I spent the morning chasing dog poo along the concrete outside our back door with some dangerously thin nappy sacks. The dog watched me with a malicious grin, getting ready to redecorate my back garden with teeny stringy turds the moment I turned my back.
Then I came indoors...
dd1: 'I've got a tricky question.'
me: 'Uh huh?'
dd1: 'Do Postmen go on aeroplanes?'
me: 'Well I guess when they go on holiday they might fly there and then they'd have to go on an aeroplane. Does that answer your question?'
dd1: 'Maybe.'
me: 'Why did you want to know?'
dd1: 'Oh, no reason. Just thought I'd ask.'
One of the weirdest things about parenting is that you spend your day being propelled from in-your-face-disgusting reality to non-drug-induced surreality and back again.
I've decided that if I ever write a book it should be titled 'Do postmen go on aeroplanes...I don't know dear, but there's a helluva lot of dog poo in the back garden.'
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