Pitching in

Blame it on jet lag. In the immediate hours of my return from Istanbul, I inadvertently introduced something into our household that fellow family members are probably still cursing me for. Let’s call it the ‘house in a house’ programme. Which is to say, when Calvin asked me a question about tents, I somehow got going on the fact that we had a tent and that one could sleep in them. Needless to say, that was the beginning of the end, or at least the beginning of a new era.

Remember that bed that caused us such pain? (Relive the saga here.) It has now become a balancing gym, one walks upon its slats and parks balloons there. The mattress has been installed on the floor in the tent, along with “all my peluche” (French for soft toy, which in America are called stuffed animal toys.)

Calvin’s bedroom lacks only a camel, sand and oasis to be fully ‘Caravans’ compliant. (Anyone remember that movie?) So bedtime involves getting down on your knees, crawling in and out of tent flaps and trying to find a comfortable position to read books in. But you know what? Despite all that I still love it — it’s the sort of thing I’d have loved to do as a child, only my teepee would only accommodate me vertically.