Late

We are walking to school.

Or to be more precise, I am striding implacably* forwards, Emily is gamely trotting along beside me, and Phoebe is dangling martyr-like from my hand, clinging on grimly and emitting low moaning noises as she bounces with a dull thud off trees and parked cars.

She is not talking to me.

Me: "Don't you be giving me the silent treatment young lady. If you'd got dressed when I told you to, we'd already be at school and we wouldn't have to be racing along like this."
Phoebe: "I *did* get dressed when you told me to young lady!"
Me: "Oh really? Then who was that wasting time sitting on Emily's bed playing with SpongeBob and Patrick this morning."
Phoebe: "That was you young lady!"

This exchange could go on for some time. Luckily, Emily interjects: "Don't be silly Phoebe. If Daddy sat on the bed it would break!"

Hmmm.

I'm not sure whether to be grateful for the support or resentful of the implication that I could do with shedding a few pounds....






* I'm not actually sure, strictly speaking, if this is a way in which one can stride