Tuesday, 31 January 2012


Parents of disabled children are no different to other parents. They like a night off. An evening free from child-wrangling responsibilities is a wonderful thing.

R.E.S.P.I.T.E. Find out what it means to me.

We’re incredibly lucky because my parents are picture-book perfect grandparents who do not protest - at least not out loud to us - when we take advantage of their good nature and dump, sorry entrust, the kids to ’em.

They know the rules with my daughter. She knows they know. Nanna cooks her splendid healthy teas, and her legendary no-sugar fruit cake. Grandad takes on the ‘chasing round the house’ duties with my little boy.

So on Friday we sloped off at lunchtime, to journey through the rain and traffic to see friends in Liverpool. An uproarious night ensued. Taverns and ale were involved. And chat. A lot of chat. The high volume of which had a catastrophic effect on what had been just a slight sore throat at the beginning of the night. By our return on Saturday afternoon I was mute. This is an uncharacteristic state of affairs for me, I have to admit. And today I can still only manage a strangulated squawk.

I had a marvellous time on my night out. Not as marvellous as my husband, though. Because he got to have a night out followed by three days of peace. Now that’s what I call a proper respite.

Video is Aretha Franklin - Respect

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