They didn't set out till almost 1 pm (they were over 700 km away). The road was long, the weather was bad (as it has been much of July in most of France).
But. But, oh but.
Just after 11 pm, whilst I was in the middle of a rather epic slanging match on the phone with my ex-MIL (I told her a few choice stories about her precious son that she had never heard before; I think I succeeded (at least a little) in understanding what a fucking SAINT I was with her son for longer than she realised):
Doorbell.
My babies, my sweet baby girls, home, safe and sound, looking so tall and grown up.
Holding them in my arms, covering them with kisses, listening to the stories they tell of their 8 days away, listening to them 'ooh' and 'aah' over all the tidying up I managed to get done (they're easily impressed, clearly).
A sigh of relief, a feeling of well-being, a sense that summer might - just might - be about to start for me, now.
Way back when I said I wished it were 26 July already. Well, it's now, technically, 27 July. And I'll be "on holiday" on Friday night, till 16 August.
Let the good times roll!
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