The living room:
Farmboy, in possession of the last two butter biscuits, tries to offer one to his sister. The Ginger Biscuit wants both or none at all. She scowls and shakes her head fiercely at the proferred biscuit, blonde curls rattling at her neck. Farmboy tries again. “Here, GB, we’ll both have one! One each!”
“Uh uh!” She flings her arms out in disgust, begins marching a vehement lap of the dining table, around and around, faster and faster until she’s toddler-running, oversized wellies slapping on the lino, tangled head tilted to the ceiling and chanting, “Uh uh! Uh uh! Uh uh! Uh UH!”
Frustrated, perplexed, more than a little horrified, Farmboy turns to me in genuine distress. “DO something, Mummy! She’s OUT OF CONTROL!”
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