Every so often I decide I'd like to be French.
At the height of my if-I-were-french-I wouldn't-be wearing-ill-fitting-jeans-and-picking-up-a-hundred-million-apple-cores-a-day, but instead I'd be sitting in an office being Very Important while my little one were being carefully moulded into ideal citizens by brilliantly qualified child care professionals who fed them three course meals, I started on a reading binge.
I'd run down the stairs from my room in the attic (with a wonderful view of the Eiffel Tower) at about eight am, just as the children's mum was leaving, and then sometime about eight that night the dad would get back, and then sometime later the mum would get home. Of the five weekends I was there the mum was in another country for three of them, and I, or someone else, looked after the kids. I'm not sure what the dad was doing. The couple loved their kids, it just seemed... strange that they never saw them.
I've been wandering around the house going 'attend!' (wait) and the kids have been looking confused.
"No, I am!"
"No, I am."
"Seriously, kid, this isn't how it went in the book."