I stole the enormous slices of carrot cake from the supermarket staff’s Christmas party, then LM and I gorged ourselves in an illicit bedroom picnic.
The pretty little red-haired toddler gazed up at the snow-topped range from the car window and shouted “Highlands!” Neither SG, in the driver’s seat, nor the child’s parents seated in the back with me, responded. I therefore took it upon myself to correct her. We were now passing through the mountains of the borders, having just crossed from Scotland into England. The herds of indigenous Northumbrian elephants grazing at roadside were magnificent. When we spotted a calf with a broken leg SG decided that we should buy some food to help the wounded animal, so pulled in at a roadside cafe. The Indian owners were most welcoming, but before I could stop him SG started to harangue them to join his new republic. This was so embarrassing. Rather than attempt to drag SG off these poor people I lingered at the back of room, feigning interest in the Indian-Northumbrian fusion decor, while listening to The Archers broadcast over the loudspeakers. By the time we climbed back into the car we had all completely forgotten about the distressed baby elephant. When I finally remembered it once more I managed to convince myself that it was bound to have been rescued by some passing retired vet or other.