Or: Why I will never be a theatre critic. Or have tea with the queen.
Since about this time yesterday afternoon, Mol has been 10. Double figures. One of my kids is in double figures.
The shock called for high culture, and high culture was got.
I might be thirty-five; I might bristle to the touch, be a bit tough to chew and a little wizened around the edges, but when the banging and knocking had finished and the cloth was lifted, my sensibilities roared and my gut donkey kicked
OH MY GOD! IT’S CHITTY CHITTY BANG BANG!
FUCK ME! SHE’S FLYING!
Chaps, I had a tissue up my sleeve, secret-like. I am crap.
But, fuck me. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
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