Every morning the Boy clambers out of his bed, drags his duvet and pillow across the bedroom and heaves himself (plus bedding) into the Bears cot, then he sings, plays with his toy cars and generally amuses Bear until I go down to free them. This is cute, very cute. Except from this morning. This morning, I trundled down, bleary eyed and not, at all, excited to be awake and meet the day. Boy was chuckling like a miniature crazy professor and Bear was completely, and utterly, stuck. Both legs were trapped poking through the bars of his cot and he was laying face pressed down into the mattress. He was not a sad Bear, he was not a hurt Bear, no, he was a pissed off Bear. As soon as he was lifted to freedom he screeched at me with a look that can only be described as angry, really angry. If he could talk, well, it wouldn't be pleasant.
Porridge helped him get over his rage whilst I bustled around, cleaning and tidying for our visitor. As I'm sure I mentioned before, Beast likes visitors. Especially female ones. Unfortunately (for Beast) this visitor was less keen on him and did not appreciate his whirlwind behavior, nor his beautiful ball skills (tennis ball, what were you thinking?) so, he was swiftly banished. It was during his banishment that I realised his bed stank, really stank. Only with further investigation did I realise this was because he had weed in it. Lovely. 'Hello, welcome to my home, the dog will rape you and his beds full of piss. Sit down, enjoy! Fancy a biscuit?' Despite the wee, Bears grumping and Boys special version of sharing (ie, not at all, ever) we had a lovely afternoon with copious amounts of tea and a distinct lack of cake.
Not long after she left the Tesco delivery came, nice and early with only one substitution (normal substitution, not apricots replaced by razor blades or anything). It was a bit chilly standing on the door step, the temperature is hovering around 0 degrees after all. Try telling Tesco man this. He emerged from his big blue van wearing a nice cosy fleece, a hat and shorts. Actual above the knee shorts. Apparently he doesn't get a cold lower body. I'm now slightly concerned he was a secret amputee with amazingly realistic hairy prosthetics. Tesco man, if you see this, I'm sorry for judging you about your chilly legs, you can always warm them on the radiator later.