Soft play, hard labour

The English weather is no friend of the stay-at-home dad. Today, as though leading us into a carefully-laid trap, it drove us to head to soft play, the last resort of the restless, an outing to avoid wherever possible, an activity only marginally more appealing than just standing out in the garden in the pouring rain.
Of course, it's only me that feels this way, The B and The G adore it. For me, the afternoon brings its usual annoyances, but The B and The G are oblivious, especially The G, who, after a frantic half-an-hour of climbing, sliding, tumbling and rolling is the sweatiest person there, her cheeks scarlet and her hair a sodden, matted mess.
In that regard, it's a success, although there's a price to be paid when, after several reminders, the time comes to head home.
The G is having so much fun she refuses to leave and has to be carried, kicking and screaming, a furious bundle of flailing limbs and fearsome shrieks, shoeless and without a coat due to a rage that prevents such measures, a soaking from the rain doing nothing to help her mood.
The B trails in our wake, hood up, eyes down, bemused at the turn of events the afternoon has taken.
Back in the car, The G still cross, but back home and all is well again, all forgotten.
Let's hope for a little sun tomorrow.