The bank holiday weekend has been one endless stream of...fun. Although, as Jerry Seinfeld says, 'There's no such thing as fun for the whole family,' so possibly not all of us were enjoying exactly the same moments.
Saturday was a birthday party for a four-year-old, and all three of my children were invited: joy. This eliminated the opportunity for rows to break out over the fact that Gertie receives far more invitations to parties and functions generally than either of her younger brothers. It was also good for Mummy, who didn't have to be in three different places at the same time (which is my usual weekend party trick).
Sunday began with a christening. The service began at 10.30 and finished at 12.15. This was long by any stretch of the imagination, even for mine who are used to attending Mass. After about an hour Gilby turned to me looking quite pale. 'Mummy, I'm not feeling very well. I need to get out of here. I'm....church-sick.' He said it like it was a well-known condition, akin to car-sickness. Something that would pass immediately, once one was away from the cause. This, of course, would ensure that I couldn't counter with any suggestion that he be too ill to attend the christening party afterwards. Clever, I thought. Though judging by the discomfort on many of the adults in the surrounding pews, they too were suffering from Gilby's affliction.
It was a lovely party afterwards though, in glorious sunshine in the garden of a local pub, and, as predicted, Gilby was soon cured. We couldn't stay all afternoon, however, since we had to get back and pack up for our camping trip. Yes, camping trip - our first time. We were camping in the woods near the house of some friends. It had all seemed like such a good idea when we decided to it on the spur of the moment the previous evening. We bought a tent on ebay and picked it up that morning. No chance to test it out or even check it was all in one piece. Actually, it wasn't, but that was by design. Two bedrooms, no less. No en suite though.
So, a bit of back-to-nature for us. A roaring camp fire, toasting marshmallows, three in a bed, (the lack of a ground-sheet for the outer living area meant that poor old Gilby couldn't sleep in his cot) last minute checks for lurking gruffaloes: all a great adventure. Mummy froze, though, in the night, and was too worried about everyone else worrying to drink as much wine as she ought to have done. I wanted to keep myself under the limit in case a midnight flit back to civilisation was required. In fact, this couldn't have happened in any case, as the flat battery on the car in the morning testified. Much huffing and puffing and pushing was required before we were eventually rescued by a digger and jump-leads. It was not the finest moment. Still, it was an experience. The kids came home filthy and desperate to do it again. Mummy will have a couple of glasses of red and think about it. Cheers!