Forget-me-not Friday #6

This exchange took place at the beach at Fleetwood, Lancashire, and is indicative of a newfound cheekiness and general wish to ‘get one over on me’ in two-going-on-three year old. Very funny, though.

Two-going-on-three year old, carefully and delicately tipping small amounts of sand into her hand and fashioning it into a kind of sausage shape: “Look, Mummy, this is my Guinea Pig”.

Me: “Oh, that’s lovely! Does he have a name?”

Two-going-on-three year old: “It’s a girl”.

Me: “Oh, I see. What’s her name?”

Two-going-on-three year old: “Sophie”.

Carries on moulding Sophie the sand-Guinea Pig for a while, while the rest of us eat our picnic.

Me: “Does Guinea Pig have a tail?”

Two-going-on-three year old: “It’s not a Guinea Pig”.

Me: “Oh, what is it, then?”

Two-going-on-three year old, looking at me as if I’ve just said that jelly doesn’t wobble: “Sand”.

Me: “Oh…”


Working Mum of two, living in Didsbury, Manchester, in a house which breeds washing, mushed up raisins and various toys in the brightest primary colours. Oh, and the odd empty wine glass.

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