Gladness

The Small Object of Desire is in that mood where she needs to have been drawn by Leo Baxendale.We'd been round to my parents' for lunch and they'd had "Pollyanna" on the telly, the one with Amanda Burton as the auntie. We were back at mine with pots of tea when she asked:

"That film your mum and dad were watching..." 

"Pollyanna?" 

"Yes. Pollyanna. What was that all about?" 

"It's a timeless classic. Haven't you seen it before?" 

"No. What was it about?" 

"Well... Gladness and the redemptive power of positive thinking. And that." 

"What a lot of toss. I'm going for a poo."

Guilt tripping

That Savvy and that Scarlet have decided to embark on the 365 day challenge (or in Scarly's case the 509 day challenge but she's always been a one for the wild excesses). This makes me feel tremendously guilty, given my neglect of this place. So I'll have a bash at it myself.

Let's see if I can make it last a week...

No more Colin Firth for a week

We were watching telly the other day when The Small Object Of Desire said:

"Hasn't that Mick MacManus let himself go?"

It was Jenny Agguter.

A child's garden full of intimations of mortality

The small niece child is pondering the mysteries of life, death, God and what not and isn't any too impressed by the big feller's manner of getting things done.

"If everybody dies there'll be nobody left in the world. I don't know what He thinks he's doing..."

When Diana Dors ruled the world

My dad was playing on the swings with my small niece.

"Dinosaurs were very, very big," she said.

"Yes they were," he agreed.

"They were HUGE. And very, very fierce. Dinosaurs were very, very big and really fierce."

"Ooh yes."

"I've seen a dinosaur's bones. I saw a dinosaur skeleton. We went to the museum and we saw a dinosaur skeleton. It was huge. And I touched its claw. But it was all right because it was only the skeleton."

"Very good. Did it have big teeth as well?"

"It had very big teeth. But I wasn't scared: there aren't any dinosaurs any more. They died out. They all died out a long, long time ago."

"Well, that's a relief, isn't it?"

"It must have been very scary when you were a little boy, with all those dinosaurs running around."

Probably being too honest for my own good

The youngest relative has returned to the topic of my marital status. I think we've agreed that she's not setting me up on a blind date with either the Year Three teacher or the mother of one of the girls in her class. I don't entirely trust her not to try and get around the agreement though.

"So why aren't you married?" she asked.

"I like being miserable on my own and I haven't found anybody who would want to be miserable with me."

"Oh well. If you just want miserable you may as well get yourself a baby. They're dead miserable, honest. All they do is cry and scream and eat and cry and poo and cry a bit more. And they wake you up in the middle of the night so that they can cry and scream and poo."

"I've known women like that," I admitted.

From the observatory

My small niece has an unerring sense of logic. She is also cursed with her uncle's gift of commentary.

She had popped in at my parents' house, as is her wont, to cadge rather a lot of toast off my dad. And a bit of cheese please. And some more toast.

"You know how my dad supports Man City..." she said, "well, I support them, too. But I shouldn't really, should I? When I came out of my mummy's tummy I was in Middlesborough, so I should support Middlesborough, shouldn't I?"

To his credit, my father reassured her that it wasn't compulsory. The child is of mixed parentage - Lancashire and Yorkshire. It's quite funny listening to her talk as she's got her mother's Middlesborough quirks like "cayek" for "cake," but all with our southern Mancunian accent.

A little later, her mother wanted to know why she hadn't eaten her dinner. My dad owned up and got a rollicking for it. As the fur subsided my niece turned to him and said:

"Don't take any notice. Parents get like that when they're old. They go all yaddadadayaddayadda. They can't help it."

Don't mention the Armada...

My small niece is looking forward to her holidays.

"You can come with us," she tells my mum.

"No, I can't," explains my mum, "I don't have a passport any more."

"You don't need a passport. We're going to English Spain, not Spanish Spain."

While we're on the subject of women's legs...

An old friend actually does have a catwalk-model figure, which is a bit wasted in the local government section she works in but no doubt brings a cloud of delight to her clients. True to the stereotype, what she can eat at one sitting could incapacitate a regiment.

"When I was a girl my parents were very worried about it. In fact, they took me to see a specialist and I spent the best part of a year having check-ups."

"Really?"

"Yes, I had to go once a month so that he could check my legs and make sure that the muscle development was OK."

"Once a month? So that he could check up your legs?"

"Oh yes. He could never find anything wrong, though."

"How old were you when this was happening?"

"Seventeen, eighteen."

Some folk shouldn't be allowed out of the house on their own.

One of the weekend mysteries

I wonder what song my niece thinks she's singing when she trills:

The bells ring for Tim,
The cat is bald,
King of the wild frontier!

I blame the father.

Breakfast

More proof, as if 'twere needed, of the determinate logic of small female children...

My niece has taken to the habit of having her breakfast at home (porridge, lots of toast and a yoghurt) then toddling round to my parents' place to cadge a lot of toast and some beans. My dad, soft touch as he is, does the honours.

"Don't they feed you at home?" asks my mother.

"I thought you loved me," replied the tot.

Firm

Very young children answer questions with a firmness that will brook no further discussion. Take my small niece for example:

Uncle Kevin: "Why on earth is your baby rabbit called Rupert of Hentzau?"

Niece: "Because it is."

Full stop. End of story. Let's move on now.