Lumpy

C is nearly a metre tall already. After two months at playschool, she can jog and climb with facility, eat with a fork or a spoon (player's choice) and realise when F is trying to take a toy away from her before it happens.

She loved the first few weeks of Trumman. V stayed in with her for the first few, then we slowly weaned ourselves out of the way. About a week after we did that, C cottoned on to the fact that mummy and daddy were leaving her behind, and started screaming miserably as soon as we went in the school gate. There's nothing that says thank-you like the look on a preschool teacher's face as you hand them a rigid, weeping child and scuttle cheerily off to work. Unless it's the look on a preschool teacher's face when said child then immediately shits itself.

"Gaafn," C says, waving a fork (Swe: gaffeln) at me. Her sister is Eyya, her shoes are Sues, when she's finished eating she wants to get dahn, dahn. Mostly she points with a muscular ferocity more suited to throwing darts, and snaps "Dare!" at whatever she wants identified, donated or transport to. "Wow!" she says when she's impressed. "Oh deah," when less so. My name, of course, she can utter smoothly and flawlessly, especially at 0245.

I served her leftover pasta this evening. "Oh deah, Daddy. Dahn, dahn."

-

I need to have a lump taken off my face. It's the encysted remains of a decade-old boil, delightfully, and therefore the medical equivalent of John Masefield's Box of Delights. The BBC adaptation, naturally, full of unexpected Wurzel Gummidges.

Calling anyone on the phone in Sweden remains a crapshoot for me. Unable to see the shapes of people's mouths or read their body language, I am deprived of two thirds of my comprehension.

- I have a lump on my face. I want it taken away, I said plaintively to the booking line. There was a longish pause.

- Oh, right, a lump, she said, sounding unusually happy about this. Well, we'll see what we can do.

The Swedish for lump in this context is knöl. The Swedish for Fuck, on the other hand, is knull. Retrospectively, I rest happy in the knowledge I brought joy to someone's morning.

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F was told a while back to choose a soft toy from home that she could take to playschool with her and keep there. Bunbun was too precious and had caused problems by being left in the wrong place at various points, either at home during the day or in a classroom locker by night.

Parental pride! F chose the Cthulhu hand puppet I bought her when she was very little. Probably, in fairness, because she was told to choose one that wasn't too important, but rest on your laurels while you may, I say.

Double laurels, in fact, for F has started a spate of drawing. Neatly coloured and cut out parrots, mostly. But not all of her winged creatures are of this earthly realm. Iä! Iä!

Like a tiny Pickman.