Of course we had neglected to remember that at the very least, such a manoeuvre required that at least one of us was required to ring the school and report the absence of our progeny.
Having had recently handed in not one but two absence request forms in the same number of weeks (one for Glastonbury when the monsters had to be ferried across town the night before we left in order to be foisted on my advanced-in-years father and heavily pregnant baby sister) AND another one when the husband transported the two elder boys up to Yorkshire to watch some Tour de France thingy (don't ask - I don't 'do' cycling nor am I the least bit interested in cycling-related activities - even when it pertains to my brood. I suspect my disinterest is rooted in my serious aversion to the vile costuming mandatory for the sport, but who knows...)
|bacon butties anyone?|
|black...the ONLY colour for a festival manicure|
I point black refused. I explained to the husband (in quite a reasonable and heartfelt manner I felt) that since I deal with the school office all year, it was important that he take the hit for this one and allow me to save face for next year - Egg's final year there - when I'm sure a situation will arise whereby I'll have to relinquish my final 'get out of jail card free' and maintain at least a modicum of believability and a smidgen of integrity. Whereas he could just play the feckless Dad who 'like totally forgot' it was last day of term and had driven out of London with his little ones careening down the motorway in his rickety old camper van, oblivious to the fact that he had thus garnered yet another tick on the 'absentee' chart for the boys.
|What responsible parenting looks like in 2014|
|Making fruit string jewellery beats making sums any day|
But he also refused. So a stand off ensued. And because my nails were still drying (I swear) and because I was as content as a fat cat basking in a sun drenched window seat and he somehow knew that any form of manipulation or verbal abuse at this point would be utterly pointless, he grunted with annoyance and took himself off to 'make the call'.
I recently finished a great book by Neil Gaiman, "The Ocean At The End Of The Lane" wherein the child protagonist comments upon the fact that grown ups are really just children in big cumbersome bodies. No truer words were ever spoken. A few short hours later a good friend of ours humiliatingly captured (and posted on Facebook - cheers for that darling) a picture of the husband and I playing out a fairly heated round of 'best out of three' "Paper-Scissors-Stones" for who would have to change the Fat Baby's big smelly festival poo in the heat of the mid-day sun. I(uncharacteristically) lost. Drat and Buggery.
But catch him I eventually did. Then set about trying to locate the rest of our clan who were (surprise surprise) found, predictably, right in front of possibly the worst value children's entertainment known to man...ever...the 'quid a go slide', the impoverished husband wearing a weary facade of boredom and defeat - the children ecstatic. A bloody brilliant (or was it just the vodka redbull accompaniment?) production of "Cat In The Hat" followed, after which various bands were enjoyed, decent enough foodstuffs consumed, and much fun and frolicking was had by all.
|Why pay a tenner for a 'official program' when a bespoke handwritten schedule will do? :)|
|Luke Wright...wickedly witty|
|Is it me or is Tim Booth lately morphing into a (long-skirted) fiend from Hell?...|
|Twenty-Four Hour Party (little) People...|
I loved the weekend. I loved Latitude. Like a wise golden-haired little lass once said, "This one is too BIG....and this one is too SMALL...but THIS ONE is JUST RIGHT."
And so was Latitude.