The Grump

The Grump

How could I have forgotten the year before? How exhausting, how dementor sucking the preschooler soiree. This year, the sandwiches and cake were ordered; but I still fought wind and rain to the shop, in the name of perfect sandwich triangles, inch thick chocolate icing, an intermission from mummy's slapdash baking. Actually, I never bake. Two hours before kick-off, a panic, the table cloths, there were no table cloths, I'd forgotten to order them. You can't have a party without plastic sheeting. After berating the omission on the to-do list, wagging finger at jelly head, I found myself back in the car, back in the city centre, back in the budget priced oasis of Pound World.

I don't remember much of it, the party. A haze of food preparation, tea making, and scattered snowflakes.There was the magician - mad cap chequered trousers, high pitched helium voice - made for the job. There was plate spinning. The parachute. The tidying up. I hardly had chance to catch up with anyone, let alone enjoy Little A throwing herself into magic tricks, chasing her friends around the hall.

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