Daddy is planning a holiday. Every year Daddy returns home on a Saturday afternoon laden down with brochures for exotic far-flung locations. They sit in an increasingly wobbly pile by his bed, until eventually they topple onto the floor, where they remain until Mummy skids on them and ruthlessly casts them into the recycling bin. Then we book a week on a camp site in Spain.
This year Daddy’s preferred destination is Thailand. We won’t be going, because there are no toasties in Thailand, and wine is £39 a bottle. But he still dreams. As for me, I don’t care where we go as long as we can fly on this plane. Anywhere will do, but it has to be this particular plane, that one down there ↓↓↓↓ the one that all those lucky children got to go on. Mummy says you will cry when you watch it. I just cry because I’m not on that there plane!