On funeral behavior, snogging and a sweet enterprise
Babies have no sense of occasion. At his Nanna’s funeral Boy Three started off ever so well. He understood his role was to be life-affirming, charming and distracting but otherwise sit quietly and behave himself. It was all going ever so well as he admired the polished shiny stuff, coloured windows and blinking Christmas tree, then he noticed. The place was full of people, many of whom he knew were good for a tickle or a game of peepo. Yet, you could see his confusion, they weren’t playing. So he started grumbling, then squeaking and, finally, yelling. You didn’t need the baby whisperer to tell you it meant: “Me! Me! I’m smiling as cutely as I can, now play with me. Now.”
I bundled him out and he spent the rest of the service squeaking loudly at the undertakers before falling asleep during the last hymn and snoring enthusiastically.
Snogging is the worst thing ever. Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince is a fabulously Gothic concoction of menace and tension complete with proper tragedy and peril. Asked what he thought, Boy Two said: “Yeah a tiny bit scary but the snogging was the worst bit. Yuk Yuk Yuk. I hid behind a pillow for that.”
We are going to open a coloured sugar factory. Apparently we are going to make – and sell – the stuff. Boy One tells me you dissolve sugar in water, add food colouring, then suspend a piece of string in the solution. Pretty coloured crystals will form on the string. You crush them and put them in jars. Open the shop and people will flock to buy them.