The imagined Easter

Picture the scene.


A beautiful spring morning, mum wakes up early and adds the finishing touches to the homemade hot cross bun dough, shapes the buns and pops them into the aga. The woodburner is lit and mum takes a sunlit wander through the garden to fetch some daffodils which are then artfully placed in a vintage jug on the scrubbed pine table.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wakes Dad and soon the family are gathered in the kitchen, kids in matching checked pyjamas, mum and dad in Boden spring/summer 2016. The children squeal with delight as the Easter eggs are revealed. After the warm buns, the Hunter wellies go on for the annual garden egg hunt.

Then it’s back inside for hot chocolate and Sunday papers by the fire.A bracing walk on the beach with the black labradors then a stroll to the local pub for a relaxing roast with friends. Everyone piles back home for simnel cake and an afternoon of board games. The children tuck into easter nest cakes and go to bed early, tired but happy.

Then it’s time for the parents to crack open the prosecco and 70% dark chocolate and catch up on The Night Manager.

The real Easter


We are woken by a shriek from the Boy’s bedroom. Dad rushes in and his cry brings mum and the Girl. The Boy has spewed up lots of mucous all over himself and his big double bed. The Boy is cleaned up and changed and plonked in his old cot with a towel. Dad thinks that the Boy, despite being two, will be sick into a bucket if it’s put into the cot with him. The big bed is stripped and the washing put on.

It’s hailing outside. The gutter is overflowing. The Dad decides that the gutter needs clearing out immediately and pulls on some paint stained tracksuit bottoms and a wash-shrunk hoodie. I stand outside holding the ladder in my mismatching Primark pyjamas while wet clods of leaves rain down on my head. I am currently on antibiotics due to a sinus infection and keep sneezing vile stuff out of my nose.

The Girl comes to the doorstep and says she’s hungry. I tell her to open the m&s luxury hot cross buns and have one. The gutter is still overflowing. The sound of a bucket landing on the floor upstairs brings me racing back inside. The Boy has vomited curdled milk all over the cot. The cot and the Boy are stripped and the sheets, towels and clothes put by the washing machine. The girl says she’s still hungry. I say we’re a little bit busy and the girl cries. She says she’s still hungry. I tell her to open the smarties Easter egg.

The Boy is dunked in the bath and fresh clothes put on. I make a cup of tea and stand in the kitchen munching a hot cross bun while Dad has a bath. The girl has demolished her Easter egg. But it’s ok its only 10 o’clock. The news comes on the radio. It’s 11 o’clock. Sugar plum fairy. The clocks changed last night…

The local pub have a table booked for us at 12. The next hour is a blur of washing and dressing. We make an executive decision that the Boy is merely hungry and not really ill and decide we will all go out anyway. With 5 minutes to spare, Dad brings the kids to the car while I grab random toys and baby wipes. Dad returns to the house. The Boy has puked again.

I go to the pub with the Girl. There’s nowhere to park. We park up the road and start to walk and a giant hailstorm begins. I scream like a fishwife at my daughter who can run away at the speed of lightening but cannot run to a pub in a storm. She tries to get her coat on while staring into the post office window. I am soaked to my pants. I look like I have been dragged through a hedge backwards.

The pub is rammed. As I have fluid on my middle ear I can’t hear anything except din. My friends wave me over but they are not smiling. There’s been a mixup and some nautically striped poshos on holiday have nabbed our table. The manager apologises profusely and gives us free drinks. Yippee. We eat a lot of crisps. The kids moan. The storm intensifies and there’s a lot of thunder and lightening. The power goes off 4 times. The Girl does gigantic poo in disabled loo and tells everyone.

Eventually we sit down to lunch at 2pm. Finally I can hear enough to have a proper conversation. Then a local singer songwriter starts his set involving mic and amp. We yell at each other over the table. We yell our orders at the waitress. The food arrives and it is delicious. The relief is short lived as the smallest participant is now seriously past nap time and makes this known.

We all go home. The storm has fried the router. We are expecting an important email. I think the day had not been very festive and decided to bake a cake. I don’t bake. I can’t find the baking tins. I can’t find the scales. I find an out of date packet of Betty Crocker Devil’s Food cake mix and throw it together.

Dad has drunk a room temperature can of premixed gin and tonic and a glass of flat prosecco so I drive 5 miles away to get some mobile signal to check the email. Get excited when I get signal and check Facebook and Google recipes for fudge icing using only cream cheese and Options low cal drinking chocolate. Realise the cake is probably done already and speed home to slight smell of burning.

Dad says he doesn’t want cake. The Girl is full of chocolate. The Boy is in bed. I make Dad a sausage sandwich and eat three slices of cake myself washed down with a bottle of prosecco.

Happy (belated) Easter!


Today’s earworm: KT Tunstall ‘Other side of the world’

Last night’s different dinner score: 3


2 Comments Add yours

  1. atkokosplace says:

    Ahhh…real life. There’s nothing quite like it! Hahahaha. Happy Easter! Cheers, Koko:)

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Crafti Kitty says:

    This made me laugh out loud 🙂 very much like my fantasy and reality! But we can always hope (dream)

    Liked by 1 person

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