Young Morgan (aka The Duracell Bunny) asks to have his legs lifted up.
As is often the case when dealing with three year olds, we hear the words but don't quite understand
the message behind them. Morgan is insistent. He needs his legs lifting up. His body language makes his feelings only too well known: we are all simpletons, not understanding such a simple request.
crystal clear when we go into the TV room where brothers Sam and James, under the careful instruction of their big cousin Eleanor, are stretched out, the image of Sheer Luxuriating Laziness on the reclining armchairs. Their legs, I can see at a glance, are,
indeed, "lifted up."
The Duracell Bunny, content that we must now surely have got the message, clambers onto a vacant armchair and waits for Eleanor to push the appropriate button. Unfortunately his legs,
being little, don't extend past the seat of the armchair. The armchair extends but Morgan's legs stay exactly where they are. I am finding it very, very hard not to laugh at those little legs stubbornly refusing to lift.
In the end I sit on the armchair with the Duracell Bunny on my lap and push the Magic Button. As my legs lift, so do his. Satisfaction at last. I am, as you know, always ready to lend a hand. Or a lap.
are at the home of the Eldest of the Darling Daughters and her fella who, not content with providing us with a Stellar Celebration the previous evening, have invited anyone who so desires to come back to their place this morning for "Brunch." My daughter has
cooked bacon and scrambled eggs a-plenty while her daughters have paid an early morning visit to Waitrose and returned with boxes full of rolls, pastries, croissants and pain au chocolat. Even if guests have already breakfasted at their various hotels and
guest-houses, they will find it hard to ignore such a smorgasbord of brunchy delicacies.
The Little Welsh Boys and their parents were the first to arrive, hence their immediate occupation of the TV room with
its reclining armchairs. Their hotel breakfast bar included a pancake factory and Young James had taken full advantage of the opportunity this offered, manufacturing - and then consuming - no fewer than five pancakes. My sister and her husband were next, having
enjoyed a Father's Day breakfast with their son and daughter and their families at a nearby Premier Inn. Arriving at more or less the same time were our Son in Law's nephew with his wife and Totally Gorgeous, their baby son. No, that isn't his real name -
but if the cap fits...
There's nothing like a party - but even when you set off as I did (see yesterday's blog) to fill in all the spaces in your I Spy Book of Party Guests, you never really have the time
for a good old chin-wag. So sitting round the dining room table with an assortment of pastries, before taking seats in the sun with glasses of wine and fruit squash, offers the perfect opportunity for a post-party catch-up.
Mr B opens his Father's Day cards. Three of the four were surprisingly sweet - but the Eldest of the Darling Daughters, aware of her father's Trials and Tribulations with his new mobile phone,had found a most appropriate card. On the
front an elderly gent with two empty tin cans, one held to his ear, the other to his mouth. Both tins were connected with a handy piece of string. I still remember my childhood attempts to make such a phone for myself - those feelings of tantalising expectation
as I carefully strung two old baked beans tins together. Followed by the searing disappointment when my makeshift telephone stubbornly refused to work. The message on the front of Mr B's card reads: "Dad's new smartphone had a special Gullible Old Git app."
My favourite man takes it in good part.
Eventually, one by one, we take our leave. The Duracell Bunny, I am given to understand, stays awake throughout a five hour journey except for a swift five minute power
nap a few miles from home. He then refuses to go to bed until nearly ten o'clock, his battery is so charged up. This time it's his exhausted parents who need their legs lifting up.
That was yesterday
and this is today. The Middle of the Darling Daughters tells me over the phone that she has had her best night sleep for months, courtesy of my second eldest granddaughter, Hazel Bagel who, with her friend Zoe, is staying a couple of nights to help out with
the Rampaging Rascal and The Twinkles. Apparently they confiscated the baby monitor, so that they could get up in the night to feed the babies and were up again at first light to deal with the customary Early Morning Mayhem. The Grateful Mother posted a photo
of them on Facebook, totally zonked out, with the message: "This looking after Twinkles business is more exhausting than it looks..." It would not surprise me if the M of the DDs refused to let them go home. Meanwhile the father of the Little Welsh Boys reckons
he could use the Highly Helpful Pair if they could possibly make it down to Wales sometime.
They have, after all, honed their not inconsiderable child care skills on the Rampaging Rascal and The Twinkles which
is no mean feat.
But are they ready for the Challenge of the Duracell Bunny?