Day four of sixty three.

The front lines of summer holidays are strewn with the discarded bodies of toys, markers and slips of paper. Plastercine lumps cover the ground, mashed into the cracks between floor boards. Old snacks and juice boxes litter the living room. All has gone to hell. We held the washing line for as long as we could. Bashing out two loads on cheaper Sunday, but we did not fold it, nor put it away. I fear the clothes are lost in the tides. Scattered about like the silhouettes of children run amok. Pray for us.