Me: Who went upstairs in muddy shoes?
Princess: I don’t know.
Me: Then why does a trail of footprints lead to your bedroom door?
Princess: That is rather incriminating, isn’t it?
Yes, indeed.
Very Louche
Tintin is rough in Dublin, I see. Why might that be? Your thoughts? Is the Hergé estate happy with this? A mystery.
Nationality
Me: Am I the best Mummy?
Michael: Yes you are!
Me: In the whole wide…?
Michael: Google?
Me: You are a digital native.
Herself: And what are you?
Me: I’m a digital traveller, no wait, a digital stranger, a digital visitor..oh I forget.
Her: A digital sieve?
Guilty Conscience
Mr. Waffle is going to a 20 year college reunion on Saturday night. 20 years ago, he paid a classmate a fiver for a class photo but she never delivered. He had written it off some time ago but he remembered the incident, if not with bitterness then definitely with…rememberedness. This was, of course, “when money was money” as my parents would say and a fiver would buy you an entire summer’s worth of entertainment.
Anyhow, he clearly isn’t the only one who remembers because she contacted him the other day and said, “I still have your class photo.”
Stalked by Illness
Michael (loudly from upstairs): There’s something disgusting in my room.
It turned out to be cat vomit. Isn’t it enough that I have children who start to vomit the second they feel ill?
The Best Hobby in the World
I found an old Agatha Christie upstairs and I gave it to herself saying that she might like it. It lay around on her desk for ages but the other night she had nothing else to read and she picked it up. She is completely hooked. I remember how much I loved Agatha Christie when I was about her age. I am delighted for her. And for us because there are loads of them out there and they might last her a bit longer than the My Sister the Vampire books.
Then, when I went in to turn off the boys’ lights, Michael was reading a Spongebob book and Daniel was methodically working his way through stories of T’choupi, the world’s dullest mole. “What are you doing?” I asked. “I’m teaching myself to read in French,” he said.
