Camping in
Graham took himself off to the Vumba for 3 days of competitive golf this past weekend and the kids and I were left to fend for ourselves. In our newfound freedom we decided to go camping on Friday night – in the front garden … we are so brave. As it turns out, our courage faded with the sun, and come bedtime we were inventing reasons to sleep indoors. Tyla won out with the most convincing argument about not being able to find the loo or the torch or the necessary daring in the middle of the night. So we shuffled sheepishly back into the house and all piled into my bed for a night of giggles and fighting for the covers.
On Saturday we ventured out to watch the fireworks display, feeling guilty about leaving the dogs home alone. We packed our picnic basket, the essential bottle of wine for me, some strawberries and cheese, and pizza for the kids. The children ran around like mad things for hours, then ate, then got a bit bored waiting for the fireworks to start. I felt no pain having anaesthetized myself sufficiently with Nederburg Baronne, the full effects of which only made themselves known, thankfully, when I got within spitting distance of my bed.
Sunday found us enjoying lunch at Aunt Jen’s with yours truly vigorously (an exaggeration) participating in animated discussion around the psychology of smell and how people will happily smell your wrist, but will balk when you hold out 2 fingers for them to sniff at – which ended in a fit of giggles. After food, and the vain exhortation to my children to eat (“I’m not going to cook anything for dinner you know” – ever hopeful) I propped my frail head against the sun lounger amongst the old folk and snoozed behind dark glasses, surreptitiously you understand.
I’m sure no-one noticed.