Splat! or How to Wreck Your Own Mother's Day Present With an Ill-Timed Tap on the Brakes

My Mothering Sunday present to ME was going to be an hour, on Saturday afternoon, all to myself. (Have I spotted the irony of a Mother's Day present consisting of time AWAY from my children? Yes. I have. But thanks though.)

What could be nicer than a bouquet of cupcakes? Well, three, obv. Splat! was offering an afternoon teaching children between the ages of five and 12 to make these lovelies. (It very nearly didn't happen, because Kit refused to go anywhere near any place called Princess Risborough.) So. Half an hour each way to PRINCES Risborough, meant an hour at home. On my own. Refuelling the car, washing my hair, practising some scales, maybe a spot of light recycling. Seriously self-indulgent stuff.

Turned out that PR is closer to 50 minutes away, so going home was not an option (if I wanted to be on time to collect my children. The thought did occur to me. There. I said it. The Blog That Dares.) but luckily I had brought my book, managed to drown my (risibly negligible) disappointment in a local coffee house, until the time came to pick the little loves up again. I wish I could show you the results of their labours, but Splat! haven't sent the pictures to me yet. But we clearly were going to have to be quite careful getting them home, as 'stability' was verrry far from being their middle name. Having belted each child into their car seat, and settled the precious cargo in between each set of knees, we started on our careful way home.

Until the Satnav told me to make a right turn NOW.

Which I did.

You can see the smeared icing, the loosened cupcakes, and the crumpled and greasy tissue paper, but not, I think, the little black bits of goodness-knows-what from the footwells. And you are missing the soundtrack of two howling children and one extremely outraged and indignant one.