I wasn’t sure when I’d get it.
And I didn’t really expect it in so far as calling me one until he was a couple of years older. An early teen, perhaps.
But there we were, walking home from school. Firstly, it was the “how come you never drive on Fridays?” whinge, complete with stompy feet, pouty lip and the works. Immediately follwed by “Oh, ok then, I’m ok now,” when I mentioned we were going via the book shop he’s been wanting to go to since last Sunday (and, evil people who run it, they were closed at 6pm on a Monday).
He – well, actually, both of them – were mucking around, annoying each other, being silly … the usual, when he (the 8 year old) turned to me and said “You’re a C***”.”
In quite a nice tone, actually.
My mind reeled. Not in anger. Mostly in an “oh, shit, did I actually call him one out loud and he’s repeating me?” followed immediatley by “did he hear me call his