Boy #2 has begun to tut.
Not in the Bertie Wooster style, of using it as a word to answer a statement or question he did not approve of. You know, as in: "What do you mean Jeeves, that Great Aunt Maude doesn't agree that the worsted jacket should be worn with the cavalry twill trousers? Tut!" No, more in the style of clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth whenever he feels the need to be dismissive...
For example, this morning, Boy #1's headteacher said 'Good morning Boy #2!" as we walked in.
(Thank god he's already registered and has been accepted at the school....)
Then we went for a cup of tea with a friend. Boy #2 is recovering from slapped cheek syndrome (click the link if you want to know what that is, but it pretty much does what it says on the tin, with the added benefit of high temperatures, a waterfull of snot, and general headaches and bad temper), so is not feeling his best. "Hallo Boy #2!" she said. "Would you like a toy?" He looked vaguely interested. "I have - this - in my bag!" She pulled out a Star Wars figure and handed it to him. He looked at it, handed it back after his inspection, and rather than doing what he would normally do and saying "No thankyou. Plane, please?" you guessed it.
C3PO was not up to scratch, apparantly.
Now, the Potty family are off adventuring shortly. No names, no pack drill, and most importantly no dates, but in the near future we will be packing our bags and heading off somewhere more interesting than here for a short time.
In the usual way of these things, places that are more interesting than central London often have more interesting illnesses as well. So vaccinations were needed for the Boys and I. Namely, typhoid. Having left it to the last minute as usual I was unable to get appointments for us all to have our jabs at the same time, so Boy #1 drew the short straw and had his first on Monday. Boy #2 and I were booked in the next afternoon.
"It's quite a bad one, Typhoid" the nurse informed me quietly as I fished around in my bag for a chocolate lollipop to placate my oldest son and take his mind off what I was convinced would be only a tiny scratch. I don't think Boy #1 heard her but wow, did his reaction bear her comment out. Crying ensued on a fairly major scale. Followed by, for the rest of the evening, very sad behaviour indeed, and theatrical gasping whenever he had to lift his hand from his side or his brother came anywhere near him on the sofa.
Initially I was sympathetic. Well, the nurse had told me to be, after all. But by bed-time, when even putting on his pyjamas provided a performance worthy of a dying swan at the ballet, my patience was wearing thin. It was just an injection after all. How bad could it be?
Yesterday Boy #2 and I had our typhoid jabs. After initial tutting at the nurse, Boy #2 seemed to take it OK, though it's hard to tell through the tiredness, moaning and complaining resulting from his fast-disappearing Slapped Cheek. But me? OW! That arm hurts!!
Perhaps I should have been a little more sympathetic after all. Bad Potty Mummy.
As Boy #2 would say; tut.