We booked three days of holiday a few months back, a family trip to Astrid Lindgren's Värld over on the other side of Sweden. Not really a holiday for us, exactly, seeing as staying in a tiny holiday cottage with both of our kids, Uncle D and Cousin V wasn't likely to be restful exactly.
With the relentless inevitability of, say, a British politician being shit, F developed chicken pox the minute we got on the train.
There's no development after that punchline. No topping that. Any vestige of relaxation melted away in a wash of febrile temperatures, weeping blisters and crazed tantrums. Exhausted after three days away in a giant playpark during the worst illness she's yet had, F's crowning scream was on the platform of Katerineholm station. A car gently tooted as it left the carpark, maybe a last farewell salute to someone. F went off like someone electrocuting a Wilhelm Scream.
So if you're feeling disappointed that there was no blog post last month, you can cram it. Sorry. There is no mental health left for creativity here, just ringing ears, aloe vera balm and the certainly knowledge that C, who was licking F's feet this morning, will be doing exactly the same in around ten days.
Astrid Lingren Värld is lovely, by the way, a benevolent haven of polite Swedes in orderly queues and well-kept miniature villages. You should all go there. I feel there is probably an 'alternative to Brexit' kind of joke in there, but I'm far to miserable about that particular spectacular immolation of credibility to attempt my own.
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