Welcome to the Bourgeois Suburban Gardeners’ Club

As a now fully-fledged member of the bourgeois suburban gardeners club, I’ve never been so glad to see it belt down almost all weekend. Our lawn is showing a teeny-tiny bit of emerald colour around the edges once more…

In other news (by which, naturally, I mean Millie news) we took the girl swimming on Saturday morning, since she’s completely cured of the old hand, foot and mouth, and is back at nursery today.

She “enjoyed” it more than the time we went in Weymouth back in the Spring; she didn’t start crying at all until she’d been in the pool a good five minutes or so, and that crying didn’t then become uncontrollable for another 10 minutes – quite an improvement, really.

She’ll be scuba diving by the end of the year, you mark my words.

Of course, the scuba diving will depend on whether she’s still alive, being such a mischievous character, and quite unwilling to listen to her stuffy old parents telling her, “No, don’t grab the TV. No, don’t pull that wire, it’s the plug for the fan. No, don’t dribble on the computer. No, don’t try to eat the phone. No, don’t press the buttons on the freeview box. No, don’t pull that large encyclopedia down on top of you. No, don’t keep trying to slam that door while your head’s in the way. No, don’t try and follow that toy that just fell off the bed. No, don’t pull all the CDs off the shelf. No, don’t grab Daddy’s mug of hot tea. No, don’t eat Mummy’s old flip-flops…

And the old favourite, “No, don’t eat that dirt…

Millie will not sit still for more than five seconds unless she’s being swung upside-down by her feet (but the Lovely Melanie can’t sit still while Millie’s being swung upside-down by her feet – it makes her too nervous).

When she’s awake she’s indefatigable, always – always – trying to climb Mount Beanbag to reach the lights on the TV, only to be plucked inevitably from the summit by a pair of parental hands and returned to base camp. Either that or she’ll be out the door towards the kitchen (never the bathroom, for some reason…) or into the office.

The only thing that shouting, “Millie, no!” will get you is a cheeky smile and a flash of her pink heels…

I’m not moaning about this though: she’s usually huge fun to be around now, so that being at home with these days is less of a chore – no shaking of toys in front of her for the bazillionth time saying, “Ooh, look, Millie, look; look at this!” These days she can play happily on her own for quite a while while Mummy and Daddy catch that rare repeat of Churchill’s Bodyguard on UK TV History.

The standing joke in our house at the moment comes from Millie getting hold of the Freeview remote last Thursday and accidentally recording something called His Majesty O’Keefe three times in a row. The “joke” is that Millie loves this programme, and regularly tells us so in a slightly silly posh voice.

ME: “Oh, Mummy, is His Majesty O’Keefe on today? I loves that programme, Daddy. I loves it.”
LOVELY MELANIE: No, it isn’t.
ME: “Oh, can we watch it on the video, then? I loves that programme. God, it’s so brilliant, I loves it. My favourite bit is when…”
LOVELY MELANIE: Shut up, Millie.
ME: “Can we get the platinum edition box-set when it comes out, Mummy? It must be coming out soon, Mummy, because it’s such a brilliant programme. Put the video on, Mummy…”

That’s our house, these days.

Although, I did get to see Kung Fu Hustle on DVD Saturday night, and that went straight into my top five films of all time without passing Go or collecting £200. Forget His Majesty O’KeefeKung Fu Hustle had me laughing, gasping and cheering all the way through it.

Yes, yes, yes, all right, here are some Millie pictures. Enough already!

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