Buds

Mother asked me summat about whether I needed anything from the supermarket and I suggested some carrot batons as I need some picnic items for an upcoming hike. We then proceeded to debate whether they sell carrot batons in my parents’ local Morrisons. I was accused of being bourgeois. Despite being a total luddite with food, I am forever labelled as pretentious by my parents as I have lived in Cambridge and travelled more than fifty miles from my birthplace.

I have been wronged. And I thought bags of carrot batons were more lazy than pretentious, although I am willing to be corrected on this. And I also didn’t imagine it would be hard to find them in Staffordshire, or am I to believe the county is full of rural homesteads where people haven’t got money for carrots and instead dig one up from the vegetable patch and eat it then and there, soil and all, one arm leaning on the spade?

Meanwhile, Georgia and I are becoming buds and she is now saying ‘Uncle Bobby’ approximately 750 times an hour and trying to follow me to the bathroom with her potty. Unhelpful (from a parenting standpoint) uncle role well and truly being fulfilled.