Dragged myself out of bed, cos I really didn’t want to get up, but I was wide awake and there was what appeared to be a demented warthog lying next to me. I could tell it was demented because of the horrendous noise emanating from it.
It wasn’t demented, or a warthog, but my husband. Same same? Whatever, the noise was still ghastly.
After a screaming tantrum over wanting porridge for breakfast, which is exactly what he got in the first place, Chippie went through his usual process of carefully portioning his oats and yogurt into equal parts; the table, the floor, the chair, his belly, his penis (naked breakfasts are the go in our household) and, one can only assume, into his digestive system. He then proceeded to demand the toast I’d put in for me, and happily much away at it, distracted so I could cook my own toast and be afforded the opportunity to, at the very least, smear it in peanut butter with strong hopes that I will get to eat it.
I did, but Chippie