Can't blog. Children attached to every part of me, swinging off my arms and farting on my head and demanding I repair things that require an MSc and a giant tool kit and leaving black felt tip pens lidless on taupe sofas.
I had this rosy vision of how this half term visit to England would go. This was, of course, my first mistake. Anyway. The vision went something like: remind eager ruddy cheeked boys of their favourite infant haunts, enjoy the magnificent free museums, catch up with old friends and meet new ones over civilised pots of proper tea and sponge cake, experience the wonder of wintry London. Find the odd hour to go and buy paperbacks and Fresh cosmetics and decent yoghurt, blah blah. I am not sure what drugs I was on when I conjured up this idyll but I really wish they had not run out. I seem to have spent the last 72 hours in a state of fuddled exhaustion, ceding to my children's increasingly ridiculous demands, whilst going to the exact same places as the entire population of Europe. The horror, the horror of half term London is vampirically sucking every last drop of my brain out through my nostrils, whilst emptying my wallet and leaving only a trail of broken plastic behind.
I think this morning has finally finished off my happy illusions and also my will to live. Suffice to say that at one point we had to hide in the geology department of the Natural History Museum while I hyperventilated and even THAT was packed to the gills with knowledge thirsty families having jolly debates about sedimentation. I quite liked the bit where we sat on the steps of the Science Museum shop in the middle of a swirling mass of consumption, while Fingers wailed at the lack of replacement Wall-E parts and I tried to construct a 40 piece skeleton pterodactyl and Lashes vanished. Fingers and I have watched Lashes' back speed away from us on a random trajectory at a million miles an hour so many times that Fingers remarked we should call him Sonic the Hedgehog. That I still have Sonic in my custodianship at all this afternoon is a testament only to the power my wallet exercises over him. Soon I will have to resort to laying a trail of five pound notes back to the house if I ever wish to see him again. And also, the Rainforest Cafe. Just, the Rainforest Cafe. If Dante had been to the Rainforest Cafe, the Divine Comedy would look veeeerry different, and with many more animatronic snakes, cheerful youths mussing your hair with crocodile hand puppets and hour long waits for chips and the once in a lifetime opportunity to bleed more money through your nose to the sound of robotic cicadas.
There is a horrible silence downstairs where I have corralled the spawn on pain of "a long trip to a shop where they sell nothing but bowls" (as IF I could carry through). The last time that happened they were smearing chocolate pumpkin novelties over a cream cushion. I had better go and wave fifty pound notes in front of their jaded faces.
Tomorrow, York. I'd say it can only be an improvement, but I have learned my lesson and will not be tempting fate so blithely again.