Day 4:
I am struck down with some kind of tummy bug (of course, in French, it would be something much more serious & Latin-sounding, requiring, at the very least, suppositories…). I spend most of the day in bed, emerging only occasionally to bravely nibble on a piece of toast.
Apparently, the others are enjoying a glass of wine and the Christmas spirit. Morale: 0.
FH ventures out to get “food supplies”… and returns with six Magnums, a huge box of chocolates and a jar of Nutella. He is taking advantage of Christmas, my weakened state and the conciliatory presence of my Mum to get away with things I normally frown upon.
“Making fire is hungry work,” he informs me haughtily, when challenged.
“Right, our ancestral cavemen always had a big jar of Nutella to hand, I’m sure…” I snap (sick, but not too sick to be sarcastic).
Day 5:
Sick. Sick. Sick.
BB is no longer interested in me. I have become a boring lump under the bedclothes. He only pops in sporadically, to check if there are any half-eaten bits of toast lying around (and if so, eat them, of course).
I feel as though I have been wrapped in this same flowery duvet for half my life. Weird: could it be some sort of Christmas allergy?
By the end of the day, BB is chanting “Papa! Papa! Papa!” constantly, and looks pained if forced into my weak, sickly arms for more than a few seconds.
Children can be so harsh.
Day 6:
It snows. And snows. And snows.
The snow piles up all around us. The Twingo is smothered. FH fits the expensive chains to the tyres with notable glee.
“So… good job somebody thought to buy chains…” I say smugly.
“Yeah! Lucky we did that!” FH agrees. Saved again by his unfailing selective memory.
He is positively bubbling with excitement at the prospect of driving home tomorrow, in chains.
I, on the other hand, imagine us skidding off the road and plunging into a vast ravine, a thousand metres further down. I try to keep these thoughts mainly to myself.
In the event, of course, we get home safely.
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