I’ve been trying to get the Monkeyface to bed earlier. She’s recovering from starting nursery and contracting whooping cough all at the same time. She’s permanently shattered, permanently cranky – definitely mine in case any if you were wondering as to who she resembles.
As I write, it’s 8.37pm. For the last 80 minutes, she has regaled us with a litany of entreaties:
1. Mummmmyyyy, I want mummmmmy.
2. Please read me Good little wolf mummy.
3. I want Each Peach, Pear, Plum mummy
4. I Waaaant Slinky Malinki mummy
5. I want the special book Mummmmmmy
And, in case you think she really is a junior Einstein, she threw in
6. Look, he really did make a snake
7. Mummy. Woof woof
And the classic
8. Go away you silly custard flavour
I’m TRYING to get on with watching The Killing 3. If we are really focussed, we’ll probably manage the remaining seven hours incrementally over the next 6 months. “Mummmmmmyyyy. I want another story…”