A friend of ours held out a biscuit to Little Brother yesterday, a Malted Milk. In ordinary circumstances he would have received it with much rejoicing.
Not this time.
His beady eye had spotted, on the plate in her other hand, a Party Ring, blue and yellow icing glistening glossily.
“No, tank ooo”, he said. Then, pointing, “Dat one!”
I was reflecting this morning, as I ate my breakfast, that if Mummy follows the same schedule with baby brother as she did with me, then she’ll start potty training him at just about that time of year when the sun gets its act together and warms the garden enough for the paddling pool to come out. He’s two in June, you see.
I pictured, in my minds eye, the possible consequences, and elaborated upon them to Daddy as he sat down to enjoy his toast.
“So”, I concluded, poking a bread-stick in my dippy egg, “if you see any funny coloured water, beware of it”
Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without a new sparkly outfit, and some new participants for my stories. So here they are:
