What can I possibly find to tell you? This (admittedly oddly pleasant) child wrangling hiatus is even less interesting than me navel gazing. Oh! We found a multipack of dried snouts in Carrefour for the weepette that were obscurely entertaining, but Fingers would not even let me near the camera in case it distracted me from snack duty. Whenever I edged, cautiously, towards the laptop he would summon me back to lay out his biscuit collection by size and colour, or crueller still, commandeer the computer for the dark, dark works of Playhouse Disney.
When not busy bending me to his will, Fingers drew Steve Green, the Stegosaurus. As a stalling mechanism it was of limited success since it was the work of seconds, but we were both pleased with the result.
Steve (and Dave, frequent commenter on these pages):
Life According to Dinosaurs is horribly popular with the spawn. It's the combination of mindless violence and exotic, English swearing ("you ate my arm, ya green fucker!"). They don't know which the English bad words are, but they know they are in there, since I have mentioned it in an unguarded moment. Lashes is desperate to know.
"Is it 'kill' maman? Or 'chess'?"
"No. I'm not going to tell you anyway, you hear enough swearing as it is"
"But what IS it? I won't say it ever I promise"
"It's something I say all the time, so it's hardly new to you"
"No, not that one. STOP ASKING"
The whole thing is slightly reminiscent of the deprived kids club I used to go to in York (single parent = deprivation in early 80s North Yorkshire). They were always taking us on half-arsed coach trips to local sites of interest and forgetting half of us in Knaresborough, where we would have to find our own way to the nearest police officer and explain our predicament. It was tremendously character building, and noone actually died, to my knowledge.
Tell me in the comments whether you want to see dried snouts. Cassandra, I am giving you a chance to rock the no vote here. Use it wisely.