Monday, Bink arrived on time, to look after the Little Viking the next day.
Tuesday. Bink was at the railway station on time, to bring him back home. (Horatio and I gasping behind, after my dental appointment and just before Christian’s tall Viking frame reached the ticket barrier.)
Shall we say goodbye to Papa?
(Expecting him to have to come with us.)
Little Viking wave.
Didn’t even look at Papa.
Shall we have tea, Little Viking? Plum cake in the sun.
The Little Viking didn’t want his bum dake. But polished off the entire tub of crème fraîche designed to go with it.
Is that a good idea?
It’s good for him, Bink argued.
Healthier than plum tart, I suppose.
Text to Mama and Papa.
Is the LV allowed dog food?
Both replied, severally, the same message.
We try to tell him it’s not really fair on the dog.
I tried that. He just laughed. Besides, it’s too late now. He’s moved on to cat litter.
Huge cardboard boxes had arrived in the days before.
A baby bath.
Serena laughed: he gets in the big bath.
Yeah, I said, but Bink wants something to plonk him in after he wees, in the garden.
Brand new buckets, for wetwipes.
Stickers, for when he uses the loo.
I can do everything for him, Bink said, except clean up poo off the floor. I’ll need to put traffic cones around the mess, if that happens.
Which is just as well.
Because Shaun and I are both laid low with tummy bugs and can’t do anything…
(Is this what we’ve been praying for, for nearly twenty years? More or less, yes, it is.)