Thursday, August 23, 2012

Steam train, queuing and the word.

1. The hot metal, burning coal smell of a steam train.

2. The queue is long for Tonbridge Model Engineering Society's tiny railway -- but Alec is entranced, so I decide that we will wait. I tell him that it might be too expensive.
"It's by donation," says the lady in front. "I pay a pound."
And I tell him that he might be too little.
"I took this one," says the lady in front putting both hands on her six-year-old grandson's shoulders "when he was about the same age."

3. It is nearly 9pm and Alec has been trying to spit out a word for about half an hour. He is frustrated, and he is fighting sleep.
"Ca. Ca. Ca!"
"Cat? Cap? Cot?" That last gets an emphatic NO. "What is it?"
"Are you not feeling well? What's the matter? Where do you hurt?"
He pauses for a moment and then: "Nap-nap. Poo."
I try to explain that you don't take painkillers for a dirty nappy and that his nappy is sweet and clean anyway, but if he wants me to I'll change him.
He flies into a tearful rage. It seems to burn off his frustration, because once he's calmed down enough to latch on, we both fall asleep.

*Brand name of a strawberry flavour liquid paracetamol formulation for infants. Alec's last dose was three weeks ago, for teething pain -- and actually, it was a generic version which is half the price.