If sleep is the cousin of death, then parenting is surely
the step-brother of PTSD. Oftentimes I’d rather host a cage fight on my lap
than listen to another minute of their shrieking, fighting, yelling and door
slamming. I can’t hear myself think, as my father used to say (and God help me,
I catch myself saying these days too). I haven’t the wit to plan a cup of tea,
much less a day's itinerary.
You can imagine then how chuffed I was to receive a long
white envelope with instructions as to how my next Sunday was going to pan out:
a family trip to the East Anglia Game & Country Fair!
There’s going to be a chain-sawing competition, 21 squaddies on a motorbike and EAGLES! You have no idea how much I love eagles.
I am so wearing tweed.
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