Deer wi' hawnsh on head

I'm going to gloss over the horrors of Friday night, I think. Suffice it to say that it didn't go well. Nevertheless, the Boy (who, to be fair, managed around nine hours of sleep - albeit in chunks - which was between two and three times as much as he allowed me) bounced awake at 7am and threw himself busily into his day. If you asked him what the best bit of the morning was, I'm pretty sure he'd tell you it was discovering the special low sink in Grandma and Granddad's bassoom (which they call a bidet, for some reason), where a small boy can stand for hours, happily doing water play. We did eventually coax him out of the bathroom though, and persuaded him to have some breakfast ("EGGY!!"), and then come outside to play in the frosty garden.

Because we hadn't been able to get as close to yesterday's fallow buck at the Broadway Tower as B had wanted (primarily because R declined his insistent pleas to break through the fence and enter their enclosure), we'd promised him that today we would go to a place where he could see lots of bucks ("deer wi' hawnsh on head" - illustrated by both fists being placed on top of his own head) at much closer quarters. So this afternoon we went to Charlecote. The deer, luckily, were a reasonable hit. "Are they interesting?" said R. "Do you like them?" "Yes," said B. "More."

('More' is a word which can mean that he wants more of something he's clearly enjoying - pesto pasta, say, or a bikkit - but which R thinks he also uses to express general approval of the current state of things. I hope this is true, because he says it in the off-hand tone of a latter-day Roman Emperor, who's so satiated with extravagant pleasure that he requires a constant input of new experience to mitigate the boredom of everyday existence. For this reason the word tends to raise my stress level by several notches, but I'm trying hard now to hear it through R's ears, and not immediately start wondering what I can possibly do to improve B's world.)

The big hit of the Charlecote trip was not the deer but the café, which provided the Boy with warm milk in a takeaway cup (Question: are we born knowing how to drink out of plastic-lidded takeaway cups? Because this 2-year old handled one at least as competently as either of his grandparents), and a choice of two different chokyit bikkits. "Which one do you like best?" said R. "Dis," said B, holding up a large chocolate chunk cookie. "OK," said R. "Can Grandma and I have this one then?" "NO," said B, swiping the orange chocolate shortbread off the table just before R's hand could reach it. "Oh dear," said R. "That's a bit disappointing." At which point B carefully broke small pieces off the shortbread for each of the Oldies, while hanging on to the bulk of it for when he'd finished the favoured cookie.

After the café we took him to see the waterfall, which was so mesmerising that all hell broke loose when we tried to prise him away from it (my fault, that one - I'd thought he would like it, but after the bidet experience I really should have anticipated that flowing water would be way beyond fascinating). Eventually though, we found the magic formula: "Shall we go to the supermarket?" and good humour was restored. "Soop-a-mar-kit!" said B happily, and then chased me most of the way back to the car park down the long driveway, roaring like a tiny blonde monster, and enchanting numerous passers-by. In the soopamarkit he sat in the trolley while we walked around the aisles, and threw everything we handed him, backhand and with great force, into its furthest reaches. Luckily we weren't there to buy anything fragile.

Then home, and dinner (cottage pie declined, but reheated pesto pasta from last night fallen on as though he hadn't seen solid food in a week), and bath, and reading, and singing, and bed. Followed by a quick glass of wine for Djiwl, and an extremely early night. I'll see you on the other side. With luck.