Not since Harry Potter have we seen lines so long.
Disaster struck my house yesterday.
I know some of you might call this a first-world problem but I am telling you straight it was a catastrophe.
Let me set the scene leading up to the out-and-out calamity.
We’ve been counting down the days in this house, ticking them off awaiting a big event in the life of a seven-year-old boy.
Slowly, slowly dreaming of machines that fire out marshmallows, man eating shark tanks, baby dinosaur petting zoos and flying catenaries. (You know a cross between a cat and a canary. Obvs.)
Waiting, anticipating the day.
My son woke up yesterday morning and he just knew.
IT WAS TODAY.
"52 STOREY TREEHOUSE IS OUT," he yelled at me as he bolted down the stairs.
We had a plan. He was going to school. I was going to the bookshop. Straight there no stopping.
All afternoon activities cancelled.
And 78 flavours of ice cream for afternoon tea served by an “ice cream serving robot” called Edward Scooperhands.
(Yeah, wasn’t quite sure how I was going to pull that off.)
And he was going to throw himself headfirst up a treehouse complete with a rocket-powered carrot-launcher, a life-size snakes and ladders game, and a Ninja Snail Training Academy.
Oh the questions he had asked.
Will Jill be back? What about the catenaries? Will Professor Stupido be back Mum? What’s with all the rabbits? Will the once-upon-a-time-machine make another appearance?