First "ticks", then what?
Tidying up the flat yesterday, I heard Emma twittering from the living room.
"Jam! Jam!" she said.
Grrrr. Not jammy fingers on my upholstery. Not jammy fingers on my computer. Jam stays in the kitchen, you little tike.
Muttering in this fashion I sauntered next door to find Emma, her hand covered in not jam, but er, blood. She had been rummaging through the recycling and cut her finger rather nastily on a tin.
One day I will find a happy medium between blind panic and criminal negligence.
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