The comfort zone

We all have one.
Be it the bed, the car, the seat by the range in the kitchen with a hot cup of tea, the snug in the pub with the mates, the seat in the cinema, at the theater, the mosh pit of a concert, the private box at the opera, the cubicle at work (???), inside a diving suit 25 meters below the surface*

But none is easier to attain than the kids' comfort zone.
A throw over two cushions and they are in their own little world, a million light years away from Mrs Raheny who is desperately trying to get them dressed to go to school, or undressed to go to bed.

The threats don't reach them down there. Nor the promises of fabulous treats.
They are out of bonds. Out of reach.

So wot da f*** is Dad doing here with his camera, anxious to bag his blip of the day?

Is nothing sacred these days?




* nothing comforting about diving for me. I'll never forget the trauma associated with passing wind in a neoprene suit and then realising that I could feel the little bubbles creeping up my spine, terrorised as I was in the knowledge that they would eventually make their way to the hood and explode there, well before I'd make my way to the surface

What? Too much information?