On leaving-to-go-home mornings, I approach the portacot in much the same way I’d approach a strange dog: with a wary smile, fake confidence, and a thin layer of sweat already forming on my skin. It’ll be different this time. I know I can do it. 

Pull up the centre…gently squeeze the middle of each section…ok it’s working…wait, one bit didn’t collapse…ok pull that bit back down…good…oh shit now the other half of it has locked again…NO ONE TALK! SERIOUSLY, DON’T EVEN MOVE!…pull that bit…good…what the actual..? how did two sides get locked again now…

Over and over and over again, until I find myself wishing that Tilly would stop being such a tool about sleeping through the night, because when she can sleep in a proper bed I won’t ever again find myself sitting on the floor at 10am, contemplating a “special coffee” while staring at this clusterfuck:

  

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