Sunday, 18 July 2010

On Worms and Writing

My daughter and her friend were worms last night, desirous of being dragged from room to room in their sleeping bags. it was fun. Squeals and sniggles coming from red and blue worms are fun!

This is how the sleepover operated. They were in their pyjamas and sleeping bags at 5pm, four hours before even regular bedtime. They had a picnic of pizza, rocky road and ginger ale on a table cloth between their sleeping bags at 6.30. Then there was the infinitely discursive and difficult task of working out which position to lie. Followed by pillow fights, sliding down the stairs in same sleeping bags, watching a film - we forgot the popcorn - becoming worms, telling stories, and deciding where to put the clock and the solar lamp.

By nine, they wanted to be officially 'going asleep'.

I crept out to my office again. I managed the guts of an hour. It was one of those rare and wonderful times when you could go on for ever, only to realise you have to stop because to stay working would mean stumbling over two children to get to bed. It wasn't on. They were meant to sleep.

So, at ten, we had hot chocolate and made up stories about a girl called Rebecca, imploding brains that came from bums and a gazebo who wore a light-bulb on her head.
(And yes, I know a gazebo is a garden structure, probably the size of my entire back garden but, having said it, I claimed it was half-giraffe, half-zebra. I think we even gave it a name.)

By eleven, they had decided the floor was too hard and came upstairs to sleep. And now I'm in my office again, to leave room for some very complicated treasure hunts.

And guess what, I can't write a word!

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