Yesterday was Thanksgiving.
A day when Americans get together to watch football, eat their body weight in turkey, and open a can of thanks on one another. They thank their hosts for a lovely meal, to which their hosts say thank you. Then the dinner guests thank them for their gracious hospitality. So the hosts find something to thank them for again. And so it continues until they either run out of things to be thankful for, or they run out of cranberry sauce. At which point shit gets real.
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Every morning, I step out of the house into brilliant sunshine and a clear blue sky.
In the background I hear the excited morning chatter of birds. My friendly neighbour greets me with a wave from behind his white picket fence, and as I embark on my 11-mile drive to work, I smile broadly as my girls line up at the door and bid me a fond farewell, like the cereal box family we are.
Well, that’s the vision.
In reality, I make a run for it just as Ava has a meltdown over the consistency of her porridge. I close the door as Daisy freaks out about a torn page in her Mr Men book, and make for the safety of my car. I do this without so much as a glance back at the house, just in case I catch Alex glaring at my escape with envious hatred. And then, when I’m safely inside my car, I begin another beautiful day in California.
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