Iceland, and feeding my kids

I have recently discovered Iceland.

It is tremendous. It is filled with food (I would like now to dispel any preconceived notions of nominal determinism and tell you that it sells both fresh and frozen produce) and it is exceptionally cheap. It is perhaps not the food I would feed my children, but that is more because I do not see ‘feeding’ as being part of my parental repertoire. I imagine myself as more of a go-to-Mother for the Sport’s Day Mother’s Race, or lessons in dazzling put-downs and unforgettable quips. The whole ‘bringing the child up’ thing sounds much, much less fun. I will generously leave that to my husband.

Anyway, at the moment all of this is a moot point, mostly because my sister remains unconvinced anyone would want to procreate with me. (My sister is a doctor now, which has changed nothing, except for the fact that she makes spurious pronouncements with a greater air of authority, and is listened to by our parents. Oh, she is also coming soon to a hospital near you. Possibly. That one really depends on where you live). The fact remains, however, with or without my little sister’s annoyingness, that I was in Iceland alone.

There were other people in Iceland, but they were not with me. Iceland is filled with a variety of people, though I am yet to spot Kerry Katona.

I asked the checkout boy about this as I filled out my Iceland bonus card. ‘You can buy this rum for £12,’ He told me in reply. Which is as sensible an answer as any, I suppose. Or at least as sensible a reply one will find in Iceland, which must be why mums go there.

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