We're having a sleepover. The idea, when first presented by our daughter, seemed delightful – evoking mental images of Malory Towers and hop-scotch. Two hours in and reality has hit hard, as I find myself hostage now to three children – one of whom I'm not even legally obliged to like – in a siege situation involving Hula Hoops, endless whingeing, and (quite suddenly) a graphic conversation about how babies are born.
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