A break with bubble mates leads to a fight over toys. Thank goodness for a noisy lion
Last week, with the easing of restrictions, we took a break to Essex with friends and bubble mates, Mary, Neave and their son Manu. I never ‘holidayed with friends’ growing up because our 13-seater minibus was usually at maximum occupancy, and few families professed any desire to accompany our rabble to a second location. So it felt adult and sophisticated to go away on a relaxing family trip with pals; the sort of thing rich English people do in sumptuous midcentury dramas.
Our trip reached new heights of relaxation when our son refused – for the 1,000th time that day – to share his trucks with Manu, causing them both to clatter to the ground like spilled pennies. Our boy arose, bawling, with a welt on his head the size, shape and colour of an uncooked Ikea meatball. This slowly filled the gap between his temple and left ear, and started bleeding. We immediately jumped in the car and sped to the nearest hospital, a 30-minute drive away.
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