So it was supposed to be just a fun little jaunt to Copenhagen. Just a short little anniversary getaway with some friends who got married the same month we did. No pressure, no stress. Drop the daughter off at granny’s, catch the plane the next day, sleep in, walk ‘round, have afternoon drinks, eat well. Perhaps some adult situations.
And it was that. Copenhagen is an incredibly liveable city. On Sunday, the sun was out so we sat by the canal, had a beer. People tucked into lunch with blankets tucked around the legs. Even a minor Easyjet delay couldn’t take the glow off the afternoon.
Then the next morning I arrived at granny’s to discover that my daughter has spent Sunday evening vomiting over herself, the bed, the brand new slippers granny bought her, her favourite oversized teddy bear, the nursery rug. Grandpa’s note read:
12:15 – Projectile vomit covers nursery. Child in guest room. Grandpa in deep shock.
1:15 – Sick again.
Yet to make that vomit-covered list: granny’s car, which got a soaking in an abortive outing the next day.
She also developed a rash around her mouth that didn’t go away when pressed by a glass, necessitating a quick run to Casualty by grandparents to be told that she had none of the symptoms of meningitis. Even the rash was the wrong type.
I’ve never been so glad to hear she had failed a test.
Everyone involved behaved impeccably – grandparents being very che sera sera, daughter not vomiting in the car on the way back to London, smelly teddy bear leaving graciously.
But I can’t help feeling this might be the last grown-up weekend away we have for a very long time.