I Want Crazy Hair

Summer’s awesome. Well, it is when it’s actually distinguishable from Autumn or Winter.

Those long sultry evenings with a glass of something crisp and white… ah, it’s been so long. Those sticky-sweet nights have the same inpact on toddlers as mobile phones and light pollution do on birds. They’re crabby, confused, full of vim at 10pm and ready for action at 2am. I thought it was just mine, but Facebook and Twitter paid tribute to this all last night and this.

The good news is that we managed a Neil Gaiman love-in tonight. We read Crazy Hair twice and like a lazy popstar offering the crowd the mike for the chorus, she didn’t disappoint and sang back “Crazy HAIRRRR” every time she was supposed to. (This could entice her to brush her hair, or it could prompt her to go full Russell Brand, pre-Katy. It could really go either way.) Mr bookandbed had a half-hearted read through of Blueberry Girl (which he doesnt like but I LOVE, by the way, Mr Gaiman, if you’re reading.) It’s one of those books that, if you have just been delivered of a girl-child, there’s a copy of this in the post from me before she’s even left your loins.The monkey wasn’t really getting it and I blame her father, who was rather phoning it in.

We’ve had the devil’s own game getting her into bed. It’s still light at 9.20 and Balearic hot hot hot so “it’s NOT bedtime” is bouncing of the walls. I’ve had 6 hours sleep in the last 48 so this is not welcome. But what is, what really is is the sound of her shouting “I want Crazy Hair…”

I don’t fancy my chances with the Dora & Boots hairbrush in the morning.

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