Filler

For once, my to-bed-putting has ended before B's, and so I'm downstairs first, kettle on, listening for the thud above of Monkey jumping into under his covers (he likes to do it dramatically when B leaves), and thinking I should get my blog post in quickly before I'm distracted by Buffy or whatever other televisual delight my thoughtful spouse has lined up.

Monkey has taken to requesting that I go and bring him food before I have my coffee. The problem with this is that every other night he's fast asleep before I tiptoe past his room on the way from Mabel's, because she usually takes longer to drop off than he does. Yesterday he was demanding that if that happened, I should open his eyes and wake him up to give him some frosted mini-wheats. Yes, great idea, that's what I'll do. He's convinced that he doesn't actually ever sleep. He thinks that he lies awake all night waiting for it to be morning.

If he was actually hungry, he could ask B to get him the cereal, but much as he likes to employ Mabel to convey messages to me when he's in the bathroom, he prefers to use his father as a go-between in the evenings. Cutting out the middleman is not his forte. He's obviously made for upper echelons of management. Or else we've been reading too much Milne again.

The king asked the queen,
And the queen asked the dairymaid,
"Could we have some butter for the royal slice of bread?"
etc.

There's the thump. Gotta go.