A plop-di-doo-dah sort of weekend

We have returned from a break-ette in south Cornwall.  It was all a bit grim, truth be told, as Mark and I were ill all weekend.  Really, I am not ill that often, (despite all whingeing evidence to the contrary) but boy, almost every moment of the misery and gloom of it all seeps into every pore of my memory and colours the days dark and bleak. 

It all started off so well.  We stopped on the way down at Flambards, where we had never been before, thinking this to be an ace idea, since we had a friend of Oliver's with us this time.  Turns out he is one of those kids who doesn't go on rides.  Honestly, what is the matter with children these days.  I have a theory that too much indoor play and computer crap has rendered them soft and incapable of handling fairground rides at speed and spin.  We grew up being outside all the time and hence were incredibly physically active, on bikes, climbing through bushes and trees, playing tag-type games and generally became pretty robust.  Therefore rides of any sort were not to be feared as they were seen as an extension of the mindless physical play we already indulged in.  I have no memory of EVER choosing to stay inside to watch the TV!!!! Cripes what an idea.  We had three channels to choose from in black and white up until about 1978, video didn't exist and the internet a mere cursor on the horizon.  Hells Bells, it seems like the dark ages, it really does.

Anyway, I digress.  With Oliver's friend refusing point blank to partake of any thrills and spills, I went on this with him:

 

I think I should point out that I was feeling not ill at that time, and this was a bearable foray into white-knuckle world.  It was pretty high though.  One of those rides that suddenly plummets down from a great height.  I am a big fan of these.  I like that rush in the tummy and that sense of falling.  I will do a skydive one day. 

That's Mark down there, between my boots.  Ha ha.

The victorian village and England in the blitz were very good, and I wish I hadn't been feeling the first throes of quesiness, because I really love things like this, and had been looking forward to it.

Leaving there and on to Sea Acres, Oliver's friend suffered from travel sickness.  Bloody hell.  This I have sympathy with.  I absolutely don't mind at all - what I minded was that his mother hadn't said anything to me about it, and neither had he, but he admitted he had been sick on a coach before, and that he had a bag with him for vomit purposes.  This, in my opinion, is a vital piece of information which parents should pass on, as the consequences of potentially having puke in the car for the whole weekend are a) considerably vile and b) considerably expensive to get valeted as there would be no way I would be cleaning that up.  In fact, I am pretty sure his mum asked about the travel sick issue when he rang her in the evening, judging by his mumbled response 'yeah, a little bit'.  I was fuming about this all weekend.  I would have liked a heads up about his potential heads down. 

Skimming the details, the weekend was spent with Mark and I barely managing the essentials of looking after two boys with whoever felt the least ill at the time flinging together the crappiest and simplest of meals for them - pasta and a jar of pesto almost defeated me on Saturday night.  Bless them, they had a good time being together and at least got to swim, play crazy golf and Halo lego endlessly.  With the arrival of the super plops on Sunday morning, I was veeerrrrrry glad to see home on Sunday afternoon.

Nuff said.

Last night was bonfire night, Guy Fawkes night, whatever.  My childhood memories of the 5th November are full of real live bonfires in our garden, which started when it got dark, and went on for hours.  Every year we tried to cook potatoes in it, every year they were still raw despite being in the inferno for ever.  We had fireworks but a few times, as they were costly and caused much grumbling from my father about value for money.  I know where he is coming from.  Yesterday, after desperate pleas from Oliver,  I purchased some from Sainsburys.  I got the sense that it was akin to buying cocaine.  It was so cloak and dagger.  I am glad I had Oliver with me or I felt I would have had to prove they were for 'personal use' and that I wouldn't stick them up someone's exhaust pipe or try to light them all at once in my handbag with a blowtorch. 

Unsurprisingly they were a let down.  Our rockets expended so much energy getting up into the air that they didn't so much explode as just drop out of the sky.  The ones labelled 'laser blast' and 'dragons breath' had us yelling down the garden 'is that it?' as they gave off as much light display as a swan vesta at two hundred paces and the sound level of a packet of crisps being opened down the road.  Still, there was one which let off such a loud bang over our heads that I screamed and virtually threw myself down in terror onto the decking.  They are made of real gunpowder you know.  Anyhow, there was ironic giggling to be enjoyed and there were sparklers - there always are, and Mr Pumpkin got another outing. 

Next year we will save ourselves a few quid and just set the shed on fire instead.