Sunday morning

Or, the morning after the night before.
Ages ago - long before Josh and Ruth caught Covid - we had arranged to have Frieda stay overnight with us, so that Jack and Marianna could have a night out. Saturday night was the night.  As with Luca last weekend, this has been her first overnight with us, without parents.
Jack and Marianna went off to a gig at The Leadmill, where they evidently had a great time. They were convinced that they would be back at ours for 8 a.m.  Of course they weren't - they overslept, and I got an apologetic and rueful text. They needn't have worried; we never expected them to arrive at 8.   They got to ours just after 9, which was fine.
Frieda was pretty relaxed about the whole thing. Apart from needing a midnight nappy change, she slept reasonably well until just before 6 a.m.  I stayed in with her, in the end, in the interests of maximising sleep (she was in the big double sofa bed in my study, with plenty of room for us both).
I had hoped that Richard would sleep through it all. He didn't, however - he has terrible trouble sleeping, much worse than I do.  Big or small departures from routine make it worse.
Anyway: Frieda was pretty perky at 6 a.m. I made us both some porridge, while Richard rested a bit more. Then - by some route that I have now forgotten - Frieda found her way to my box of old buttons, and this became a lovely make-believe game, featuring miniature pretend kites and a washing-line. Why a washing-line? Only a 2.5 year old could answer that question properly :-)