Glitter, Paint & Playdough

Glitter. 

That’s some pretty sparkly shit. It looks so magical in the bottle that it’s stored in. I wanna touch it. It’s like something a fairy princess would roll up a fifty dollar note to snort on a big night out. Please, I wanna touch it. Let me open the bottle, just a tiny bit. SHIT. It’s all over the floor. Where’s that late-night party fairy, she needs to clean that sparkly shit up.  The only solution now, is to move house.

Paint. 

Parents displaying their children’s art work that look like they had been blindfolded, hands tied to their backs, with a paint brush in their mouths. My child is an artist.

“Oh yes, yes, I can see a dinosaur! That’s going straight on the fridge/board/Daddy’s office!”

Just kidding, that’s going straight in the bin the very second you turn your back, love.

 

Playdough. 

“Wowwww! Look at that, you’re so clever! You made a BLOB! That’s the best looking BIT OF BLOB I’ve ever seen!! What? It’s a dinosaur? Silly mummy, how could I not see a dinosaur? Wait don’t, no, don’t rub it into the carpet!” No. No. Nooooooo. I hate you Blob. Die, Blob. Die.

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