YOUNGEST Child’s birthday dawns a bright, silent monochrome. Snow.
Thank you God/The Snow Queen, whoever. Now we can go sledging and ignore the fact her birthday party will be a month late because I couldn’t do Christmas hell and birthdays. I’m dreading it – a gym party. Someone’s bound to get injured, then there’s the food, the party bags, the tears – sorry but after 17 years, I’m partied out. No wonder Kate Middleton’s ma sports that whippet-thin, rictus grin look.
So, a nice – free – sledging outing with friends before present opening and birthday tea. Middle Child has made a cake and bought her earrings, Eldest secured a video of questionable suitability (her favourite kind) and I’ve quashed my Ugg boot objections, to save repeat buying of lookie-likies and wear and tear on my lugs.
Out on the slopes Youngest Child and her equally fearless wee pal set off, warnings about avoiding the big rampy thing left behind as they hurtle at break-neck speed towards it, take off, hang in the air 5ft up and thud to the ground.
Next stop accident and emergency. Potential spine damage turns out to be an actual badly bruised bum.
“What a birthday. I won’t be able to walk for a month,” she sobs as we hobble to the car.
“True. Better cancel your gym party.”
“Nice try. I don’t think so.”
Kids’ parties. There is no escape.