if you possess an EHIC ( https://www.nhs.uk/using-the-nhs/healthcare-abroad/apply-for-a-free-ehic-european-health-insurance-card/) you may find you are presented with a bill immediately.

It does however have to be said that for the care we received – ambulance trip by 3 emergency personnel, urgent care access, paediatric emergency Doctor consult, 4 xrays, resulting antibiotics, wound care and dressings – the resulting €92 bill was very reasonable… and perhaps something that given the dire status of our health system and the amount of “health tourism” that seems prevalent in our country, something that needs further consideration in good ole Blighty.

We didn’t get presented with a bill for our “Second day out with the emergency services” away day when we checked out; maybe it was my presence of mind to thrust the EHIC document straight at them BEFORE actual treatment took place or maybe due to the comprehensive nature of tests that were required, they took pity and felt presenting me with an eye-watering invoice might also necessitate an ECG of my own but I am told we will receive it in the post….. I won’t hold my breath for obvious reasons!!

One bizarre observation I will venture: when sitting in French Doctor/hospital waiting rooms, it transpires it is necessary to greet all those who walk in and out with a chirpy “Bonjour” or smiley “Au revoir!” How mad is that?! They don’t do the politely British thing of ignoring each other at all costs, eyes down-cast, studying the floor and hoping no one in your immediate vicinity is Ebola carrying when they cough & splutter into a hankies. Non! There is a lot of eye contact and even some bisous (kissing) when they (presumably) know each other. Another good reason to have nothing to do with trains in this post – if they greet each other like this at the Doctors, I can’t even imagine what they get up to on locomotives – definitely not the British way!

Thankfully, the vast majority of our holiday was a break away from all things medical (aside from the standard doling out of pills, lotions, potions & generalised care the kids necessitate day to day) and whilst I wouldn’t necessarily go as far as to say it was relaxing, it has been great to enjoy time together, sun, sea, days out, pool days, ice-creams, the odd Kir-Royale 🍸 (or 3) here and there and a last hurrah with the younger 2 at DisneyLand Paris.


Pre Thunder Mountain…. there weren’t quite such good spirits after 🤣

So now we are returning home, no doubt back to an enormous pile of bills (maybe the French hospital one will have beaten us home?!) laundry and lord knows what state the house will be in as the older 2 have been home without us over the last few days…. But we have suntans and smiles and precious memories and that makes it all worthwhile

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