I'm smiling on the inside

Harry is my littliest boy. He has dark hair, big eyes and eyebrows to die for. He also imparts great pearls of wisdom, delivered at a precise moment to either create a barrage of laughter or a tortured and embarassed silence. Harry is never afflicted by embarassment, that is usually the sole reserve of his mother.

It seems unfair to let his words dissipate when they can linger longer in cyber-gevity. And anyway, as his mum, I'd like to share some of his little gems.

When Harry was smaller than today, he had a small red bike. Through lack of use it never lost its shine and is currently 'on hire' to a smaller cousin. But I digress. Determined that this little boy would ride a bike while getting fit, I jogged behind him. The birds sang as we rode/ran over the sun puddled pavement. It was a perfect summer's afternoon. A grim look masked Harry's face, his eyebrows knitting in the middle. Jogging behind him, he kept stopping and starting, coughing and spluttering.

'Harry you are doing fantastically well,' I puffed behind him.

Stopping his bike, and turning to me, his little face a picture of thunder, he said 'Mummy, I am fantastically bored.' And with that he dismounted the red stead and started to push it home.

Oh well, I worked out he probably would never wear the yellow shirt in the Tour de France.

A friend, enquiring what school was like, was surprised by his response, 'In a word bull *poo*.'

I was shocked, as it's not the sort of comment you want recorded for prosperity (by a five year old) although it was also probably true. I've never heard him say 'that' word again and when I was bemoaing the horror story to my mother I noted that it wasn't one of my words, but apparently it is one of hers.

A school banker, Harry took his job very seriously. He worked his brow and a smile had no place on his banker's countenance. One day, the supervisor, a young woman, said that Harry's demeanour was scaring off the customers and warned that if he didn't cheer up, a replacement banker would be found. Harry caught her in his steady gaze, saying, 'I'm smiling on the inside...that's what counts'. And the ensuing fuss when the accuser was outed by the other bankers, returned Harry's smile to the right side of his face.

We all have these little gems, which are so easily forgotten and probably mean little to others, but hey, while I'm here...this cyber soapbox has four sturdy sides.

Eat. Pray. Weigh.

What is it about diets?

The first three letters are portentous. They spell doom before you even get to tea. (Cue, potato dripping in butter having been deep fried in peanut butter batter.)

How do we get to the savage village that is Dietville? Is it the saggy scales as we step on in chubby denial? Is it the jeans that we could once pour ourselves into but now overflow with crept on flesh? Is it the embryonic models stretched across fashion pages aimed at middle aged wallets? Or is it the supermarket shelves labouring under fat and salt?

The diet industry thrives on failure to ensure the shareholders, unlike the dieters, are kept content - their pockets bulging instead of their waistlines.

But can the chunkoids blame the fat cats for the stressed denim? No, it is the hand that reaches the mouth, the hand that dips into the bowls of chips, delights in the roasted cashews, the hand that lifts the glass of wine.

Am starting to salivate. Wonder what's in the cupboard.

Ummmm.... Eat... pray... maybe not weigh... not yet anyway.