Satan’s Little Helper

Here is Little Miss Hubble, looking as good as gold in her soon-to-be cousin’s nursery chair. You’d never guess what a fiendish little hell-sprite she is, would you?


Sometimes she’s so flagrant that my attempts to be cross are hampered by the effort of not laughing. Like when she throws her food wilfully onto the floor and I see red …and then she looks at me and wags a finger and says “NO!”

Or when I’m hunched on my knees, halfway through changing a nappy, and the little bugger jumps up and legs it down the corridor, naked, at top speed. Then she sees me chasing and shrieks with glee, which makes her fall over because apparently she can’t giggle and run quickly at the same time.

Or when she finally falls asleep in her cot and waits for me to tip-toe away before springing up like a jack in the box and giggling over the cot-side while I bellow “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, LIE DOWN!

Far less amusing is having to refill her bath several times every evening after she lets the water out. WILFULLY. And I could do without her latest hobby of throwing shoes, books, hair slides and anything else she can find down the loo, preferably when it has been vacated moments earlier in an unflushed state by her brother. Gargh! Filthy animals, one and all.

In Microbe news I am thankful that several of his friends appear to be as Pokemon-obsessed as he is, right now. Otherwise I suspect I’d be on the receiving end of even more unintelligible rambling.  Not that I have anybody but myself to blame. Nobody forced me to make him this truly heinous hat.  The things we do for love.


In other news, the Fireworks are over and it looks as though grotto-dodging season is almost upon us. Where can I get a pair of child-sized horse blinkers?

It’s the same every year. From late Nov we can barely wander to the shops or nip to a garden centre without having to steer the children around 35 pop-up grottos full of Santas of dubious quality.  How is this supposed to add to the magic?  The Microbe was pretty quick to point out last year that ‘Santa’ had a different beard every time he saw him. I’d far prefer it if these annual lap-chats could be limited to one per year – and preferably not before mid-December. Sigh. Why am I even bothering to write this? I may as well stop railing against the world and embrace the red beardyman. Even if we ignore every single grotto, he’ll still turn up in a motor-sleigh at some point and knock on our door.

And don’t get me started on this business of letters from Santa.  Honestly, how long before we can all friend him on Facebook?  (Why, yes, I am one hundred and three, thanks for asking.)

About Susan Flockhart

Bonsai lady-geek and blogger. I can hardly recall what I used to blog about pre-microbes, but these days I generally ramble about motherhood, nonsense and whatever's going on the world of tiny people
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