A long time ago, in our pre-family days, when both Wife and I were working in advertising, she was due to get up early (4.30 a.m. early) for a shoot in Ibiza. The trouble was, the night before, she went out with her best friend: Sarcastic Six Footer. Sarcastic Six Footer is not only Wife’s bet friend, she is also her Drinking Nemesis – that person that we all have, with whom we drink ludicrous quantities of alcohol for no very good reason. The up-shot of this was that Wife was not home at 4.30 am and had a car due at 5am to take her to the shoot. She returned, at about 4.45am, cackling and swaying like a hen on the deck of the Titanic, and packed. I can’t imagine what she had been drinking, but it was something so potent that her packing for five days’ shooting in Ibiza comprised the following: three tee-shirt, five bras, five pairs of knickers and over fifteen floral hair accessories. No shoes. No skirts or trousers. No wonder she spent a small fortune in the shops at Duty Free to remedy her mistake.
I am pleased to see that this fault does not appear to be handed down to Daughter, who is taking our forthcoming five day break at Ickworth VERY seriously and has already done her packing, which currently extends to five bags, allows for her to change as frequently as a member of the Edwardian aristocracy, and almost covers the floor of her bedroom. As Wife muttered, when she saw the piles of clothes, toys and (cheeringly) hair accessories: “It’s five days in Suffolk. Not a bloody round the world cruise…”
