Tantrums through the ages

I’m not sure two-year-olds are cut out for touring medieval ruins. Or four-year-olds. Or five-year-olds. Or seven-year-olds. Or 43-year-olds for that matter. I thought Carcassone would be a no-brainer – restored castle walls containing multitude of cheap souvenir shops and junk food. But no. The masses still revolted … were revolting. Our group of four adults and five children (outnumbered, our first mistake) initially drew admiration for their adorable appearance from passers by. Those warm feelings evaporated once fellow tourists were forced to share a restaurant with us. It set MY teeth on edge, and I’m related to some of them. Although there were some understandable obstacles standing in the way of dining harmony, such as the baffling decision by waiting staff to serve the children last and with “hamburger” without bun, but with sides of potato gratin and a melange of julienned zucchini, eggplant and capsicum (delicious to adults, poison to small people). And here was me thinking french fries were an ingenious gallic invention. Calm was restored by the purchase of battery-operated swords that go “kah-ching” when waved around, and plastic dragons covered in gold dust and sparkles. But it was quickly ruined again by having the poor judgement to tour a restored 12th century castle (child abuse in the extreme). Most fun had by assorted Sprogs all day? Squirting each other with foam water pistol thingies around the pool at the rented manor. Most fun had by adults all day? Finally putting Sprogs to bed and sitting around an outdoor table, yabbering inanely as the sun set. Red wine inspired train of thought while relaxing as the other adults prepared dinner: wow, the sky is such an amazing shade of blue here, those grapevines look really cool climbing up the wall of our holiday manor, this red wine is really yummy, sitting here is soooooo relaxing, everything would be just perfect if I wasn’t fat, damn, I really need to wee …
DINNER MENU: spag Bol (so French!)

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