Boy Seymour woke up this morning in a devilish mood. Before his eyes had been open for ten minutes, he was whacking a sister with a makeshift truncheon. He got chocolate spread down the clean shirt he’d just harassed me for, and his clean shorts were covered in something, too.
He offended another sister with his public ablutions, and proceeded to charge at the Mini one, warding her off his guinea pig.
Number One, meanwhile, who has been allowed to wear her PE kit to school for the past week due to the heat (!), doesn’t like it when I point out just how short her skort is. The vehemence with which she told me that I don’t have to watch her get on the bus (for her own safety) was vicious. She stomped up the garden, all independent and stroppy, only to then realise she doesn’t have a gate key.
Cue, Mummy – calmly demanding an apology before obliging with the Magic Gate Button, whilst hoping and praying she’d get one or she’d have a sixteen mile drive on her hands – and also subtly checking that Number One’s friends are at the bus stop to protect her from baddies with a penchant for scantily-clad youths.
Meanwhile… back at The Shed, Mini Seymour has bitten Little Seymour Number Two, who was trying to protect Boy Seymour’s guinea pig from Mini’s chosen method of environmental enrichment involving a long stick.
In amongst all this, we also managed to fit in an argument about peanut butter, a lesson on the history of The Battle of Ecky Thump, a conversation about verruca socks and some tooth brushing.
All before 8.45am.
Another normal morning then!
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