Shagging frogs.

When she went to bed last night her youngest was still awake and asked if she could come cuddle. They sleep in the roof of the house, cathedral ceilings crisscrossed with small wonky wooden beams. Lying in bed with the warm side light gently lighting the cream plaster walls and the old spider webs in the corners, you would be forgiven for feeling like you were sleeping in an old English inn. It is a fairytale she arrives at with tired relief every night. 

Snuggling down under the big duvet, her daughter nestled into her neck and curled her little warm body around her. She kissed her coconut head, breathing her in. Stretching out her one free arm she felt around blindly for her book. The window was open, she could hear the rain falling and the randy frogs croaking out for a springtime shag!  She smiled, her throat constricting with happy, sad joy.