The 6yo was a bit stroppy last afternoon. He was post-play-date tired.
'Can I watch TV?'
'Absolutely,' said I. He nearly fainted, so rarely do I utter that sentence at 4pm.
'Really?' He said, sensing there might be a catch. There wasn't one.
Heady with triumph, he realised he must have settled short. Making amends he quickly upped his demands.......
'I'll turn it on and choose my own programme if you show me how to use the remote.'
Yeah, dream on! Long ago I lost the remote to the hubby, I'm not keen to relinquish the last bastion of power in my own home. The remote must be defended.....Oh, hark at me, I've come over all ferocious, a reincarnation of Boodica perhaps, maybe it's the proximity to Wales. Anyhoo, the sproglets cannot triumph .... even though I know that day is coming but for now I'm living in the moment.....
'That's OK lovely boy, I'll manage,' said I.
He pouted and threw himself onto the sofa.
'That's so unfair. What happens if you and dad died? We wouldn't even know how to use the TV!'