Little S had an appointment with a doctor yesterday afternoon so I decided to treat Big S by taking her to see Toy Story 3D. I will pass over the time spent in the cinema save to say that my two dearest wishes are now that Big S’s bladder would allow us to spend more than 20 minutes sitting still without a trip to the loo and that Pixar would stop making films the apparent purpose of which is to make grown men cry in front of their bemused children.

Skipping outside into the afternoon sunlight, Big S asked for an ice cream. I told her that she had had enough treats for one afternoon and that it was time to walk home. She pointed out that that was a long walk and inquired with admirable persistence as to the possibility of our taking a cab or the bus. I hatched a plan and offered her a choice: either we could take a cab or I would buy her an ice cream to eat on the walk home. Despite nearly bursting my forehead in an attempt to telepathically influence her to choose the cab she immediately opted for the ice cream.

We stopped at a local park on the way home to allow her to munch lazily at her Cornetto. Once there, she put in a bid for a visit to the playground. I demurred. She looked wistfully at the children playing on the swings and sighed:

“Daddy, those children are having more fun than me”.

“How many of them have ice creams?” I countered.

“None of them.”

“Then you are having fun that they are not having.”

She turned to me with a serious look, the gravity of which was undermined by her chocolate and nut goatee.

“No Daddy. They are having fun; an ice cream is just a treat.”

Well now I know.