“I want to be toasty!” he wailed, when I got a fit of the grapples and try to wrestle it off.
“I need comfort,” he said.
I was sad, too. We all are.
For T11 has gone off on a week’s residential fun (archery to zip-wires) and we have been missing him terribly.
“We have to let go, and at least we know they're all having a nice time; and that helps,” said wise, sensible, grown up friend, stating the bleeding obvious and making me feel foolish.
The house, friends, could not be smaller.
The car needs to be upgraded to a sort of bus.
The husband does not drive.
Even J now thinks that that enough was enough and she was only a day in.
Listening to myself wailing about being down to one, I pictured the nappies, the trailing round of 3 tinies and a baby. The laundry. If contemplating that lot doesn't exhaust you, you are no friend of mine. I glanced around and thought that things weren’t so bad.
“Sad, yes, for a bit,” said the grimmest, trying to look thoughtful and caring, “but the relief, too!” She and Not So Grim chortled.
F9 looked up at me. "Toasty!" he said, in his best Northern accent.