Sitting in local coffee shop with tiny daughture, now nearly two years old, reflecting on the pleasantness of the weather, the fact that the last draft of my cornish crime drama thing has now made its (possibly) final voyage to BBC Commissioning Chap, and generally feeling well-disposed and peaceful towards the world in general.
DAUGHTER: DEATH! DEATH! (pause) DEATH!
Coffee shop manager looks over in an amused-but-also-slightly-concerned sort of way.
ME: I think she's actually saying 'EGGS' or something, and it just sounds like 'DEATH'.
ME: Well, it's probably time we went to the supermarket.
In the supermarket:
DAUGHTER: SIX SIX SIX! SIX SIX SIX!
Cashier looks at me.
ME: (weakly) It's her favourite number.
IN OTHER NEWS: Orbyn has kindly put up my contribution to her Curious blog