Busy crawling towards danger at warp speed. Busy trying to walk by holding onto items of furniture that are not solid enough to support him, or passing cats and dogs that are even less so. Busy shoving inedible things that present a serious choking hazard into his gob. Busy pulling his books off his bookshelves, or heaving his cuddly toys out of his cot, or his more durable playthings out of their basket, and arranging them into a satisfying mess. Busy talking total gibberish, interspersed with occasional apparently understandable words like “ball” (though that might not have been a reference to a toy but his selection in the Labour leadership contest, if only because he can’t yet get his tongue around “Miliband”).
I am told that all this is normal behaviour for a one-year-old, but it still comes as a bit of a shock to a 56-year-old who was quite tidy by nature, used to solitude and, it would be idle to deny, rather set in his ways. I am even prepared to admit that I may well have behaved the same way myself, though nearly all the witnesses who could corroborate that are long dead, though I certainly did not have the same range of personal possessions to fling around.
Anyway, The Boy and I are clearly on precisely the same wavelength since I have been very busy doing nothing, too, hence the shortage of things to write about on this blog since the beginning of the week.
We opened The Boy’s presents first thing, then I went off to my office and continued to be busy doing nothing, while Mummy entertained him for the day.
Magic. Time to crack open a decent bottle of wine and toast the little man with it as he lay sleeping quietly in his cot.