He carefully ignores the pasts lovingly snipped into toddler-sized pieces.
He reaches for my plate, picking through the spaghetti strands. Too long. Too short. Ah, just right.
Agog with success, he merrily whirls it around, chanting his mantra, "Dada Dada Dada..." (Dada cooked dinner) until he is satisfied with his results. He stuffs the strand into his mouth.
He reaches for my plate, for a repeat.
***
This sound real cute, and it was too to see in action.
I haven't counted the sauce splatters yet.
Highway Twenty-Nine: Ageing Boomers, Laurie & Les, Talk Politics.
-
*“It’s in the air, mate. Anger, cruelty, bitter rage. We’re taking it in
with every breath, like some colourless, odourless, poisonous gas. But
where’s i...
1 week ago
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