“Go back to bed,” I snarl.
The Toddler does not want to go back to bed. “Go back to bed,” I repeat. But to no avail. It is the same every morning. I do not know at what age children’s brains fully develop and they start realising that ‘go back to bed’ are the four best words in the English language alongside ‘fancy a quick pint?’ and ‘shall I wear boots?’. “Go back to bed,” I insist, from under the duvet.
It is fruitless. I rise bad-temperedly, and start thinking about breakfast.
There is something particularly draining about feeding the chickens, making tea, cooking breakfast, starting the washing machine, emptying the dishwasher, doing play-doh, drawing some pictures, doing a jigsaw, watching ‘Thomas the Tank Engine’, doing some more play-doh, hanging out the washing, checking on the chickens again, giving the dollies their milk and taking them to the play supermarket, making some more tea, putting some more washing on, watching ‘Hana’s Helpline’, putting the play-doh away and doing one more jigsaw and then looking at your watch to discover that it’s still 9.20am.
Fortunately, we still have to go to the Village Shop. That will kill fifteen minutes.
Honestly, I don’t understand what it is about children that they want to cram so much into the day. It can’t be healthy. She demands to watch Postman Pat, but I put my foot down. Postman Pat is different now. I suspect he might have had a bust-up with the Post Office licensing people, as he works from the ‘Special Delivery Service’ depot instead of the Post Office, and keeps buzzing around delivering stuff in helicopters.
We go to the Village Shop. I am knackered now. It is 10am.