Chree

I couldn’t play My Little Pony any longer. The Husband didn’t want to pretend to be a brother, again. The Eldest, who is a brother, was holed up in his room with the curtains shut and his ear phones on being as dull as it is possible for a human being to be.

We needed to get The Youngest out of the house. We needed to release her into the wild. We went to Wrest Park. There’s lots of space to run at Wrest Park, plenty of slopes to roll down and lots of other children for her to ask their names.

It was lovely.

We forgot to take snacks so spent £16.40 on some biscuits, two bottles of water and two teas. The Youngest pinched her leg climbing onto the toilet then, between sobs, refused to go for a wee. The Eldest rolled down a slope then moaned about the grass in his pants for EVER. Then there was the row, the row about how to spell tree.

This is what happened when we told The Youngest that tree doesn’t begin with ch.

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She came back. Eventually.

I loved it, there was a brass band and ice creams. We’re going back next week, with snacks and a dictionary.

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