And then, just when I thought all was quiet, and I could settle down for a precious hour of grown-up time, my husband out for the evening, the house to myself, the cub is sick, all over pyjamas, duvet and pillow! With a painfully thin frosting of grace covering over the welling tears, I change all the bed-clothes, pile up the washing for tomorrow, put the first load on.
We go out to run about,but then they want to go in the woods, in the mud, in their shoes, through the low branches that I don't fit under. Feet are stamped at me, backs turned on me and I am called names. Then we discover the loss of the precious commerative 50p piece, left with me apparently, or on the table, or maybe taken out to play. Two children crying, no resources left and my best attempts to make the most of a rough morning feel like smoking ashes.