Do I Even Have a Bed Anymore?
Tiny footsteps on stairs.
'Need a wee.'
Supervise, then carry her back to bed. Half-way downstairs:
Avail myself of drink in favourite cup, then back upstairs.
Downstairs again. Begin turning things off.
Still-asleep angel-face. Eyes all scrunched against the light. Hair like something you could happily drown in after being released from its day-long bunches prior to bed.
I cannot be cross.
I shall be in a foul mood tomorrow.
On the upside, I notice the Pint-Glass of Doom has vanished from the bathroom as mysteriously as it arrived. My mind was bloody racing about that one. Thoughts of child-psychologists or getting the missus sectioned. I feel a weight has been lifted.