No Picnic

Paula, Olga and I joined forces and children and were off for a picnic in the countryside.

The kids were hot and ratty, and were sniping at each other the whole way there. And the way there seemed to get further and further away the more and more they ratted. Honestly, a 20 minute car ride in peace feels like moments, while in rattiness feels like forever.

Anyway, ignoring the ROAD CLOSED signs posted on the A57 added an extra frisson to the whole affair, so when I finally spotted the little dirt road that led to the track that led to the bridge that led to the sublime little picnic area by a stream, I was really relieved and excited. Out I hopped to open the gate and get us into the sunshine and fresh air, slamming the door to Paula's solid, Swedish engineered car with gusto.

There was a split-second where I glared at the offending thumb, recently yanked from between cardoor and car, when I thought it would be alright. Where I WILLED it to be alright. That was before the blood came.

"Ah" I said. "Slight problem, guys, I think we are going to have to turn around and get me to a hospital."

Three little faces turned towards me, taking a well-earned break from ratting at each other. I, quite calmly I thought under the circumstances, informed them all that I had hurt my thumb.

"It is OK, Mummy, we will go right home and run it under a cold tap. That is what you do when you hurt yourself."

Paula is a GP, who took one look at the thumb (nail Not Where It Should Be) and called the hospital. I decided to go with her advice instead.

Kids were bundled off to Olga's house to play in the yard, while I went and got hospitaled.

Ho hum. No picnic after all.