Flogging a Dead Horse

You may remember me telling you about Harry’s (usually, but not always, nappied) bum bouncing mercilessly on my poor head in the mornings. 


I have taken to lying nose-down lately. My shoulders or skull take turns suffering his joyous battering, depending on which way he is facing: if it’s a good point in the CBeebies schedule, he thumps triumphantly on my head and watches the TV at the end of the bed. If it’s the national embarrassment that is Big Cook, Little Cook, he boings happily away on my shoulders.

I think I am beginning to sustain brain damage, and tomorrow he may have a surprise coming.


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