Kleenex

I was on the phone to a friend last night when a little voice came from the top of the stairs.

“Mummy, there’s no tissues left in my bedroom,” called Flea, who’s been sniffing up a storm for the past three or four days.

“Well, you’ll have to improvise,” I replied.

I assumed Flea might take some tissues from the box in my room. Or some tissue from the bathroom. Maybe even a baby wipe from the basket of ‘stuff’ that's been gathering dust in her bedroom cupboard for the past couple of years.

I should know by now never to assume anything about five year old logic.

Before I could say anything else, I heard: “It’s okay, Mummy, I used your dressing gown.”

I hate kids.