Mud Pies and Sandcastles

28th August
Fat Dad brought his boys round to see me yesterday morning. Keen to prove that he’s not grumpy all the time he stuck a veneer of joviality on his dogmatism. He has lots of opinions, the top ones being : Schools (bad –he does the education at home), Food (bad unless homegrown or 'foraged from the earth') and The Rural French (marvelous specimens of authenticity in this bad, corrupt world). His boys are demanding and I'm soon tired of them. Sensing my growing irritation, Fat Dad assured me that social skills will go on the curriculum next week – that’s OK then.

In the afternoon when I walked past their yard I was treated to the alarming sight of a trouserless Fat Dad (he’s not naked - a true Englishman he is still wearing his socks and sandals). He tells me that he’s decided it's time to start potty-training the four-year-old. Fat Dad is going without trousers too so that his son doesn’t feel embarrassed. As he chatted happily to me over the gate the boy, playing behind him, squatted in his sandpit and excreted a neat curl of poo as he continued to pat his sandcastle.