I take my baby and give her to the demented gypsies, aka the Woodcraft Folk.
My baby in question is Shark. Never mind she now stands eye-to-eye level with me, is two stone heavier, packs a punch that would send a lesser mortal reeling, and clips a phrase that makes me wonder when I ever could have said such things. She is still my baby.
When time comes to hand her over at the coach stop to the brain-noddled gypsies, aka the Woodcraft Folk, so they can whisk her away to their fun weekend of camping and bushcraft (whatever that is) I have unconsciously attached myself to her arm and am weeping softly, whispering my baby my baby. She tries beating me off with a tent pole, but it only makes me grip her more maternally.
Maybe it is the fearful weather. We are barely able to stand amidst the whirling, wretched storms and terrible, ferocious gales after a frightful, storm-tossed night. I am surprised not to witness Macbeth's bearded witches dancing maniacally upon the heath. And amongst all this elemental chaos, here are the deluded gypsies, aka the Woodcraft Folk, gaily taking away my baby to trip off into a field where they will set up their cheerful camp, light happy campfires and cook vegan sausages on sticks, unaware all the time of the force 10 gale.
They are completely insane, if I haven't said so already. I can barely keep my feet on the ground in this storm, and here they are, gripped by mass hallucination, singing The sun has got his hat on.
I wonder if there is some industrial-strength drug they are all taking, which causes them to experience some incurable chipper disposition, undamped by storm, unswept by gale, undented by reality.
As Shark unhooks me and sends me packing while she eagerly climbs in the coach to head to tented nirvana in a field, her big smile beaming, I wave my sorrowful farewell, and I confess I am ever so very quietly impressed.
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