Mr. Waffle and I went out to dinner last night in our favourite restaurant in Brussels. It is small and full of velvet and mirrors and the food is fabulous. It was cold and wet outside. It was warm and candlelit inside. We held hands. We stopped talking about the Princess for minutes at a time.
For the night that was in it, I wore a rather daring (but subtle) outfit that I haven’t donned in a while. The babysitter (a middle aged Polish lady) raised her eyebrows, Mr. Waffle admired and the rather older gentlemen sitting on either side of us in the restaurant peered.
When we came home, herself was up and playing with the babysitter. I took her into my arms and Mr. Waffle drove the babysitter home. I hadn’t even had time to take off my coat when the Princess vomited all over me – getting coat, outfit and, for good measure, boots. Pausing only briefly to consider how many florets of broccoli she had swallowed whole, I began to mop up. When Mr. Waffle returned, it was to find his wife clad in a distinctly unglamourous dressing gown and playing with a wide-awake baby in the marital bed. Although she had been a bit upset at vomiting, within minutes she was her usual chirpy self. As a vomit veteran, she bounces back quickly.
Attempts to persuade madam that she might be better off in her own bed were unavailing, so the next hour was spent picking up doggy from the floor and passing the Princess from parent to parent before, finally, we all collapsed from exhaustion.
on 13 November 2004 at 17:00
A simple case of seeing off any possible opposition, by the sound of it…. 😉 1
on 13 November 2004 at 19:14
bw, see what you’ll be missing when you go back to work!
jd, as plausible as your theory sounds, it never worked with any of my dates.
on 13 November 2004 at 22:02
Sweeties and sympathy. Just what I needed. Thank you.