I wish somebody had warned me of the pitfalls in giving personalities to stuffed toys. The first born once found it most amusing to converse with Harry the bear over a 'gottle of geer'. But as TheO became more confident, his relationships with other stuffed toys began to develop and reach into all corners of the toybox. It was manageable and a bit of a laugh for a while. But recently, I have been woken at 5am and alerted to the immediate fact that Mr Rabbit is not talking or that Mr Platypus needs to impart some vital rendition to Mr Crocodile. It's releasing an inner multiple personality disorder within me I can't stop. I have already made a business call as Mr Shark, with the insatiable appetite for biting the heads of small children! Chomp!



'Daddy, make him say something...'

The latest continues to prove his good humour. Having developed a taste for potting soil, the new game is to catch him doing it. Like a flash, he darts onto the terrace and has his digits deep into the compost of the potted plants before you can switch into responsible parent mode (it's the 5th one along from Mr Fat Cat) Hiding stones in his mouth is also a favourite, producing much mirth and giggels as we attempt an extraction. Perhaps he uses these to sharpen his only tooth (lower right centeral)



Relaxed & well!

With much of the obstacles now removed, the good lady has declared the 27th attempt to move house. The outlook is looking good with the information superhighway ordered, and nearly installed! Even more possessions have been transferred. It could, however all go belly up if I can't snap out of feeling like a small grey and white stuffed Rabbit. Lettuce anyone...