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The Cutester: Four and a half


OK, I confess. I had just told her that if she stuck her fingers in the cake again (the main body of cake, not the slice on her plate) I WAS GOING TO CUT THEM OFF.

I forgot how literal four-year-olds are. I know, I know, she won’t understand that recurrent nightmare about a knife-wielding digit-severing maniac resembling her mother until her late forties and only after a lengthy and expensive bout of therapy… and I did immediately reassure her that I was being silly and give her a hug… but not before this picture was taken, because it’s so tragic, and so terribly funny.

It still makes me laugh. Possibly a sort of guilt-evading laugh of denial. What sort of parent am I anyway?

In other news, we made the cake from a recipe in the back of a Fifi Flowertot book – the plot was terrible, but this was the nicest chocolate cake I’ve ever made, and baking it was probably the highlight of the Cutester’s holiday so far. I’ll never know how much its delicious moistness is owed to her current streaming cold, but who cares? Cake anyone?


Redster: Seven years and ten months
Cutester: Four and a half

The whole site to myself!

Before we get onto the subject of camping, may I draw your attention to the Cutester’s hairstyle? Yes, it’s a stylishly graduated inverted bob, the like of which I’ve been trying to get my hairdresser to perform on myself for years, without success. She has been congratulated repeatedly. I’m never sure how to react because the hairdresser was her sister.

They’d been alone for five minutes, on a Tuesday, when I’ve been doing an actual job in an office and the kids have had an actual nanny to look after them. She went to see what they were doing oh-so-quietly upstairs, and discovered that the over-sized teddy, the Redster’s fringe and the Cutester had all been dramatically modified. The Cutester’s shoulder length hair was only shoulder length on the left side – the right side was in the above style, and she was just doing the finishing vertical nicks with the scissors she’s seen the hairdresser do so many times. When I’d got over the shock, all I had to do to tidy up was make sure the left side matched the right, and voila.

It was hard to be cross with the Redster. I’ve officially stopped her pocket money for ten weeks, but to be honest I never remember to give it to her anyway; and I could save a fortune by getting the Redster to cut my own hair from now on…

I’m watching horrible images right now of an inferno in Croydon comsuming one building after another.

We live halfway between Enfield Town (scene of riots last night) and Tottenham (where it started the night before). I have friends in both places who were kept awake last night by sirens and helicopters and reading alarming tweets (probably unwisely). I was in the local park today at about 3pm when I heard the news that all the shops on our high street were closing on police advice. The park playground began emptying, and we walked home past shuttered shops, to the sound of a low-flying helicopter.

The Redster began regurgitating everything she’d learnt about the Great Fire of London, and came up with a series of impractical suggestions to stop our house burning to the ground. I am amazed she is asleep now. My own prayer life has certainly livened up. It does seem though that this area’s escaped any trouble tonight, thank God. Sleep tight all.