The badness was to be expected too. The weather is hugely ennervating, hot and rainy and oppressive, and they have been terribly good for AGES, barely objecting to my fobbing them off with €5 notes to go to the corner shop for confectionery and endless well-intentioned but crap vagueness.
Instead, we could play "where did the Pontypines used to live". Pin the aquarium on the room, if you will.
No, that's quite boring and there are so few places it could have been.
We could look at a picture of the dog?
No, too melancholy.
I know! An archive shot. Proving that I was a much more objectionable toad than my children could ever be. What the hell, TWO archive shots.
My expression! I am right back there, a ball of hate, outraged to be once again forced to march up a giant boggy mountain when I could be hiding in a corner with an Agatha Christie and a CurlyWurly.
And now I really must go, because they have started raiding the cupboards for glue to sniff, or to stick waffles to the dog's head or something and I may be a 'parent indigne' but I am still British, dammit and dog cruelty cannot go unremarked.