Me: Where's your toast going?
Him: The post office.
On Saturday when we got out matches for a fire it was
"Happy birthday you!"
Which reminds me, we camped a hundred yards from our beds.
Tent in the shade of the shed,
Fire in the pit of the ground,
Mainland baby child in the tent,
Oh but just for a while, then it was quiet under the stars. Unless you count the rustling of the sleeping bag as the little one sat up, lay down, turned upside down, twisted around and came back to the starting line.
Overall a success.