Sophie was five years old and had built up quite a large population of imaginary friends, including an entire country with its own culture, customs and language.
One morning, while we were riding on the train from Raynes Park to Waterloo, she was talking about the doings of some of the naughtier members of the community and getting quite irate about their bad behaviour.
Her high-pitched little girl voice and the frenzy she had worked herself into, switching from one imaginary character to the next at high speed, were a bit more than my overworked, under active brain could handle (obviously, I hadn't taken her advice on eating fish for breakfast).
We had reached Clapham Junction, when she paused for a few seconds. In my exhaustion, I grabbed onto the relative silence and heaved a deep inner sigh. Alas, too soon, as she immediately piped up again.
I snapped and said "Sophie" much too loudly and sharply for her happiness, or for the happiness of the people sitting near us. I now had a cross five-year-old glaring at me with several strangers backing her up.
In her most indignant (and very posh London) tone, she said "What?" and lifted one eyebrow at me.
I thought as quickly as as I could and suggested we play a game. "Let's see if you can get from this stop to the next without saying a word."
Sophie looked out the window at the platform, thought for a few seconds (during which my hopes soared), and then turned back to me and announced, simply and firmly, "I can't," and continued her story at the point where she had been so rudely cut off.
To make matters worse, not only did I not get the few minutes' respite I so desperately craved, I also had all of the previously glowering strangers now laughing at my expense.
When will I learn?
One morning, while we were riding on the train from Raynes Park to Waterloo, she was talking about the doings of some of the naughtier members of the community and getting quite irate about their bad behaviour.
Her high-pitched little girl voice and the frenzy she had worked herself into, switching from one imaginary character to the next at high speed, were a bit more than my overworked, under active brain could handle (obviously, I hadn't taken her advice on eating fish for breakfast).
We had reached Clapham Junction, when she paused for a few seconds. In my exhaustion, I grabbed onto the relative silence and heaved a deep inner sigh. Alas, too soon, as she immediately piped up again.
I snapped and said "Sophie" much too loudly and sharply for her happiness, or for the happiness of the people sitting near us. I now had a cross five-year-old glaring at me with several strangers backing her up.
In her most indignant (and very posh London) tone, she said "What?" and lifted one eyebrow at me.
I thought as quickly as as I could and suggested we play a game. "Let's see if you can get from this stop to the next without saying a word."
Sophie looked out the window at the platform, thought for a few seconds (during which my hopes soared), and then turned back to me and announced, simply and firmly, "I can't," and continued her story at the point where she had been so rudely cut off.
To make matters worse, not only did I not get the few minutes' respite I so desperately craved, I also had all of the previously glowering strangers now laughing at my expense.
When will I learn?
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