Bad Mother's Day

Today has been unnecessarily medical.

First off, having lost a filling over the weekend, the only appointment available to me before about - oh, June 2014, was at the exact time that Beri and Sid should have been eating lunch. Because I don't actually do Forward Planning in any meaningful way (apart from having set the video timer for House on Thursday, and that's still two whole days away, so that makes me organized, ok?) we stopped in at the baker's on the way down. Because I do actually draw the line somewhere, I instructed the children to wait until we were in the dentist's waiting room before they ate, rather than eat in the street.

What a fantastic idea! Have you any notion of just how crumby those big sausage rolls are? All over the sofa, the children and the floor. The best bit was showers of slightly spit-laden flaky pastry settling gently over the pile of soft toys. Eeeuw. I got a distinctly short reception from the receptionist when I asked if they had a dustpan and brush, and spent twenty minutes on the floor brushing and tutting and telling myself in the most exasperated tone I could muster that it had been the most foolish thing to do, but poor babies, you were so hungry, and we weren't going to be too much longer, the dentist was only a little late . . . Eventually it was my turn. I showed them where I was going to be, and left them chewing chocolate brownies. Barely had I lain down in the chair when the room was invaded by two chocolate-covered children, who wouldn't leave.

You try being reassuring while flat on your back, wearing bright orange goggles, the Merry Widow Overture blaring from the radio, the drill bit screaming and your vocabulary limited to Uh-hh-ah-uh and yuy-yh-ya-hh-y and Argh!

The dentist asked that I not floss around the temporary filling. As that was how I had dislodged the filling in the first place, oh how I laughed.

Then we had a horrible turn before bedtime when Kit took his shirt off to reveal what had been, yesterday, four small red patches on his back, and now was raised blister-like patches outlined in angry red covering over half his back, up into his hairline and down one arm. Jeremy drove him into High Wycombe Hospital, where 'an allergic reaction' was diagnosed. Yikes. We have no idea what set this off, but the answer is Piriton. Storms in teacups don't come more disproportionate. I actually do have a photo, but d'ye know? I don't think I'll publish it . . .