This week I got shat on.
‘Shitted on’ perhaps, in the quest for grammatical accuracy, but the result is the same. Mango regularly chooses to shite the hand that cleans her.
She’s developed a penchant for waiting for the fresh March air to caress her delicate posterior before releasing her recycled mustard. Many an innocent fresh nappy has fallen victim to this underhanded approach to bowel movements, never to realise their destiny as fully fledged infant cheek protection, brave backside soldiers felled on the path to the battlefield.
These changing events are not complete without Mango engaging in a celebratory dance, trampling her tiny bare feet in her freshly liberated excrement. This, startlingly, is a fact I have forgotten on more than one occasion when overcome by the urge to have a nibble on her toes.
Eat shit daddy.
It seems she might also be taking some exception to the Irish nationality being imposed upon her, with ET’s attempts to have a passport photograph taken not proving fruitful.
The problem is essentially one of logistics.
The photographer’s shop is 3 minutes walk away. 3 minutes walk in the fresh air is sufficient to send Mango into a sleep so deep that she can only be awakened by a hundred years of forest growth and a prince’s kiss, or the sound of a sleeping father. A sleeping baby does not make for an acceptable passport photograph. An unacceptable passport photograph does not make for a successful passport application, and an unsuccessful passport application rarely results in a passport being issued.
Her birth saw the downfall of her adopted government, and I suspect she’s now set her mind to some form of infantile declaration of jihad against the government of her homeland.