Overshare Undershare Wombling Free

I am aware that my blogging of late has been a) slovenly, b) entirely functional and therefore rather boring and c) food related to the point of obsession.

I apologise.

I shall make amends thusly by posting random things about the week in no particular order.

Andrea and I keep chortling about Abigail’s Party. Our favourite lines are:

Lawrence: ‘Beverley, you’re just ignorant.’

Beverley: ‘Oh. So now I’m ignorant am I?’

Lawrence: ‘No Beverley, you’ve ALWAYS been ignorant.’

I paraphrase, but goodness it is wonderful.

Oscar has had four accidents at school this week. I utterly disgraced myself when they called me to tell me that he had run into one of the goal posts playing football, by guffawing very loudly in response.

No small children have been very harmed in the typing of this paragraph. He has promised me that he will try to remain unblemished next week.

Oscar and Tallulah have developed a new routine. They pretend to be aged Russian doctors who are running a clinic. They drag the victim (Tilly) into their consulting room, and then proceed to diagnose them with all manner of strange and peculiar ailments, all of which have to be treated with either the application of eels or crabs dotted with tadpoles.

Today Tilly required a chin transplant ( But my dee ahh your cheen, hee is zo pointy. Ze pointy cheen, he eez no good. I know. I know. Jah. We chop heem off like zo. Now we put on new cheen. Lovly cheen made of crab. Wrap heem in crepe paper and cover in tadpoles. Next patient please.) Most entertaining.

Tallulah is doing quite a lot of talking in her sleep at the moment. At one stage I also found her wandering around trying to get into the bathroom sink. It was interesting.

My favourite was when I went to tuck her up and she started giggling: ‘That granny. She is so lovely.’  I said, ‘Is she?’ She giggled some more: ‘Yes. She’s such a funny granny.’ More giggling.

Next morning I asked her about this.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

This afternoon they had a heated debate about whether you could still set fire to a fart if you trapped it in a metal box away from your buttocks so there wouldn’t be any fear of actually immolating your arse in the process. The results were inconclusive.

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