IT IS almost holiday time in our household. In fact, we go tomorrow. Due to leave at lunchtime, which, judging on past experience, means we will set off around 3pm, forget something, drive back, retrieve the necessary item and drive off again, much to the neighbours’ amusement.
I will then say, “Is the cooker definitely off/front door locked/back door shut?, at which point my husband will look at me witheringly and then it will start to rain. That’s when we will officially know we are on our way.
With just a matter of hours to go I still have to lug the suitcase out of the attic and, of course, pack.
The children are under strict instruction that only one piece of hand luggage each is allowed. I am going to set Ryanair-esque standards. Lessons have been learned from times I let them pack their own bags, only to be confronted with a hallway full of assorted cuddly dogs and teddies all lined up waiting to get in the car. And yes, I do realise I am fighting a losing battle. After all, what’s the point of going by car if you can’t take your favourite toys? All of them.