Monday 8 August 2011


The King is walking. Yes, his royal highness is upright like the homo sapien that he is and damn proud of himself too. At the moment he is walking around like a drunk who has just scored the ultimate goal in a World Cup final against Germany (he plays for England of course). Both hands in the air, a massive smile on his face, and is usually chattering, oohing and squawking like a parrot on Red Bull as he careens across the room. It is a pretty cute sight to see. 

The thing is, while I’m profoundly happy that he has reached this milestone, it is also one of the more sobering things to have occurred in our household in the past year. Let me paint a picture shall I. Imagine an octopus on speed, and this octopus is the most curious, rambunctious and eager cephalopod ever to walk across one’s apartment. Okay, fine, octopuses (or octopi) don’t walk, and they are rarely found in London flats, but stay with me here. You see, once these little people start walking, suddenly their wing span seems to increase by the mile, not to mention their speed and accuracy. The King manages to reach things and swipe them down so quickly, I barely see him lift his arm to do so. Add in the sheer will of wanting that remote control way up on high and that darn thing will be in his hand sooner than later, if he has to take down the entire TV stand to get it. He has tried I assure you.

Then of course there are the unforeseen injuries with this newfound skill that are soon to turn my hair white. With the newly upright, if they are not lucky enough to lose balance and fall back on their ample behinds (let me tell you, the King has a lot of adorable junk in that trunk), they of course fall every other direction and often land like a contorted gymnast who’s had too much to drink (thank god they’re quite bendy little people). It’s not pretty especially when the King hits the floor, and gives me that look as if to say, ‘how could you let this happen?!’ I, needless to say, am riddled with guilt. Of course this also results in his forehead looking like an Appaloosa's behind and I fear that social services will hall me off in a wagon for having wood floors.

The funniest part about this whole process is the sheer look of pride on the King's face when he reaches his destination. Contrary to us older humans who have long past tired of walking (my partner is practically retired from recreational walking claiming his legs are too heavy), the King looks like he has won the toddler lottery for a lifetime supply of blueberries (the kid eats an obscene amount of blueberries to the point that his bum often looks like a smurf – okay okay, perhaps I need to limit his consumption, but it’s a super food!) 

So for now I shall try to put my exhaustion aside, find an open field and let this two-foot King run himself ragged until he’s sleeping fifteen hours a night. Now that would be even better than winning the lottery. 

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