I came home last night with a bagful of new books for the kids. They made a nice change from 10-packs of Guinness and £10 wine for a fiver, which they normally hand back to me for "safe-keeping."
There was a range of varied and exciting titles in there including Squeak the Lion, Charlie and the Cheesemonster and In A Minute, Mum.
Charlotte having had a look - before scarpering off to her lair with two girlie books about princesses and fairies - Jamie undertook his initial assessment, making noises as he leafed.
Having finished his sift, he pulled one book out and held it up. It was called Barry the Fish with Fingers and the Hairy Scary Monster.
"Why did you buy this one?" he asked.
Before I had the chance to answer, Charlotte arrived back in the room. "We've got that one at nursery!" she enthused. Good girl.
"Why did you buy it?" Jamie persisted, unmoved by his sister's interjection.
"Well, it's a follow-up to one of your other books," I whimpered, sensing he was a touch underwhelmed.
"Yes, he continued. "Barry the Fish with Fingers."
"That's the one!" I beamed.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, Jamie."
"You bought this book because it's got Barry in the title, didn't you?"
"Er, well, yes. I did. Yes."
"That's what I thought."
"Shall we read it now?!"
"No. I want to read this one," he declared, holding up a book about diggers and dinosaurs. "Maybe I can read the Barry book to you tomorrow night."
I never realised six was such a difficult age.
