“Who put buttons on my trousers?” E asks.
“The people who made them, sweetie.”
“Err… do you want a drink?” (Conversation Diversionary Tactic Number 23).
“No. Who put buttons on my trousers?”
Please stop asking questions. I know you are curious about the world around you and everything is new and marvellous and thought-provoking and wonderful and amazing and strange, but please. I am tired, my brain aches and I am fed up of being the human manifestation of Google; it is exhausting. Just half an hour of no questions would be lovely.
A short while later: “What do chickens eat?”
A short while after that: “Where does bread grow?”
No really. Stop. My head hurts and I am not sure I can explain the manufacturing process of a loaf of bread in words of less than two syllables without starting to cry.
Sometime later: “Mummy. Why does dust float?”
Okay. Any more bloody questions and I will lock you in the shed.
Finally: “Why is it dark in the forest?”
That’s it. In the shed now.