The Christmas that went wrong: I spent the day with three small children in an eerily deserted airport
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With a seriously ill mother in Scotland and an arduous journey to France via Amsterdam, it had the makings of a nightmare day for everyone. I was always a gung-ho travelling mum. With a sailor for a husband, you kind of have to be if you want to see them more than once every two months. Antigua with a baby hurling all the way? No problem. Dubai with three under-fives? Bring it. It usually required pre-Maria Captain Von Trapp levels of whistling, but was generally worth it. Until I overreached.
Christmas 2016: I had three small kids, a parent in hospital in Scotland and a husband working in France. I decided we would have a jolly Christmas morning at the hospital (it is possible my idea of hospitals on Christmas Day was informed by Noel Edmonds’ televised visits in the 80s), then fly to France in time for a slap-up feast of goose and oysters and a joyous reconciliation.
So I said the magic words – NO CHURCH! – and we all piled into the car and headed for the hospital. It was very early in the morning, so the smalls had their new reindeer onesies on over their pyjamas; we would change later. “Oh, the consultant is here to see us; how lovely,” I thought as we entered the ward. I will skim over the next part; we have all had bad news, kindly but firmly given.
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