A cat, a puppy, and a pair of idiots...

I walk in through the front door after a long day. As I hang my coat up, I hear the thud of tiny little feet, and my youngest daughter, now two and a half, stomps the length of the hall towards me from the kitchen.
I am often struck, at moments like this, in just how different she is from her elder sister. Our eldest is shy and restrained, not prone to showing affection and often not that keen to admit when she wants to receive it - she will, at most, lean against your hip in an offhand way when she is feeling particularly tender, but will do so in such a way as to suggest that she is slightly tired and you are merely conveniently positioned as something for her to rest up against. Sometimes I think she is like a cat: cool, detached and mysterious, giving nothing away, ostensibly happy to share your house and your dinner and even the sofa, but who subtly lets you know that you may only tickle its ears when it suits them for you to do so...
By contrast, the little one is like a bouncy puppy, open and affectionate, with whatever emotion she is feeling at any particular moment written large on her face. She is always demanding to be picked up and hugged, showering you with kisses at bedtime, and rushing at you every time you come through the front door. The last of these is a joy for me, and as she rushed towards me I crouch down with my arms open wide. She skids to a halt in front of me.
"Hello sweetheart" I say.
"Hello, idiot" she replies.
There is a pause. Ah, this is new, I think. I try again.
"Hello, sweetheart."
"Idiot," she says gleefully. "You are an idiot."
"You mustn't say that word to Daddy. It's not nice."
"Idiot."
"Stop it. Now."
"Idiot."
I step into the front room. My wife and eldest daughter are huddled on the sofa hugging their knees, while something with pastel hues and soft melodies plays on the television. There is a palpable air of tension in the room.
As I stand in the doorway, the youngest pushes her way between my legs and marches into the room.
"Idiot" she says over her shoulder.
"I see she has learned an exciting new word today?" I ask my wife.
"We are not talking about" she replies, through gritted teeth. "We are ignoring it. We are ignoring it, until that she decides it is not worth saying, because it is no longer getting to me any more."
"Oh, really? How is that working out?"
"Idiot" calls a little voice.
"Not great, so far."
"No, I thought I could sense that."
"You are an idiot."
"Where did she learn this?"
"I am not quite sure.." replies my wife, with a meaningful look at our eldest, who goes into her best sphinx impression, and suddenly seems transfixed by the TV and mysteriously unaware of all that is going on around her.
I sink into the chair and nod at the television. "Well, she certainly didn't learn it from 'In the night garden'..."
"Hello, idiot..."
"She's too young to understand. She has no idea what the word means..."
"Yes, I realise that."
Three of us sink into silence. The fourth marches up and down the length of the sofa, pointing at the rest of us in turn and saying "You're an idiot. You are an idiot. Idiot. You idiot.."
I put up with this for a full ten seconds before clearing my throat.
"I have further questions..." I announce.
"Go on..." says my wife.
"Why is she naked, except for her welly boots? Because I have to say, I might find this a bit easier to bear if she wasn't. It kind of makes it extra patronising."
"Idiot, Daddy."
"She asked to take her clothes off, because she was hot. It's nearly bath time, so I thought it was OK."
"I see. And the boots?"
"She didn't explain. She just went out into the hall and came back into the room wearing them."
"Did you ask her about them?"
"Yes. See if you can guess what she said...?"
"Idiot!"
At this point I snap. "Stop it! Stop calling us idiots! It is not a nice word, and I have had enough. I am not an idiot, and you are the one marching up and down in a pair of pink boots with your bottom out..."
Silence falls for a few seconds.
"Upsie-daisy..." burbles the TV
"Bottom!" says our eldest, starting to giggle. "You said bottom. Bottom! Bot-bot!"
"Idiot!" laugh the youngest.
My wife draws her hands slowly down her face and sighs,
"We should have wine with dinner," I suggest to her. "Lots and lots of wine..."

Ankles and blankets

We are lying in bed. I am doing one of my 'habits', one that my wife finds less than endearing, and which I have christened 'washing machine ankle'. That's not exotic rhyming slang or a coded message, in fact it's a pretty basic description: my right ankle has, over recent years, taken on an alarming 'click' - so that as I rotate my foot in a circular motion, the whole ankle bone makes a series of small clicking noises at regular intervals, just like the dial of a washing machine when you set the programme.
ClickClickClick, goes my ankle.
"My ankle is still clicky" I announce.
"I can hear" says my wife, in the voice of a woman who has not only heard the click in my ankle every night for the last two years, but has also heard me remark on it with thudding monotony over the same time period.
"It doesn't hurt." I add. "It just clicks."
"Yeah, you've said before."
"Like a washing machine dial" I add.
"Yes. You've said. Many times."
There is a pause. ClickClickClick, goes my ankle.
"I wonder if it's because of the cold."
"No. It's because you're getting old. Bits of you are wearing out."
There is probably some truth in that, but I don't like to think about it. This week I found a grey hair up my nose, which I feel is both ominous and significant. When the hair in your nose starts to change colour, no amount of 'Just for men' hair dye can help disguise the aging process.
Action must be taken. I get out of bed and turn on the light.
"What are you doing?" she asks, in a voice that makes it clear that what she really means is Why don't you just shut up and lie still, so I can go to sleep?'
"I think my ankle clicks because of the cold. I need an extra blanket."
"Do it quietly.." she hisses.
A few minutes later, I return with the blanket from my office. This is a recent purchase, and one that I am delighted with: I bought it for £2 in a sale in the New Year, to address the issue that my office is so cold in the mornings that I needed something to stave off hypothermia while I waited for the radiator to kick in. I think the blanket is fetchingly brown and retro, and was fantastic value for money: my wife thinks it is the single most disgusting item I have bought in some time and loathes the sight of it. Its very presence in the house offends her artistic sensibilities.
As I appear in the bedroom door with it she reacts instantly, as I knew she would.
"Get that out of here" she says. "You know I don't want it in the house"
"Stop talking to me like I'm a naughty dog who has just dragged a dead animal into the house. It's just a blanket."
"It's not a blanket. It's a hatecrime against taste."
"Interesting - you don't think 'hatecrime' is perhaps is bit strong, no? To describe soft furnishings? You don't think that perhaps you've lost a sense of perspective on this?"
"No, I don't. Take it out."
"No. My ankle clicks. I need a blanket."
"I am not having that thing on my side of the bed."
"Oh, for heavens sake, why not?"
"Because it's vile. It's the worst kind of nasty Seventies design."
"You won't have to see it. The light will be off. I'm not going to sit up in bed all night with the light on, looking at a blanket..."
"Even with the light off I'll know it's there. I'll be able to feel it, leeching bad taste into the bedclothes."
"Give over."
I fold the blanket in half, and cover my side of the bed with it before slipping under the covers. I turn the light off, and settle down. Within a few minutes it becomes glaringly obvious that (a) I am now way too hot and (b) the clicking in my ankle was not because my feet were cold. Neither are facts that I feel I should trouble my wife with, because she would only get all righteous about it. Better, I decide, that she never knows.
"Give us a cuddle" I say.
"When you burn that blanket."
"No, I'm cold" I lie.