I was always a gung-ho travelling mum. With a sailor for a husband, you kind of have to be if you want to see them more than once every two months. Antigua with a baby hurling all the way? No problem. Dubai with three under-fives? Bring it. It usually required pre-Maria Captain Von Trapp levels of whistling, but was generally worth it. Until I overreached.
Christmas 2016: I had three small kids, a parent in hospital in Scotland and a husband working in France. I decided we would have a jolly Christmas morning at the hospital (it is possible my idea of hospitals on Christmas Day was informed by Noel Edmonds’ televised visits in the 80s), then fly to France in time for a slap-up feast of goose and oysters and a joyous reconciliation.
