Chips

Last week was my birthday, and the three of us went for a short holiday in Pembrokeshire. We were vaguely down that way anyway for a wedding the weekend before, so thought we'd go and see a bit of the country we've not been to before.

Mrs J had made sure we'd got a hotel room with a restaurant close enough for us to go down for a meal while using the baby monitor to make sure G was sleeping soundly. Or at least that's what was supposed to happen. When it was time to put G to sleep for the night, she was uncharacteristically reluctant. She whined, she gurgled, she wanted to play, she cried. We tried all the things we usually do, such as dosing her up on Calpol, but to no effect. If she could talk, G would have been frowning and saying "I'm not tired" in that way sulky eight-year-olds do.

So we got room service instead, and had my birthday tea with the plates perched on the slightly unsteady dressing table. As the photo shows, we gave G a couple of chips to keep her quiet. This could be construed as bad parenting, but seeing as it worked for the duration of the meal, I don't really care.

G eventually drifted off, but was in a foul mood the following morning presumably because, yes, she hadn't had enough sleep. That'll teach her.