And I'm writing piffle about my children for you instead of reading about Comparative Politics. You may point out that I would probably rather write piffle about my children, because I am one of nature's born pifflers, and my prose reflects a certain smug self-satisfaction, but the fact remains that Comparative Politics syllabuses don't write themselves, and so I will have to make up this important piffling time elsewhere.
So feel lucky that I'm bothering with you.
Anyway, it was a long trip out to Port Angeles, what with the delayed plane, and the usual long trip. The children behaved relatively well in the airport; Margaret decided that on special occasions she will tolerate lettuce and tomato and onion and mayonnaise on her burgers, so that was good.
There was a brief period where Ellie started climbing the walls -- er, windows -- but she came down soon enough.
Of course, she came down and demanded Toy Story. Well, actually, she shrieked "I want my Woody" loudly. I thought it boded well.
So she enjoyed that, and Margaret practiced her sewing. Notice their stickers from TSA. They had to scan Ellie's stuffed toy, and she cast herself on the floor and wept. They plied her with stickers and it worked.
Then we got on the plane, and they were suitably entranced for a while there with the trappings of air travel.
Once they got bored, I tried to get them interested in a movie, and it is at that point that I feel we should draw a veil over the rest of our trip.
Suffice it to say that Ellie was bored. Bored, bored, bored.
And even the Kindle couldn't hold her interest.
Ah well, we are here now. More to follow once I am tired of reading about failed states.