When you are raising seven feral children in a 300 year old house with only 3 bedrooms and a shower curtain that is half hanging off because it’s #29 in the To Do List, and you still refer to the two and a half year old as the baby and she gets to choose whose bed she sleeps in every night and some nights Slaveboy is known to make ice cream journeys to Tesco because she demands it, you might then understand why occasionally the most peaceful place for you and your other half to eat a punnet of black grapes would be propped up against a street bollard twenty paces away from your house.
A little bit of a timeless bubble. If only for five minutes.
