Why me got no wiffy?

It’s our last day in France and possibly our last day of Internet connectivity for a while. I’d been hoping for what the Spanish entertainingly pronounce “wiffy” in our Barcelona accommodation, but there’s only Ethernet, which Husband tells me is no use at all. So I’m sitting in the dim, early morning light trying to think of something witty while I still have my “wiffy” …. Hmmm …. Nope … Nothing … Much like when I was trying to add something to the visitor’s book for our holiday house last night. It was filled with glowing praise. Not one mention of the 24/7 turd dog. I decided the two-day cascading waterfall through all three levels of the house from a broken toilet wasn’t an appropriate entry either, since neither things were really the owner’s fault. Eventually I settled on the positives – how nice it was to sit drinking red wine in the backyard at dusk, how much the kids enjoyed pushing their father into the icy cold swimming pool every day, how spacious the house was … How I can’t wait to stop self-catering … Nah, didn’t actually say that bit, just sang a silent hallelujah. There’s a lot to be said for self-catering: it’s economical, it’s handy with kids, it’s time-consuming, it’s unadventurous, it’s messy (yes, yes, I know I should have been making lovely casseroles etc with all the amazing local produce, but I couldn’t be arsed) … Last night I outdid myself: leftovers cous cous salad. I found a box of cous cous in the back of a cupboard and a dried-up chicken stock cube in a drawer. I mixed the two with boiling water. While they reconstituted, I chopped up everything I could find in the fridge: salami, mozzarella, boiled potatoes, eggplant, olives, zucchini, onion, garlic … Then I stirred in the last of the tapenades from our market visit and voila … Dinner was served. The Sprogs wisely chose to stick with leftover plain pasta and parmesan. There were leftovers of the leftovers, so I’ve boxed them up to accompany us to Barcelona, just in case we get peckish on the road. Mmmm-mmmmm.
PS The heading is a reference to when we took a terrified two-year-old Sprog 2 to meet Santa. We assured her he was a lovely – not, big, loud and scary – man and explained that if she asked him nicely, he would give her a doll for Christmas (her heart’s desire). Sprog 2 anxiously compiled and even managed a half-smile for the camera. We stepped outside to pay for our over-priced photo and Sprog 2 exploded in outrage, “Why me got no dolly??!!??” Ohhhhhhh … Mummy and Daddy neglected to reveal a very important part of the process: dolly doesn’t come until Christmas Day, when Santa will deliver her to you on his sleigh, pulled by 12 reindeers, while you’re sleeping. You ok with that? No?

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