BABY BOO AND ME.
The baby Ellis (20 months) will not be in to see me today.
My Leader has gone to his house to be there if the delivery van arrives from a local DIY shop ("We will deliver from 8 am onwards"). Time was when trades people delivered at times requested but now they tell you what they will or won't do. We've become far too apathetic in this country.
Anyway, his mother (our Roz) is off doing her lollipop lady job and, as decreed by Sod's Law, will probably not be around when the van arrives.
Hence the change in the usual arrangement.
The usual arrangement is for Roz to arrive here each schoolday morning bringing daughter Jess (who is a pupil at the school across the road from us) and the baby Ellis who stays with us until his mother returns from work.
He has his own routine.
First he greets his grandmother who is always downstairs to meet them all.
The 'hallo' drops in the middle and rises again, the 'there' becomes 'air.'
"A-a-a-o-o-Oa-a-aiR."
He then climbs the stairs, unaided, comes to me, sitting in bed, and says : "A-a-o-O, Boo."
A month or so ago I was Daish (presumably his attempt at Dennis) and my Leader was, still is, Gosh (not a clue where that came from).
Now I am Boo.
How that happened is not exactly clear, either.
But I feel very flattered because Boo is Roz's pet name for him so I feel he associates it with someone who is loved.
My invariable reply is: "'Allo, baby Boo."
He then holds his arms wide and reaches up to give me a quick cuddle.
Next he turns to my bedside cabinet, picks up the recumbent phone and settles it on its stand.
If I have not donned my glasses he lifts them off the cabinet and ceremoniously hands them to me.
A Boo without spectacles is not a satisfactory Boo.
And then he turns and points up to where the biscuit tin resides on top of my chest of drawers.
You see, a Boo without spectacles might lose the location of the biscuit tin.
He dances on tippytoes as the biscuit tin comes down and applies maximum concentration to the choosing of the right biscuit.
Biscuit chosen he heads for the door, takes the ten stairs to the ground floor on his backside, and until his breakfast arrives settles in my armchair to watch Bob The Builder, Barney, Poo Bear, Balamory or that Octopus thingy on video.
His conversation about it all is constant and mostly unintelligible.
I think the cat Shadow understands him.
When baby Ellis croons: "Ah-h-h, ca-a-at..." it is time to curl up in a tighter ball or head for the catflap
Of course I sometimes sigh a heartfelt sigh of relief when the little bloke goes home.
But when he has gone a certain emptiness comes over the place.
It does not really wake up again until the next cry of:
"A-a-a-a-o-o-oha-a-a-aiR!"
I SHALL BE WATCHING...
BBC1 are showing the new drama Five Days over three nights this week and two nights next.
So far it has been a splendid example of what televiewing should be about.
The story is gripping.
The acting is superb.
The direction is faultless.
It is a thoroughly professional presentation.
I may tape anything which could arguably compete but I shall certainly be watching Five Days.
I SHALL NOT BE WATCHING...
The world famous Australian cook John Torode (who?) famous, presumably, for his braised kangaroo and the greengrocer Gregg Wallace (who?) elevated to nutrition expert for a week, are back on BBC2 with their reality 'let's scoff their food and insult them' tele cook show.
I may watch something I've taped but I shall certainly not be watching MasterChef Goes Large.
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