I left the living room for a moment and on my return I found it all hot and bothered.
OK. I took a little more than a moment.
After all, dressing myself involved intermittent whoops and prancing around semi-nakedness.
I have managed to secure us a little holiday. All six of us. An affordable holiday. We’re off to the south of France. I’ve booked a beach house in November. We’ll build sandcastles in the wind and window-shop through the glass of closed seasonal stores.
We’ll roam deserted beaches with rain or stormy sea-water splashing in our faces. We won’t jet ski. We won’t sunbathe. We won’t swim in the nice warm sea. But we may take our shoes off for a little paddle and warm ourselves up again running away across shell-splintered sands. *Note to self remember plasters.*
I am delirious.
Hence the whooping.
Not hence the semi-nakedness.
Bra’ed and panted I skipped to the wash-room only to discover that I’d forgotten to take the washing out of the machine. Again. Determined not to wash the load for a third time, I held my breath in an attempt to ignore the fusty smell. Mother Nature will help me, I decided. And if not there’s always Febreze.
I put on a new wash while being distracted by a four-year-old deciding to change her outfit again. For the love of God it’s not even 10:30 yet. Evidently, I was not distracted enough, because she managed to trap herself in a tightly closed belt. It took me several minutes to loosen the buckle enough for her to step out of the contraption. The whole time she tried to maintain a basic breathing function and hold in her tears.
One freed child later, we mounted the stairs together heaving one basket of smelly washing.
We entered the living room to be smacked in the face with a heat wall of 26°C.
One teenager having gone outside, to celebrate the sunshine and having forgotten to close the bloody door.
Chardonnay any one?