Call for the Animal Jooper!

Saturday morning. I am lying on the sofa, where I have told my wife I will be reading the International section of the Guardian in order to keep abreast of important current events (you know, just in case the UN call to get my perspective on GM crops or something), but where I am in fact furtively playing 'Retro Defence' on my new phone, behind the paper that so she can't see me, should she happen to wander past the open doorway.
This deception is necessary because she has outright accused me of being 'more in love' with my new phone than I am with her, which I would like to state for the record is complete nonsense (though I would also like it to be noted that it is both responsive to the touch and can be turned on with minimal effort on my part, so I wonder if there are a few things that she could..no, on mature reflection we won't go there...)
Anyway, I am just approaching Level 26 on the tricky 'Spider' level when a soft toy bear flies into the room at head height, travelling at great velocity. It lands in the centre of the room. My Eldest appears shortly afterwards, whereupon she runs over to the bear, stamps on it's head a few times, and then kicks it into the side of the sofa. Only then does she notice me.
"Hello, Daddy" she says brightly.
"What on Earth are you doing?" I ask.
"Animal Jooper" she says, as if this explains everything.
It does not, to my mind, explain anything.
"What?" I ask.
"We are playing 'Animal Jooper'," she says patiently, and then, in a much louder voice "Animal Jooper! Animal Jooper! There is an animal in danger!"

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Nude sausage rolls and little needy bunny rabbits

We are all sitting at a table in a small bakery on the high street, enjoying a lunch of freshly baked pastry goods.
I say 'enjoying', but in fact I have to eat while deliberately staring at the wall, because both of my children are eating sausage rolls, which always make me faintly nauseous. I find the process deeply unpleasant to watch: both of them are in the habit of 'peeling' the sausage roll in layers, eating all the flaky pastry and then leaving a hideous tumescent pink worm of sausage-meat on the plate, which they may eat, or may simply just wave around like a fleshy light-sabre. The sight always reminds me, unbidden and unwelcome, of my grandparents Golden Retriever, which often had to be discouraged from cleaning its intimate areas while sitting in full view of the dining table. I have a vivid memory of my Nan slapping it across the muzzle with a rolled up copy of the Daily Express, and telling it loudly to "Put your lipstick away while we're eating."
Looking through the window, I can see the cashpoint over the road. I decide that rather than watch them eat, I'll go and find out if I have been paid yet for the month.
"I'll be back in a minute," I say to my wife. "I just need to check my balance."
"What?" she asks.
"My balance. I need to check it."
"Why?" she asks "Are you thinking of doing a tightrope walk? Hahaha!"
I look at her uncomprehendingly.
"Balance!" she says. "Checking your balance. To see if you can balance...."
She does a little mime of a tightrope walker, arms flailing. Other customers in the shop look on with interest.
"Ah" I say, flatly.
"Ha ha ha!" laughs my wife, much too loudly. "Ha ha ha!"
I give a grim little nod to indicate that yes, I have understood, but to my mind the joke is now firmly over.

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