Pizza, pasta and pickled onion crisps . . . .

The G's new-found eating abilities are going from strength to strength . . .

Fishfingers are no longer considered an essential ingredient in every meal, and no more do I have to accept the tenuous claim that canned spaghetti hoops - thanks to their tomato-based sauce - can be counted as one of her five-a-day.
Don't get me wrong, she still adores fishfingers and spaghetti . . .
It's just that, in recent times, she has begun to realise that other foodstuffs do exist.
Foodstuffs such as pasta that, served in an uncomplicated tomato sauce, has become her regular main meal on Mondays. She prefers pasta to be served with chicken, although for tea this week, she ate it with bacon. This might not sound like a big deal but such things are unheard of around here.
Not that pasta has been our sole breakthrough . . .
You see, on Tuesdays we spend our afternoons making dough (this almost rivals gymnastics as her favourite pastime) that can be made into a delicious fresh pizza. Yet again, this represents quite remarkable progress.
Nowadays, The G can be persuaded to eat grapes and peas (although not at the same time), she often has a hankering for ham and she consumes bananas by the barrow-load.
Indeed, in recent times, I've found just one thing that she is reluctant to eat . . .
That thing? Monster Munch. In Pickled Onion flavour.
Given that, as a general rule, she likes all crisps, the stronger the better, this is perhaps the most surprising development of all.
It goes against the grain somewhat but, for once, I'm delighted to have found something that The G has no appetite for. Long may it continue . . .

The meen polar bear and The Spelling B . . .

The B's spelling is brilliant . . .

Not - I hasten to add - because he always gets it right. Indeed, it's the ones that he doesn't quite nail that give me the greatest pleasure.

Last night, for instance, he and The G organised a tea party, in his bedroom, for all their favourite soft toys. The B compiled a guest list that included his preferred primate. Having noticed that a certain 'Munky' was amongst the attendees, I couldn't help but chuckle.

He also put together a menu that featured 'peetsa' (this despite the fact that 'pizza', along with 'Metro' and 'Asda', was one of the first words he ever learned to read).

In recent days, it delights me to report, he has noted that 'pirates are nortee', polar bears are 'meen' and that he likes to 'reed'. Earlier this afternoon, feeling the need to document the colour of the pen that he had been using, he wrote 'I dun blew'. Realising he had made a mistake, he crossed out his erroneous effort and, in its place, wrote 'I dun bloo'. Genius. 

Joking aside, I happen to think that this is all rather impressive . . .
Encouraging too, because it shows that he is paying attention at school, that he is applying the correct principles and using the rules that he has been taught in an attempt to work out the words he wants to use.
It's an unfortunate fact that English, being the illogical language that it often is, doesn't always follow the rules. But I can hardly fault The B for that . . .

Peter Pants and a penchant for punchlines . . .

Our favourite jokes . . .

Q) Who shouted 'knickers' at the Big Bad Wolf?

A) Little Rude Riding Hood.

Q) Who flies around in his underwear?

A) Peter Pants.

Q) How does a pig get to hospital?

A) In a hambulance.

Such gags can be found in The B's joke book, Jellyphants and Woolly Jumpers, a Christmas present that has been proving popular in recent times.

Combining his fast-developing reading skills and his penchant for delivering a killer punchline, he is putting together quite a routine. That said, it does still need a little more fine tuning.

The other day, for instance, he took his joke book to school, his contribution to Show and Tell.

'Did you tell some jokes?' I asked him later.

The B nodded.

'Did everyone laugh?'

He shook his head and began to look rather glum.

'Did anyone laugh?' I enquired.

The B thought about this for a moment.

'No,' he admitted, and changed the subject.

The G is determined to get in on the act too, although her comedic efforts tend to be a little more alternative in style.

Yesterday, for example, whilst out and about in the car, she decided that the time had come to test out some new material.

'Which fairy is the smelliest?' she asked her audience.

'I don't know, which fairy is the smelliest?' we all chorused.

The G paused for a moment, in the process demonstrating a natural flair for comic timing.

'Stinkerpants!' she declared with some relish, her amusement obvious.

Two things here:

1) Everyone knows that Stinkerbell is the smelliest of all the fairies.

2) The G's version received the biggest laugh of the day by far . . .

Qué grandes son los árboles, oh tan grandes!

The B's Spanish lessons have taken a turn for the worse . . .
It's not that he doesn't like to develop his language skills. Quite the opposite, in fact.
He's enjoying this element of his education so much that, since returning to school following the Christmas holidays, the bar has been raised.
These days, you see, he doesn't just speak Spanish. He sings it too.
The other evening, he asked me to crank up the computer before proceeding to direct me to YouTube and the short film clip posted above.
There are more (these covering topics such as days of the week, colours, food and the like). Being of generous nature, I'll spare you from them.
This appeals to The B on several fronts - stoking his insatiable thirst for knowledge, the musical talents honed at Piccolo and his fast-developing computer skills (or ICT, as I've been instructed to refer to such things) - and he has needed no encouragement to further his linguistic capabilities in recent days.
It's nice, as always, to see that he is so keen to learn. But there's no avoiding the fact that, after innumerable airings, Elefantes Grandes and the rest are starting to become a touch tiresome . . .

Curls, crusts and the banalities of baldness . . .

These days, I don't have much hair . . .

I've always believed this to be genetic, the so-called male pattern baldness thing. The G, it seems, has other ideas.

Last night, just prior to putting her to bed, I found myself admiring her long golden curls.

Looking, in turn, at her father's pitiful pate, a troubled expression soon formed on her face.

'Your hair is nice,' she told me. 'But it's so short and straight.'

Her concerned look soon turned to puzzlement, as she attempted to figure out the reason for our hugely-different hairstyles. It didn't take her long to come up with the answer.

'Didn't you eat your crusts?' she asked, before reaching up and giving the problem area a sympathetic rub. I didn't have the heart to tell her that the truth is a bit more banal . . .

Relishing the quieter days to come . . .

So that's that, then . . .

The holidays are all but over. Back to school. Back to normal.

Back, I'm pleased to say, to a life a little less loud.

I still have The G to look after . . .

But in isolation, with The B confined to the classroom between 8.55am and 3.15pm, she is a character far calmer. 

Having them both at home, at the same time, doesn't make for the easiest days, it has to be said. That Bickerfest2013 is at an end is a considerable relief. Like Danny Glover in the Lethal Weapon films, I'm getting too old for this s**t.

To be fair, recent days have been a bit better thanks, in the main, to The B's decision to blow - sorry, invest - all the contents of his money box (this swelled by significant Christmas contributions) on some new Octonauts toys (Gups C and X, Captain Barnacles, Shellington and sea creatures too countless to detail here).

These have kept him occupied from morning until night, including bathtime, when he has enjoyed putting their aquatic credentials to the test.

The G has been spending too, having bought herself six Barbie-style dolls (the first five have been dressed as fairytale princesses, the sixth - as far as I can tell - as a call girl).

Like The B, she is enjoying her latest acquisitions. I suspect I'm going to spend several hours playing dolls in the more peaceful days that lie ahead . . .

Brief encounters and catching crabs . . .

Earlier this afternoon, I met someone . . .

He - for this new acquaintance was a man - seemed quite nice, although our conversation didn't amount to much. 

Our encounter proved brief. Just long enough for him to give me crabs . . .

From a battered old bucket, that is, these the spoils from a successful afternoon spent poking around in rock pools. In this particular discipline, he had proved himself far more proficient than I.

I hate rock-pooling. But The G had begged me to take her 'fishing' all morning, and The B seemed quite keen too. It followed the usual script: he broke his net catching large rocks, she fell in the sea and I demonstrated - once again - that, when it comes to detecting marine life (a skill that, thanks to the Octonauts, The B&G both assume to be quite straightforward), I couldn't be more incapable.

I must have looked quite useless because, prior to calling time on his rather more productive seashore session, the aforementioned man offered me the contents from his brimming bucket. I couldn't have been more grateful.  

The B&G, however, were far from impressed. He took some interest, but she refused to even look at the crustaceans in question and called time on our maritime mission. 

'We didn't catch nothing,' she huffed as she stalked back to the car. 

The next time I meet the man - as is often the case, I didn't get his name - I'll be sure to advise him to keep his crabs to himself . . .

Fishfingers & flatulence . . .

Earlier this evening, waiting for The G to finish her tea . . .

Having attacked his like a starving canine, The B soon became bored and rather restless.

'Can I come and sit on your knee?' he asked at one point.

I replied (as the mealtime rulebook requires me to do) in the negative.

'I'll give you a nice big cuddle,' he said, fluttering his eyelashes and employing his most manipulative tone. I'm ashamed to admit, it did swing the deal. 

To be honest, things have been a little fractious around here in recent days and so the resulting embrace proved enjoyable . . .

Until he started to shift around - his discomfort quite obvious - as The G continued to toil at the other end of the table, that is.

'I need to get down,' he said, his tone having become rather urgent.

Concerned at this sudden change in disposition, I enquired as to the nature of the problem.

'I need to do a trump,' he informed me, an earnest expression forming on his face. 'But I don't think that I should do it on your leg.'

He then proceeded to retreat to a distance that he considered safe and, looking a little ashamed, did said deed. Never let it be said that he doesn't consider others . . .