Pants at Waiting

Tick followed tock followed tick followed tock. Waves stampeding onto a beach like horses. The pounding bass. Waiting for Shlomo to emerge is nothing like this. But wait we do. I think my wife wouldn't like the use of "we" as my role in the waiting is largely ceremonial while she gets booted and battered by the unborn droog. Happily, Nancy who in keeping with the infantilising drive of contemporary culture to glamourise all things retro and vintage managed to contract Scarlett fever, last seen in these parts in 1897, but despite looking ruddier than normal is absolutely fine. Indeed, apart from the odd bout of jihad she is in fine fettle. There have been some pearlers in recent days, which underscore her aceness.  

The first is related to biscuits, a subject close to Nancy's heart, and probably yours dear reader, and how the figurative doesn't necessarily equate to the literal, despite Jamie Redknapp's best efforts. Nancy, for some unmemorable piece of finery, was being rewarded with a chocolate, dark chocolate no less, digestive biscuit, which I confidently told her, after to threatening to eat it a few times in a classical moment of fatherly comedy, had her name on. Imagine Nancy's distress and disappointment when on receiving the biscuit, she inspects it closely looks up at me and said "This biscuit doesn’t have my name on." Aah. Wrong way bonzo.

 The other is a more base example of her jollity. This very morn, whilst preparing to leave for Yaya's house, something odd happened. Both of use were circling each other trying to find vital parts of our daily kit (those nuclear launch codes are always getting lost down the back of the sofa, her Joey was squirreled away in the darkest recess of the house) and all was silent. Not a sound. Maddy slumbered a heavily pregnant slumber upstairs. Not a bird to be heard. SoTo was without noise. At which point Nancy turned to me and said, in all seriousness, "Daddy, my bottom just quacked like a duck." And with that we left the house.

 And obviously, the photos below are more evidence of her  burgeoning sense of self and her ability to attract attention by doing the ridiculous. By putting all her pants on her head. In a pub no less. Knees up Mother Brown.

 Waiting. It's what we do. 

Make mine a G&T with a whisky chaser, Dave

Sheep

Ele-pant

Extraordinary Rendition