Overbearing

He didn’t like it when I called him another bloody ‘leftover’, but he didn’t sulk. He’d been perfectly OK up in the attic until the invasion of the teddy snatchers last weekend. Down he came in the doll’s pushchair (because boys don’t like dolls, yet).

He hung around, in, out and trundling about in the pushchair, under our feet. But when they all left, leaving us shattered, he stuck around, sitting in one of my favourite chairs. And now somehow he’s sitting up at the table, smiling his cutesy smile when we still feel like shite.

It’s bear-faced insolence.