Red, no chingy chingy

The boys had stayed over at Agu's last night, and I had a brief outing for a kebab with the two Ks. No footy match, so I had a lie in too and then they all arrived for us to go to Palma. Anna was over from Sheffield to take some exams at the University, and Clara, who is staying with her for a few months, had decided to come for the weekend too. We all met up for lunch in Sa Premsa, unchanged for decades, noisy and fun. We had a coffee waiting for the girls to arrive and the boys kept a look out. Agu raced up to Clara and then back again, declaring with great surprise that she'd become a redhead. Ben sauntered up in his new jumper, sleeves draped round his wrists and revelled in their company his own way. You can just see Clara and José with him in the shadows.

After a lengthy lunch, the girls, José and Fernando went their own way and our strange little family went to Court Ingles to find a few essentials - more trainers, a school bag and some footy knee pads.

I saw red on the way home, finding change too much. I can't flip in and out of 'normal', and neither can the boys. We are tired and really need our regular routine.

Finally, a lesson learned for the exhuberant one. Little Agu wanted some vitamins and proclaimed he was going to get half an apple, and when issued with the knife warning claimed he was not going to have 'chingy chingy' with a knife, oh no, not him. And then emerged with a 'chingy chingy' cut and some sobs. Sponge Bob plaster. Self adminstered pillow for sore hand, which he then tenderly kissed goodnight and tucked up under its own section of blanket. Bonkers. And so am I for letting him try to cut his own apple. Or am I?

No idea where 'chingy chingy' comes from. It now means a sharp encounter.