So I’ve dragged my tribe away for a long weekend in Stratford Upon Avon, the birth place of the bard of all bards. All my husband cares about is watching the World Cup and all my son cares about is diggers.
There have been a few diggers spotted but much my husband’s dismay I’ve managed to book an apartment that doesn’t have a telly! Whoops!
Stratford is lovely to walk around, the river Avon runs along the edge of town, I can easily image Shakespeare having a stroll along the river and scribing away in the midst of its beauty. However, I’d very much like to see him do that in the face of a bunch of marauding, chocolate coated toddlers.
I was hoping to enjoy a stroll around Wills birth place while my son napped in his pushchair. Alas ’twas not to be, my boy woke up early so he cried and I cried on the inside, for the loss of a lovely afternoon.
No channeling of Shakespearian genius has occurred, yet hope remains that I’ll be able to ditch the duo in the pub by calling it a Father’s Day treat while I get some serious channeling in, somewhere, somehow!