We went to the coast this weekend with friends. We cooked beef on the barbeque and had a long night talking and laughing as we sat at a table under the pine trees. The kids – five of them – raced around until the tiredness of the night put them to sleep and we adults continued merrily.
The next day under blue skies and a hot sun we hit the beach.
We set up on the edge of the water, and the kids ran to the waves almost before even taking off their shirts.
My eldest daughter, who is eight, later came up to me, an avid surfer, and said, “Why aren’t you coming in?”
“Oh,” I said with a sigh . “I don’t feel too hot.”
That’s not like me. The sight of waves usually starts a fever that drives me to want to get in and have a go. The waves weren’t great this day, but they could have been fun nonetheless.
“Come on,” my daughter insisted.
“No, not today,” I said. “My stomach doesn’t feel too good. I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me.”
She thought for a second about the implication. We all ate the same thing, including her, and she felt fine. Her pondering continued and then she said, as if a light bulb had lit up above her head, “Or you drank too much wine.”