On the night of the stomach bug, Isla had not bothered much with sleep, and even despite waking 7 times in the night, awoke bright and early at quarter to six. There was nothing for it but to get up, and trying to make the best fist of it, I decided to embark on some puree-ing. Half past six in the morning is a really stupid time of the day to be boiling great cauldrons of apples and carrots, because you just set light to yourself, and you look down and your dressing gown is ablaze. It is possible that you may just about find some wits, and manage to pat it a bit, which you discover simply spreads the fire about a bit more, so that it is flickering around over the entire dressing gown, like brandy on a Christmas pudding. Then if you really find some wits, you will throw it off and stand there in nothing but a pair of odd pink ski socks and a see-through thermal vest, stamping half-heartedly on it. Then, having leafed through the other two dressing gowns in the house and discovered that they were vomited on yesterday in the height of the stomach bug and have not of course made it anywhere near the washing machine, you give the stricken charred dressing gown a last pat and put it back on. Smell like a bonfire all morning.
I am now however, the proud owner of a flowery pink and lilac satin dressing gown, which I swan around the house in, feeling silken. Isla sort of slides off it if I carry her, but she likes sucking on the belt and tries to pick up the leaf pattern.
Much more interesting than the old burnt version, and somewhat more fragrant.
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