Youngest Child

I was reading “The Giant Jam Sandwich” to the boys the other night. “Look,” I said, “it was first published in 1972 when I was only three.” “Oh,” said Michael, “it was published during the second World War then.”

The boys are sick and living from Calpol dose to Calpol dose.

Unfortunately, Michael hasn’t got the name quite right. Lying wanly on the sofa this evening, he looked up at me and said, “Is it time for my alcohol yet?”

I do sometimes worry about the number of different women who have been involved in minding our children over the years. Michael never really bothers to get to grips with their names but always calls the current incumbent, “the babysitter” despite parental protests.

Over Christmas he accidentally knocked off the wall a picture in his room which features nine women’s heads – details from well-known larger pictures – like the Madonna of the Rocks, the Girl with the Pearl Earring, the Lady with an Ermine.

He conveyed the news of this catastrophe to me as follows: “Mummy, I’m very sorry but I knocked down the picture with the photos of all the old babysitters on it.”