Oh La La

The scene was practically perfect. I stopped my bike and watched as the swans glided past on the river. Butterflies waltzed around the wild poppies and the long feathery leaves of the willow trees swished on the gentle summer breeze.

All until a piercing scream cut through the valley, alerting me, the fishermen down river and all local wildlife that Chickie had caught up on the back of daddy’s bike. I ignored his dramatic entrance, allowing the mellow setting to soften my parenting style. “Are you enjoying your cycle ride?”

Chickie’s expression reminded me of one of those unsavoury characters from middle earth in Lord of the Rings, just moments away from gouging out the eyes of some nice little hobbit.

“I WANT MY DUM DUM NOW!” More birds flew the nest as news of Chickie’s arrival at the lakeside got round.

I tried a more educational approach. “Look at the buzzy bees”. I pointed to the only creatures remaining in the area.

“DUM DUM NOW!”

This wasn’t the touching family day out I’d planned. Inspired by the Loire Tourist Board brochure, featuring a wholesome family all smiling happily under their cycling helmets, it had all seemed so achievable. One daddy, one mummy, one toddler, two velos and voila.

“Be kind sweetheart”.
“No chance” came the reply.
Accountant, wholly responsible for the introduction of ‘no chance’ to Chickie’s vocabulary, amongst other choice phrases that shall remain unwritten and, please God, unspoken, smirked at the floor.
“I think I need a holiday” I whined, massaging my temples.
“We’re on holiday!” replied Accountant.

This was no holiday. At least, it was nothing like the one I’d enjoyed three weeks ago. I was clearly being punished.

In the car on the way home, I wondered what all those French mummies had done to get all their petit filous scented children to bid us ‘Bonjour’ as they’d all trotted past earlier in a neat little row. All perfectly presented, not a smudge on one of them - and all so horribly polite.

I viewed Chickie via the safety of the wing mirror. Finally unconscious and sporting a fine film of filth from running off to wedge himself inside a tractor wheel, he wasn’t looking very French.

The next day ended with a soggy Chickie who’d sampled every puddle and attempted to climb into the village fountain, topped off with a thick application of strawberry ice cream from eyebrows to trousers.

Whilst, admittedly, some days I long for a clean child that will consider at least one of my suggestions, how vibrant the memories of this particular childhood will be. And in forty years time, I know I’ll be smiling as I look back at the photos of my mischievous little boy, beautiful and exuberant, enjoying his holiday in France.