I’ve visited Wembley IKEA, but I last spent proper time in London 12 years ago when my eldest was eight weeks. I hadn’t thought through things like breastfeeding on a rush-hour tube- with a rucksac on my back and the baby in a complex set of straps on front.
It was probably unfair I took against my capital city after that. This weekend the sun was out, I had another adult to help me and four weaned children carrying their own stuff.
And then on Monday, my youngest developed chicken pox. It explained why he’d been a bit whingey and decided to sit down in the middle of the pavement on a couple of occassions. He’d done rather well considering he’d been incubating a virus.
I found the rash in the middle of TESCOs. We were duty-bound to get out of there as quickly as possible, but I’d done most of my shopping and we were only an aisle away from a bottle of Calpol and some cooling spray. We left the store prepared for quarantine.
Tuesday was unpleasant for a while. The victim developed a blister in his mouth and didn’t want to eat anything, but he was on over-cooked pasta and yoghurt by teatime.
And today it looks as if everything’s crusted over. His appearance may clear play parks and swimming pools, but he’s no longer infectious. We can leave the house.