The wedding was down in Liverpool, with a bit of a Beatles theme and it sounded like it would be heaps of fun. I was on tenterhooks for the weekend (and the intervening October break), hoping she enjoyed her bespoke dress. However, upon our return to nursery, I heard that disaster had struck. And by disaster I mean the curse of working with small children: the dreaded norovirus. Shouldn't we write an opera about this and sing it in Italian? It's so sad.
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