We have taken as laid back an approach to Childcare as is possible in a country absolutely brim-full with lethal hazards. One or twice everyday, Kate or I will sound the call: He’s gone. We then scuttle around looking for Max until we locate him caught in some fishing netting on the beachfront or investigating the back of derelict toilet. He has never had such a nice garden, or any garden for that matter, but still he leaves the thousands of toys, hammock, sand pit and parental supervision of the back yard, wriggles through the locked gate, past the psychotic dog and out into the wider world. Over and over again. The other day the scene was one of complete serenity: Max was having a nap in his room, we had finished lunch, and Kate and I sat reading in the garden, until Kate leaps up, exclaiming, ‘Is that MAX??’. Of course it was: in just a nappy, he was making his way through the mud and detritus on the other side of the fence, down to the riverbank.
Luckily, everyone in a square mile radius knows him by now, so as long as he doesn’t find the keys to the scooter we are ok.
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