So Sprinkles had his MMR jabs [vaccinations] on Thursday. Then Mr. Stone surprised me with a secretly booked weekend excursion to a lovely hotel in Essex countryside. [In the middle of all this life stuff, it was our wedding anniversary. Bless that he realized and planned something.] And thankfully he planned for us to also bring the boys. With Max potentially poorly after jabs, I would not have gone otherwise!
And poorly he was! I can remember Jack being a bit fluey, but I was not prepared for this time around. Poor Sprinkles was miserable. Every joint ached to the point where I couldn’t move him without him screaming out in pain. It was horrendous. Come Friday night he also had a sky-rocket fever that wouldn’t come down. Fast forward to 11pm and I was sitting in the reception of the local Essex A&E with him sweating and whimpering.
Now I don’t know a lot about Essex. I grew up in Los Angeles, a lifestyle unlike any here and I live on the South Coast which has it’s own quirks and idiosyncrasies. Most excursions ventured are further coastal or London-based. I do have a dear friend Cate who grew up in Essex though and based on her loveliness I’ve always felt it must have some special parts…but then there’s also that show. I’m secretly in awe and in shock of The ONLY way is Essex. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I am fascinated yet disturbed by it. I hungrily watch every episode and the absurdity of it ticks over in my head for days. Do people really, seriously, live like that?! Dress like that? Talk to each other like that?
So I’m sitting in the A&E. After a brief once-over and a heavy dose of doctor-administered ibuprofen, we’re told to sit and wait under observation to ensure the fever breaks. Hours go by and we’re all but forgotten. Case after case being handled around us is drug-related; truckloads of scantily-clad underage girls high as kites, later followed by parents led in by Police to collect them. A lovely glamorous teenager dressed in a sequin mini-dress and a huge gash on her head [from walking into a lamp post] kept making eyes at my miserable boy. She wanted a cuddle. As if. Not only was she unable to stand unaided, she was trying to get a whimpering, not-in-the-mood Max to smile. She had an air of broodiness about her. It was distressing. After sneaking glances at her for awhile, trying to peg her age, I settled on 19. Turns out [after her grandmother came via police escort to collect her] that she was 12. TWELVE!!
At 4am we were released and I’m pleased to report that Max has been happy and healthy since. Gosh am I glad to be the mother of boys though. There’s nothing like a night surrounded by sequin-clad sneak outs to confirm this!