“Where are the kids?”“Outside somewhere”I then realised that if you cocked your head to one side and listened, you could hear the childrens version of world war three going on at the far end of the garden. Several years before children landed on us, we dug a border across the garden. Without the border, we would probably have room for some kind of ball game courtsomebody’s infinite wisdom dictated that noyou will not have an easy job cutting the grasswe will have borders, and trees absolutely bloody everywhere. After affording the shrubs and trees enough time (eight or nine years), they have fortuitously provided a natural wall against the din three little people create while hanging, leaping, and garotting each other on the swings and climbing frame. While listening to my instructions about the holiday days I was about to use up, there was a strange whoosh, snapping noise, and thump in the kitchen. Then silence.
We raced around the corner to find Little Miss 6 picking herself up off the floor, picking smashed shards of plastic up. “Are you okay?”It was at about this point that a confused little girl realised that the berries she had been bringing to show us were now squished, the catflap was in pieces, and she had cut her finger wide open. We didn’t see the accident happen, but it must have been pretty spectacularand must have hurt a lot. The sobbing pretty much started along with the first bead of blood, although it was brough to an abrupt end by the appearance of Winnie the Pooh sticking plasters. After a little deliberation, Piglet was chosen to wrap around her finger (while sniffing theatrically), and she immediately returned to the garden. As she walked away, hand held in the air as one might to 30s Jazz music, Little Miss 5 appeared from the depths of the garden. Our last sight of them saw Little Miss 5 rubbing her big sisters back, and asking if she wanted to go on the swing first.