I Spy, with my Beady Eye

I know nothing. About anything.

Harry was rampaging noisily around the bed this morning – having coughed and yelled and generally cried his way into spending another night with Mummy – when he suddenly sat back on his heels and took a good look at my bedside table. 

The surface is embarrassingly cluttered with mugs, cough mixture, earrings, coke cans, aging peesticks (you can feel my hot blush of shame all the way from here, yes?) Calpol bottles, dosing syringes, books of many assorted dimensions, nail polish… etc… and I was fully expecting him to grab the first breakable object that came to hand and smash it happily into something even more fragile.

Instead, he let out his – now signature – Mmmuuuurrrrrrmmm! Twice.

‘Bugger’, I thought. ‘He’s started doing it randomly for attention now. What a shame!’

I didn’t react.

Again, insistently: Mmmmmuuuurrrrmmmm!

A fat little fist reached straight towards a tiny ornament of mine which had been shoved unceremoniously into an unobtrusive corner; so long ago, that I had totally forgotten its existence.

highland-cow

OH! THAT cow! Yes! Muuuuurrrrrrrmmmmm! Clever Harry!

And here was me saying he could only recognise photos. How on earth he managed to correctly discern the essential bovinity of this little item, I have no idea. We have no Highlands. We have no ringed bull. None of our cattle (except the one who somehow managed to evade de-horning and sports titchy prongs) have horns. I’m damn sure none of them are that shaggy, or have such appealingly short-arsed conformation. I’m mystified.

As he’s become so clever, lets see how he goes identifying this…

sheep

About 200 of the buggers all lambed at once in the night, so there’s plenty of comparison opportunities!

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