Some days you just have to throw caution, routine, and a fair amount of common sense way way way out of the window. And then forget about it, or hope it rains on it.
It was one of those days.
It didn’t start out like that I promise; I was full of good intentions, early trips to the supermarket before the sun was barely up, dinner pre-cooked by half eleven, and even a load of laundry out on the line in the sunshine.
Sunshine! That must have been it. It’s the Mad March Hare syndrome; only in February. Only that would explain why when we all got back from watching H play hockey and we’d patched up his war wounds and fed him a sandwich we found ourselves strapping two rather snoozy little girls into the back of the car at 4pm and heading out to the shops.
They slept most of the way there, and then as Elma chuckled and chattered from the snuggly warmth of her buggy, and Kitty (cardigan abandoner extraordinaire) moved from teeth chattering to actually chatting after the emergency purchase of an extra cardie, we pottered our way between shops, crossing errands off a mental to-do list, and doing more than a little window shopping.
The sun set, and with the dark came the cold, and the crowds started to thin, trailing away from the lighted windows to the hazy orange glow of the car park.
Elma was hungry, despite polishing off the snack we’d packed, and Kitty was getting to that stage of three year old where something needs to change really rather soon before the pixies come and run off with your child when you’re not looking and leave you with an imp instead.
My answer; crepes. A few days early it’s true, but hot warming fresh crepes; nectar to a chilly soul.
And that my friends is how you would have found our little family yesterday evening at about the bath and bedtime time of proceedings; sat on a bench tucking into cheese, ham and mushroom (H), banana (Elma), cinnamon apple and crème fraiche (me – and yes it’s as delumptious as it sounds) and chocolate (Kitty).
Because there’s nothing quite like an abundance of sugar when it’s supposed to be bedtime (ish).
As a general rule we try not to overdo it on the chocolate, or the sugar, or the just a bit processed front, but every now and then ….!
Kitty, with one long chocolate smear reaching from chin to eyebrow, and delicate polka choc spots on the opposite cheek, cheerily wiped sticky fingers on the nearest available fabric (fortunately H’s hankie) and started a series of Frere-Jaques based pixie dances back and forth between us and her favourite shop window, while Elma gave her full rapt attention to tearing away chunks of pancake and digging out the prized banana slices.
The adults of the party were a little more restrained, but no less sticky by the time we’d all finished.
So was it worth it? Well we kept them up long past their bedtime, we gave them chocolate/banana crepes and supposedly spoiled their suppers (although both happily tucked in when we got home), and yet – and yet I hope that perhaps for Kitty at least one day she will look back on today and it will have snarled itself around her memory; a golden memory of childhood; the day we went to Bicester and ate pancakes in the dark.