Baby Sitter

I’m now a big sister!

I went to the hospital the other day. Guess who I went to see? My new baby brother.

Isn’t he cute!

I was a bit reluctant to hold him at first. The trouble is, you see, that whenever he cries my hands go to my ears, and I turn a bit pink. You can’t hold a baby when your hands are covering your ears.

I explained my strange behaviour to Daddy this morning. Babies can’t talk, so the only way they can tell us things is by crying. But decoding the cry is quite difficult, so I cover my ears up to help me think better. And I turn pink because pink rhymes with think!

More gratuitous cuteness:

Meet the Police Force's newest recruit:

My first job was to put myself under surveillance:


They're not going to lock me up in the back of the van are they?

I'm getting very behind with posting pictures, aren't I? I do apologise. Anyway, here's one of the birthday cake that Mummy made me for my birthday.

And here's me taking part in the May day celebrations:

Speaking ones mind for the good of society

It is the prerogative of every four-year-old girl to voice her thoughts, whatever the subject, in the presence of the subject, without the slightest embarrassment. I try to exercise that prerogative for the good of the whole of society.

On a walk to the park the other day, I saw a man coming towards us, puffing on a cigarette. I waited until he was within earshot, and then said, with as much disdain as I could muster,

“Oh Mummy! Keep away from that man who’s smoking”.

As he passed, and the fumes cleared, I suddenly remembered something Granny had told me the other day, and chuckled. Mummy looked at me quizzically.

“You were a silly girl when you were little, Mummy”, I explained. “You thought that smokesticks were called firesticks!”.

Who’s the cutest?

When, in other words

Yesterday morning I found a sweet lying around in Mummy and Daddy’s bedroom. I concluded it must have escaped from Daddy’s stash, looking for somebody nicer to be eaten by.

“Mummy, can I have this sweet?” I asked, yet without much hope; I could predict the answer.

“Not now – you haven’t had breakfast yet”, replies Mummy, right on cue.

“Then when can I have the sweet, Mummy”, I persist.

“Later, maybe”, she says.

“When later?”

“When I say so”

“But when, Mummy?”

“If you say ‘When, Mummy’ one more time, you won’t be having it all!”. Mummy thinks she’s had the last word.

So I let the matter rest. For, say, thirty seconds.

“At what moment may I have the sweet, Mummy?”