Some days I make cinnamon cereal and chopped bananas for lunch, and win all the nutrition awards going. Henry gets milk all down his top, then conducts deep and meaningful conversations in his vest with two toy cars in the armchair. When he naps, I nap. We spend half an hour longer than usual reading books under a blanket. I skim through Eat Your Peas because I hate it, but I do the glorious-but-overused London ABC properly for once, and we linger over Lion and Mouse because the illustrations are so beautiful I want to lick them or something. He says ‘book’ like he’s Scottish and I don’t know why, but it’s hilarious.
At some point I discover his peas have started growing, against all the odds. They must be immune to spade stabbing and drought. Nice going, peas.
It’s 4pm before we leave the house. He’s miraculously well-behaved at the library, enough for me to find a book for myself I’ve been wanting for ages, though I wish he weren’t saying something over and over that sounds horribly like a b-word I’d rather he avoided. I think it’s supposed to be a train-track noise. Let’s hope.
We find the amazing, life-changing car trolley unattended at Tesco, and he beeps the horn ecstatically all the way to the check-out.
He empties the recycling bin while I make dinner – urgh – and finds a little postcard of Charles Dickens. He uses it as a songbook for the next fifteen minutes. I can only assume he was moved by the beard, because hello, wouldn’t you be?
At some point I realise we’re having a conversation. It’s about the ogre in Charlie and Lola, but a conversation it is. I know not every day can be a cereal-for-lunch day, but I like them rather a lot.