“How about this one?” I offer.

The baby eyes me with enthusiasm disguised as suspicion.

“You’re just too good to be trooooo… can’t take my eyes offfa yoooo… you’d be like heaven to tuchhhh… I wanna hold yooo so muchhh…”

Even as soon as half way through the first verse, the baby is looking increasingly alarmed. I hold the guitar where she can see it so she can witness me playing the complicated chords that she has been so slow to learn on her Fisher-Price Peek-A-Boo piano.

“This is the good bit!!!” I cry, as a stream of sick slides down her chin and on to her t-shirt.

“Daaa naa daaa naa daaa da na da na daaa naa daaa naa daaa da na da na…”

The baby goes very red, scrunches up her face and then smiles delightedly. The smell of fresh shit drifts up from her chair.

“Aaah lurve yoooo bay-bee and if it’s quideall-rite I need yoo bay-be towarm thelone leee nights o priddybay-beeeee…”

“Stoppit!!! Stoppit!!!”

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