A puppy turned up at our place on Saturday. A pudgy, floppy-earred, jumpy-licky, short-wheel-based pup with no sense of boundaries or outliving its welcome.
But because my brain is undeniably a right prick at times, I can’t get her question out of my head. Why can’t that poor little hedgehog talk? Seriously, what is the criteria for making it into the talking animal stakes in Peppa Pig?
The kids have been running some sort of noise-relay so there’s not been a moment of silence since you were woken in the predawn gloom, the toddler won’t tolerate being out of your arms for more than 23 seconds, and it starts pelting down just before you head out to feed the chickens, but you’ve…
We have a chequered history, Mother’s Day and I. My first and second were right shitters, if we’re being honest.
The wee lad’s sick.
It’s Miss Three who’s the source of the most entertainment in terms of language at the moment. She comes out with all sorts of things, often set to her own little musical composition or one she’s picked up somewhere or other.
That look on her face is the exact look that my mother used to get when we were pushing it to the absolute limit but were in a public place and so she was trying not to create a scene (or add to the scene that we were already creating). You can communicate a hell of a lot with that look and a few choice sentences hissed between those gritted teeth, believe me.