Merci Beaucoup Enfant Deux arrives home this afternoon for the Easter hols. Her room is tidy, calming, restful and pretty empty. Exactly 10 minutes after she arrives through the front door, it will look like the ransacked remains of a burgled bedroom. I don't know how she does it. I often wonder if she has spring-loaded her suitcases, and set them with timers to explode right on cue.
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