Humpty got me thinking...
My childhood mispronunciations included "aterator" for radiator, and my favourite piece of music when I was small was Orff's "Ribena Banana".

Stupid fucking twat. Should of been slapped more so I was learned how for talk right quicker.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 10:30, 53 replies)

I got screwed....
no not that kind(filthy minds),When I was 11-12 I was running around the house and jumping over the sofa in the living room, but little did I know that my little devil...I mean my brother(yeah lets go with that) had found a screw (god know wheres)
and put it pointy bit up so when I jumped down it when in.
Cue me running , or more like hobbling to my mother who was in bed still, and showing her it. In the end we had to unscrew it from my foot, I still have the scar.
I like to think no one has had the pleasure of feeling like unscrewing a screw from wood, only in their foot.


Was in so deep we almost had to use a screw driver.
(Leoninus "Never lick a fresh turd on a hot day.", Tue 22 Apr 2008, 10:25, 2 replies)

Oh yes...
When i was 2 I coloured in my toenail with a pencil, and it went weird.
I went to the Doctors and got some antibiotics and that was the end of it.

Except... a social worker arrived a week later. She said to my mother "your son was admitted to hospital with a bruised toe - I'd like to ask you a few questions if I may".

"No need!" replied mum cheerfully. "I was bored so I stamped on it".

I'm told the social worker just went pink and apologised and left. That must be how Eunice Spry got away with it.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 10:16, Reply)

Humpty reminded me...
When it's raining and you have a certain device that unfolds to form a canopy that you stand under, doesn't it make more sense to call it an "underbrella" than an umbrella? As I child I certainly thought so.
( e.m.m.y. foxtrot uniform charlie kilo india tango, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 10:05, 5 replies)

My Childhood Stories
Having no children of my own (be grateful, the world is a better place without my demonspawn running amok) I may as well regale you with three lovely tales from my childhood.

Cigarettes are bad, m'kay

As a young'un (old enough to walk, not old enough to know any better) I was capable of eating most anything that wasn't nailed down, and if I could pry it up it wasn't nailed down well enough; I also could fit anything smaller than a two seater sofa in my mouth (slight exageration, but not far from the truth). I was at my grandparents house for a visit and my young eyes were transfixed by a glass dish on a side table, normally filled with candy. Today however the glass dish was filled with small pale tootsie rolls (candy from the states, very nice) and thus I consumed the whole lot.

Turns out that they weren't candy at all, was rushed to hospital and spent several days being monitored for nicotine poisoning - yes, I'd eaten an ashtray of cigarette butts. Got my grandma to quit smoking though.

Smell of a Man

Not long after my brush with death at my grandparents, I am once again clibming my way through the obstacle course called home getting into all sorts of small-child hi-jinks; left with a babysitter for the evening, and therefore to my own devices, it wasn't long before we had a situation on our hands. Parents return from a night out enjoying each others company sans the human garbage disposal (me if you're curious) to find the babysitter asleep in the lounge and Jr. nowhere to be found.

Then came the giggling......

Upstairs they came to find the source of the childish laughter, in their room they found young UncleChuckles parked on top of their dresser - a full 4 feet from the ground with no obvious means of clambering up - giggling like a loon. Why was he giggling, they did ask themselves and as my father approached he had his answer. The smell was horrific, my breath was like some tangy nosehair melting weapon of mass distarction. Why was my breath so bad?

Amazing what drinking an entire bottle of (expensive) aftershave will do. Yes the reason for my mirth and my breath of death was that I was drunk as a lord from drinking an entire bottle of aftershave - delicious.

Babies and electricity don't mix

I have for all my life been fascinated with electricity, a love that started when I was still in diapers. Longingly would I gaze at power outlets and be amazed at the life giving power that they delivered to devices all around the house; my curiousity was peaked, and if you haven't already guessed, this is a very dangerous thing. While my parents were out doing the weekend shop, I was left under the watchful eye (they would have been were he not asleep) of my uncle and my chance was upon me. I crawled to the kitchen - I had yet to master walking without the aid of a parent holding me up - and made my way for the cutlery drawer. A fork was my goal.

Having procured my fork - an almighty task in itself seeing as it was in the top drawer some three feet up (I swear that as a child I had spidey-ninja climbing skills) I returned to the dining room to exlore the magic portal of an electrical socket.

My uncle awoke to all the circuits clacking out and the smell of smoke and pork. I was later found in the entrance room (across the house from the dining room) with all my hair on end, singed around the edges and with the almightiest grin of delight on my face. The scary thing is I still get the grin whenever I'm in close proximity to lethal amounts of electricty today (I'm an electrical engineer).

Click I Like This if you think it's best that I never pass on my obviously corrupt seed.

Length? About 20ft across the house, smelling of pork....
(UncleChuckles "Cthulhu fhtagn", Tue 22 Apr 2008, 9:38, 5 replies)

Eating things
When I was but a little geeklet (less than two, anyway), my Dad came home from university one day to find my Mum tearing around the house, phoning the doctor, the health visitor, her sister who worked as a medical receptionist and all kinds of general medical panic.

"What's wrong?" asks Dad.
"Aaaah", wails Mum, "Gordonjcp ate the holly berries in the garden!"
"Hmm, yeah", said Dad, "He did that a couple of days ago, too..."
(gordonjcp, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 8:25, Reply)

Raleigh Chopper
Remember those bad boy bikes of the 70's?

Well, I had one - big shiny red one - I loved it...up until I had a slight altercation involving a gravelly hill and gravity. Apparently I looked like I'd gone through a car windscreen.

I ended up in hospital (11 days too - must have been bad).

So there I am, being force-fed crappy hospital food (at the time I was a very picky eater - nowadays I even eat airline food).

Anyhoo, one night I was woken up by a concerned nurse: "Are you alright?" she asked.

"Um, yeah - I'm fine." I replied confused as to why she seemed so tall.

Turns out I'd fallen out of the bed (and these things were about 4' high, but carried on sleeping...

So there was I for the duration of my stay there with the safety guards up - the world's biggest baby cot.

Since then I've also fallen out of the top bunk and never woken up - deep sleeper me.

11 days for falling of a bike is too long...
( snee held his breath since, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 8:04, 2 replies)

"DON'T TOUCH THAT"
It's the one line that is guaranteed not to work...

Dad's Razor... In the days when razor blades were mounted in a metal handle that had two trap doors to hold the blade... COOOOOL.. shiny... looks fun. I had resisted temptation to touch it until my mum noticed my curious gaze and said "DO NOT PLAY WITH THAT"...
30 minutes later I walked into the kitchen trying to hide the flow of blood from my finger... yet desperately in need of my mum..

"Have you been playing with Dad's Razor?"
no
*Mum storms off to bathroom, returns with razor and knocks a chunk of Humty out of it*
"HOW did that get there?"
don't know *whimper*

The fire our hearth had a lovely air-grille on it that you could open when the fire needed help. Dad used to tinker with this and swear. Depite being told not to touch it, I wanted to be like him, so oneday I reached out to move it... I had been planning on saying "shit" for authenticity... Instead I
yelped and cried.

The scissors
My mum is more than handy with dressmaking and knitting etc. She has degrees in machine knitting and had been teaching it to bored housewives for years. She also made all of her own dresses and skirts. The way those big scissors wend "Shik-Shik-Shik" though cloth was wonderful, and my brother and I used to watch her do it for ages. The scissors had a live leather pouch to: a really good set.
As usual our loving gazes were noticed, and the touching of the shinyness was forbidden.

Mum went out of the room, and we dove for the scissors. We were small, and the scissors were like broadswords. My whole hand fitted into the thumb hole.. We found some cloth dangling over the back of the settee.... Childhood logic is sometimes fatally flawed. the cloth was was back here... noone would ever see it, we just wanted to feel them cut... Ohhh... FUN FUN FUN!!!

We sneaked the scissors back, and noone was any the wiser...

...Until mum went to get her nearly-finished dress from the livingroom: The entire top of it was in shreds. It was the first time either of use knowingly heard our mum scream: the material had cost a fortune.

*****************************************

Everyone says that people are "the perfect parents until they have kids of their own".... I understand and sympathise. they're right too... I'm not a parent, yet I rekon I can see many parenting mistakes.... Here's my favourite of all time.


If a conversation goes like this

"DON'T DO THAT"
why?
"BECAUSE I SAY SO!!"

There is something missing: a reasonable response. Of all the times people end up saying "I told him not to do that, and he went a head and hurt himself anyway" ... How many times was "he" told WHY not to do that? How many times did the parent explain the dangers, and even better, demonstrate them?

Not many I'm guessing.

******************

Sure: You don't always have time... but then again, you brought them into the world... It's your responsibility to teach them about it.

I'll still be writing on B3ta when I get my own sprogs... I'll let you know how it goes.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Tue 22 Apr 2008, 7:50, 2 replies)

Childhood words
"Obibble Bang" - Tarmac compacting machine... you know.. those things that hammer up and down with a guy steering them... (horrible bang)

"Belly popper" - helicopter

"Bumbee" - Bumble Bee

"Bigtits" - Biscuits
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Tue 22 Apr 2008, 7:33, 7 replies)

Ladies fawn over a man who likes children
Say what you will about the snivelling twits - they're better than a pick-up line.

It's just come to my attention that my uncle, in his younger and more philanderous years, used to take me out to the park for the purpose of striking up conversations with hot women looking for a Mr Right who is good with kids.

Needless to say, I've now grown to a ripe maturity of 20 years, while he now has two ankle-biters of his own; the younger being one of the most adorable 7-year-olds in Canada.

I fully intend to return the favour. Sins of the father, eh?
(Phaedron Dizzying epiphanies from the bottom of my pint., Tue 22 Apr 2008, 7:24, Reply)

Did you know that
fat children cry butter?
(shake'n'bake Tally Ho, Biatch!, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 4:31, 3 replies)

babysitting my friend's seven-year-old sibling
'my grandma died'

i backtracked. this was out of the blue. not wanting to upset her, i nodded gravely and said 'yes, my grandma died too'

she went quiet.

shit.shit.shit.shit.

'WOW! that's amazing. BOTH our grandmas?!'
(ladyintheradiator, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 2:24, Reply)

Morton's fork
My mother is busy cooking and doing washing while her children have thankfully taken themselves quietly off somewhere. The doorbell rings and she opens the door to a neighbour.

"Did you know your children are on the roof, naked?"
.
.
.
.
.
"Yes."

In fact they weren't naked - they had their knickers on. So that's alright.

I believe the time between politely closing the door and dragging the small, barely-clothed fiends through the window could have been measured in microseconds.
(Skittlemcfluff ......................, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 2:18, Reply)

i babysit a lot
as i have no kids, my family firmly believe that i have nothing better to do with my life than to look after their ill-begotten hellspawn. i have to put up with the tears, the tantrums, the mess and the disruption, usually with strict orders that i am NOT allowed to discipline them and have to tell their parents they've been naughty when they get back.

i'd never tell my brother or sisters this but, looking at those heart-meltingly sweet little faces when they're fast asleep, almost makes it all worthwhile.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 1:44, 2 replies)

Sisters Part 3
My middle sister and my other two sisters don't always get on very well. I don't get on well with her either, as a point of fact, to the extent that she once attempted to gouge out my eyes with a fork. But I digress.

We used to live in Buxton, Derbyshire. We had a large garden that led down to a small stream that flowed into the local park lake. Because we were all quite young there was a fence separating the lawn from the meadowy area that led to the stream.

Sister No.1 had a friend who went to Majorca for a holiday. She brought back Sister No. 1 some of those bath gel things - the kind that dissolve in the bath and give a nice smell. They were bright pink and green coloured balls about the size of a large marble.

Sister No. 2 had her beady 3 year old eye on what she thought was a cache of Spanish sweets that Sister No. 1 wasn't going to share. Cunningly, she waited until Sister No. 1 had left her room, then darted in, pudgy little hands open, and pocketed the bath gel things. Then she fled, knowing the likely violent response.

That day my dad decided that we needed to clear some space in the meadow. Aged 10 I was judged old enough to help him. We walked across the lawn, through the gate to the meadow and there, by the wood pile, found sister no. 2. In one hand was 2 or 3 of the bath gel balls. The other hand was wiping the tears away from her eyes.

The little minx had eaten two or three of them. Scented foam was coming out of her nose and mouth, and she sat their crying and saying "these taste horrible".

I have never laughed so much in my life. So did my dad. Later on, after the inevitable washing out of her mouth etc, and the bollocking my dad and I got for laughing at her, Sister No. 1 cut the head off one of her Barbie Dolls in revenge.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 0:41, 1 reply)

i've got lots of younger cousins
and my youngest cousin is about 3 and his older sister is about 6.
This little girl used to be the most spoilt little shit imaginable before her brother was born. I really didn't like her even though she was the cutest thing ever. She's half Finnish so spoke a mixture of Finnish and English and if me or one of my sisters said hello to her or tried to give her a hug she'd scream "Aiti! Aiti!" (i think it means mummy in Finnish, correct if wrong).
It was always Aiti! Aiti! Aiti! God, it was annoying!
Then her little brother was born with a cleft palette and the most amazing transformation came over her. Because all the attention was focussed on her little brother she completely changed. The first time I saw her since her brother was born she ran to give me a massive hug - I was speechless!
And now, whenever she comes to England, she is my little buddy and I take her for rides in my car and it's great.
And she's such an awesome sister too. Her brother can't speak very well but she understands everything he says and she lets someone know if he needs something.
He is the sweetest boy ever. He thinks he's spiderman and he's always got a smile for everyone he sees.
My little Finnish moomin trolls. I love them.
(saf, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 0:33, Reply)

Sisters Part 2
I have three sisters, all younger, who (as mentioned in a previous post) banded together like a weird combination of a tag-team wrestling group and a localised civil war.

Picture the scene: Rural Warwickshire, 1994. We'd just moved into a newly built house in a village several miles from Warwick. My youngest sister was a precocious 3 year old who developed the habit of running around wrapped in an American flag that my dad had been given when he worked in the States. Cheery and mischevious she was the baby of the family.

My room was plastered and painted with a colour I believe was called light apple green. Tasteful, subdued, and the perfect vantage point for my then 12 year old self to spy on the 16 year old next door neighbour sunbathing in the garden next door.

One day I meandered up to my room after school, put my blazer in the cupboard, closed the door, and discovered a drawing of a man, a house, and a dog on the wall at about knee height.

This could only be my youngest sister. We'd only lived in the house for 2 months, and my dad, notorious for a reluctance to spend money on anything, would go insane that the wall had been defaced (as an aside this is a man who steadfastly refuses to have a leak in his current houses cellar fixed, even though its next to the fusebox and is slowly undermining the house. Apparently it'll cost too much and they'll move out 'before it becomes an issue').

Anyway, being the loving brother that I am, I tell my dad and he drags my 3 year old sister up to my room and starts to interogate her.

"Was it you that drew on the wall?"
"No, it was Zapiola"
"Child No. 3, I know it wasn't Zapiola because its at your eye level"

Conversation continued like this for several minutes with my dad gettng increasingly shouty, and my sister getting increasingly teary.

Eventually she pipes up with: "I know who did it"

"Who then?" quoth the Old Man

"A burglar did it"

My dad collapsed into laughter, and later bought her an icecream.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 0:33, 1 reply)

Tragedy strikes
My mother called me at the office today to inform me that a slight tragedy befell my youngest after school.

Grandmother was off work today so decided to pick granddaughter up from school. As they arrived at Grandmother's house, granddaughter decided that she must race to the bathroom to make sure she got to go first.

Grandmother is calmly putting away her purse, keys, jacket....then hears a blood-curling scream of terror coming from the bathroom.

She runs to the bathroom with thoughts of finding a bloody broken child lying on the floor.

Instead of the worst she could imagine, Grandmother found granddaughter stuck in the toilet with her feet in the air. She was screaming, crying, peeing, and all her clothes were soaked.

Apparently Grandmother's boyfriend left the seat up and, in her rush to claim the toilet first, granddaughter didn't notice.

Of course, the main tragedy here is that Grandmother didn't think to grab her camera before extracting my youngest from the toilet.
( flirting with badgers What? It sounded good at the time., Tue 22 Apr 2008, 0:29, Reply)

Stress relief: a late-night rant on the subject of access to abortion
I was born and raised in Northern Ireland. It's (contentiously to some) part of the UK. Does that mean it has the same laws as in other parts of the UK? No. One major difference, for example, is abortion.

The 1967 Abortion Act that legalised abortion in England and Wales was not extended to Northern Ireland. Abortion is permitted in N. Ireland only to save a mother's life. This means very, very few cases each year. Instead, over 1,500 women travel clandestinely to England to terminate their pregnancies. The main parties in N. Ireland, on both sides of the divide, are resolutely agreed that they will NOT introduce the 1967 Abortion Act into the country. Five women are known to have died from backstreet abortions in N. Ireland since 1967.

I am fortunate and I have never had an abortion, nor even had to contemplate one, but I have friends and relatives who have and who have made that journey - some of them calm but angry that they have to leave their own country to do so; others young and frightened and in a traumatic situation that is exacerbated by the need to travel across the sea to gain access to a medical procedure to which women less than a hundred miles away have a right.

I am not intending to start a debate or - woe betide - a lengthy flame war on the emotive topic of abortion. It is probably evident from the tone of my post that I am pro-choice but that's not what motivates this post. Beyond my stance on abortion is my much stronger belief that if the UK is actually united or cohesive (and I'm aware that when it comes to legislation, it is not), then shouldn't we see the same rights shared amongst all the inhabitants?

*also thoroughly bitchslaps Irish government*
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 0:07, 14 replies)

GAYSAUCE!!!!!!!!!!!
My youngest son Niko (2yrs old) likes to 'help' me play on my computer. While Counterstrike Source is hardly 2yr old Material, he loves to push the walk forward key while I do the shooting :o
Just this evening he pointed to the PC and said 'Gaysauce!'

He's actually saying "Game!, Source!" as he can't say 'counterstrike' yet, but he can say 'source.

I think I'll limit him to minesweeper...
(Asharin Stabby stab stab, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 23:57, 3 replies)

I am not a member but they argue a good case:
The Voluntary Human Extinction Movement

(The "Why breed?" table in this section is particularly informative.)

A thoroughly enjoyable read. Spread memes, not genes. Maybe.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 23:16, 9 replies)

When I was two
I could tell what make of car drove past seeing just the chromed door handle... Mum, that's a Viva... Dad, that's a Marina...

Now? I can't fucking drive.
(Chickenwire social lubricator extraordinaire, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 23:11, Reply)

I love mine
but some times i wonder if it's worth it...

Over new years, my youngest broke his leg, me and missus don't know how, and now nearly 5 months later, social services are still enforcing a rule that they have to be under the guardianship of her parents(they live just up the road), but there isnt room for me up there and the youngest is still feeding off mum, so i have basically spent every night over the past 4 and a bit months on my own. All this despite the police, Surestart and all recommended medical opinion saying that we need to be a family unit again.

I fucking hate social services.
And also my missus now will not take our kids to A+E anymore.

Length: if you read this far, that's your lookout.
( Tovi boom bang a bang bangs all the time., Mon 21 Apr 2008, 22:58, 7 replies)

My godson
is about five and the cleverest little boy in the world. and im not being biased, I really fucking hate kids.

He loves cars, he can tell you what make and year a car is from about 100 feet away. An aunty of his asked him why he liked a particular car... was it the shiny paintwork, the squeaky noise the windows make, or perhaps the gleam of the chrome alloys...

"No", he replied "I like the structure of the hydraulics and the carbon-fibre chassis is second to none. And don't even get me started on the horsepower... O-60 in (can't remember), that's just sexy."

Jeremy Clarkson in the feckin making that one. I checked his facts and they were all right. He doesn't even watch Top Gear which is scarier! (past his bedtime innit)
(Ryfelwr can't stop here... this is bat country, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 22:43, Reply)

you can't take me anywhere!
picture the scene: a beautiful summer's day, a picturesque church and the entire monkey family dolled up for the joint christening of 2-year-old smash monkey and newly arrived baby monkey. mummy and daddy monkey, both beaming with pride, stand beside the font, their simian offspring in their arms. all is going splendidly. that is, until mummy monkey hands little smash monkey to the vicar to be christened. as the vicar tries to mark little me with holy water, i decide to scream all over the church "NOOOOOOOOO! i've already HAD a bath today!"

31 years later, mum still hasn't forgiven me.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 22:26, Reply)

Outwitted by a five year old
My Ex's Uncle lives in Blackpool and we went to stay with his family and check out the Pleasure Beach, the Tower etc. His daughter, Ellie, is five and at that age where conversation is a never ending stream of questions. She walked into the front room just as we were putting our coats on to go out for the day and the interrogation began.

Ellie: "Where are you going?"
Me: "We're going to the Pleasure Beach, Ellie."
E: "Why?"
M: "To go on all the rides."
E: "Why?"
M: "Because they'll be exciting. We don't have rollercoasters in our town."
E: "Why?"
M: "Umm.... there isn't anywhere to put them I suppose."
E: Why?
M: "Ummm... they built shops and offices instead."
E: "Why?"
M: "Errr... so people could have somewhere to go to by stuff and earn the money to do so."
E: "Why?"

At this point her Uncle walked in and she lost interest. Which was frankly a relief as I'd mentally started writing the letter I planned on sending to the council when we got home. "Dear sir, why *did* you build shops and offices instead of rollercoasters...?".

Anyway, me and the ex went out and had a great day. On returning Ellie was out in the garden making sandcastles in her sand pit. I decided to take revenge for my earlier grilling and give her a taste of her own medicine.

Me: "What ya up to Ellie?"
Ellie: "Making sandcastles"
M: "Why?"
E: "Because I like them. What are you, stupid?"

Outwitted by a five year old.
(R. Jimlad twitter.com/sirmarkymark, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 21:26, 1 reply)

My oldest son
learned to walk (as did both of his siblings) at 13 months, and started running within a week of this.

When I came home from work he would run full-tilt into my legs and wrap his arms around my knees. All this was fine until about six moths later when he learned to jump up slightly just before impact, and decided it was hilarious to head-butt me in the nadgers. Worse, his mother also found it hilarious.

I responded one night by holding my fist in front of my crotch so he head-butted the back of my hand.

Somehow it stopped seeming so funny after that.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Mon 21 Apr 2008, 20:18, 2 replies)

And there I was, another Friday night at the nursery
I was used to never being asked for ID when collecting Demigod, as the poor soul looks just like me. But this was a surprise...

I arrived as usual on a Friday, weekend all planned and ready. I knocked on the door, and waited. A nursery nurse opened the door, looked at me, and fell about laughing. This is not unusual for me, but still something of a surprise.

I asked what was happening this week, but she was too helpless with laughter to tell me.

I went through the nursery looking for Demigod, and wondering about the trail of laughing nursery nurses. I eventually got to the room at the back and found him. He ran over and grabbed me, and I picked him up. I asked the manageress what the joke was.

She explained that that day's activities was talking about what Mommy and Daddy do while the kids are at nursery. Apparently, Demigod had told them that his Daddy spends his days "Making poorly computers feel better!"

After many hours in IT, I can't think of a better way to describe what I do.
(purplegod counting down for Christmas!, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 20:11, 1 reply)

He slimed me...
I managed to get home on a Thursday, for the first chance of the week to see Demigod. He was only about two, and just about toddling. I'd blazed down the motorway at 70 (honest, officer) to make it home. I burst through the door, so excited to share some Dad/son time with him.

I dumped my laptop and phone on the telephone table and walked into the living room, and there he was! My beloved son! I dropped to my knees and held out my arms. Bless him, he toddled towards me on little chubby toddler legs, with his cute little arms outstretched. Just as I was about to wrap him up in my arms, he sneezed a large bucketful of snot all over me. His cute little face fell, and he toddled back to his mother, leaving me dripping with snot. By the time I'd got cleaned up, he was fast asleep. Bother.
(purplegod counting down for Christmas!, Mon 21 Apr 2008, 20:03, 1 reply)