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leepovers used to be a teenage delight. But fast-forward a couple of decades and I am somehow, in my thirties with two children, having them again. Yes, a husband is a useful asset for bed-sharing and, it turns out, for having children, but it’s not quite the same as the girly sleepovers of yore that I’ve reprised. It’s the sisterhood aspect that I love — maybe a symptom of going to a same-sex school — but with make-up off, zero plans to rush off for and chilled rosé in the fridge, you can really get to the nub of an issue. It’s essentially free therapy.
We live between London and Dorset and, in the countryside, sleepovers are the norm, no matter your age. Any spare
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