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.