"Well, it's a disaster!" wailed HMB. That is her catchphrase.

"What's happened now?" said I, heaving a large internal sigh.

"Well we're going to PAris on Sunday."

"I know this."

"And there's no train that can get us to Kings Cross before 9 o clock. Or there is, but we'd have to change at Finsbury Park. And that's no good. Not with your father having a bad wrist. But then we could stay at your house...."

*makes small, muffled sound. The sort of sound that sounds like a dormouse dying*

"We could stay at your house. But then what will we do with the car. Because the car won't be outside our house. It'll be outside your house. And you know what people are like. So we could stay in a hotel near Kings Cross. But I couldn't trust Tony. Not with the prostitutes everywhere. And they're SO expensive Emma. And probably full of fleas. Fleas AND prostitutes. And this is supposed to be the start of our holiday. Who wants fleas and prostitutes? Nobody. So we'll just have to stay at your house. And you'll have to drive us to Kings Cross in the morning. Because you can't trust a taxi to get you there on time. Good. Well that's sorted. See you Saturday. Round lunchtime? We can spend ALL day together. Lovely."

Like being hit by a train. Literally.

Thu 8th May >>