This week I went out on a mum's Christmas do for the mums of children in my son's class at school. I was really looking forward to a nice meal. And it was a nice meal. It was also my first night out ever with this particular group of people. Did I want to go home after the meal? No. So a few of us carried on to a pub. At closing time we moved on to the next pub. At closing time we moved on to a place with a dance floor. At closing time we moved on to the local nightclub, a proper dive, but great fun when you are rather drunk. At closing time we headed home, unsteadily. It was 3am when I got home and fell into a deep slumber.
I was woken at 8.45 by my husband and we had exactly 30 minutes before we needed to leave to Ingleborough Caves to see Father Christmas. In that half hour I packed bags for going away that night, washed, dressed, and groaned a little. OK, a lot. I made it into the car but, for obvious reasons, my husband had to drive. I am not a good passenger at the best of times, so it is fair to say that it was never going to bode well. Roughly ten minutes away from Father Christmas, whilst directing my husband on the route, I was unceremoniously repeatedly sick in a plastic bag. Very classy. Not my finest moment as a parent, throwing up on the way to see Father Christmas, but it made me chuckle rather a lot, and I had spent the evening before feeling very festive!
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