We were meant to go to Ireland for four weeks this Friday and the girls have been counting down the days with as much excitement as if we were going to Disney Land, God forbid. I've had the pre-travel highlights and hair cut done, had started the usual clothes and ridiculoulsy impractical shoes selection process for my usual jaunts down Kilkenny High Street (as if anyone cares what I wear other than me, but still I can't help myself dressing up in case I meet someone/anyone I knew twenty years ago), and the washing machine is doing overtime on the kids' stuff. The car was hired at Dublin airport, my mother had been dispatched a shopping list for essentials required on arrival, and I was dreaming of submerging myself in some decent newspapers this coming weekend. And now we can't go, this week at least.
Regular readers will know that my elder daughter came down with shingles two weeks ago, and that this meant that her little brother, who unlike his sisters, hadn't been vaccinated, might get chicken pox. Well, he has. Big time.
So I can slow down on the packing because after several hours of phone calls and internet surfing, I have re-booked flights for tomorrow week, when the little man should no longer be contagious. I have cancelled and re-hired the car; just reducing the number of days on the booking upped the price with Avis for some reason, and I've left a message on my mother's voice-mail breaking the news. Thankfully, our travel insurance should cover the cost of the lost flights minus an excess on each of our tickets, and I managed to book a car with a cheaper company for longer.
I still have to make an appointment for the patient to see a doctor, to fill out our insurance claim form and write a letter permitting him to fly on July 24th. I think I'll leave that for another day though. But hey, no rush on the packing, the washing machine can breathe a temporary sigh of relief, and I might now have time to return my library books before we leave.