The baby is following me around our beachfront 'villa' (i use this term loosely, in that although it has certain characteristics of a 'villa', it happens to be in India, and is thus is not equipped with, shall we say, many of the usual accoutrements one might find in a typical 'holiday villa' if you catch my drift) with a digestive biscuit in one hand and my iphone in the other - playing the Halloween Theme Song Remix loudly if you must know. It's cause for a surreal moment of reflection, which is at once noted, filed (under 'the ridiculous') and then promptly put to one side in light of another pressing matter at hand.
You see I am trying to figure out how to delicately address the current predicament of whether I should, and if so, how I should, go about paying our landlady to wash the soiled bedspread which the fat baby shat on the other day.
Poor thing had chosen the moment from being whisked out of his adorable, way too tight mult-coloured swimming trunks (and thus giving him the appearance of a mini-Hungarian bodybuilder) into attire more suited to dinner on the beach, when I turned for the briefest of moments to grab a clean 'namy' (he insists on calling them that) only to turn back at the words 'Poo Poo!' and discover the gigantic wet stool sat there on the edge of the bed - just daring me to lose it.
I promptly lifted him down to the floor before scurrying off to the bathroom with most of it clutched into barely sufficient wet-wipes, only to return to find three more identical toadstools squelching alarmingly between his big fat toes by the front door. In the onset of what I now know to be burgeoning hysteria, I started giggling madly, barely able to catch my breath over the horror of it all as I chased him round our place, always a few steps behind the little brown footprints littering our once pristine floor.
There was only one thing to do: ring the husband. He was still on the beach trying to round up Eggie and Dumps and didn't seem able to follow what I was shrieking through the phone (which in all honesty I did partly because I was hysterical with laughter/horror and absolutely had to share it with the only other person who could possibly be as horrified as me, and because otherwise all three were going to soon walk headlong into the biggest poo trap of their lives upon opening the door and freak the heck out). To his credit the husband came home straight away (I'm not sure that I would have, given the opportunity to invent some pressing errand en route) and found me just exiting the shower with a newly cleansed and grinning fat baby and the as-of-yet-not-attended-to disaster by the door.
Saying that, alls well that ends well I suppose, as that same day I was gifted with the most gorgeous white gold and ruby necklace which the husband surprised me with because:
a) he had been bad
b) he was about to be bad
c) he loves me
d) mostly c with a touch of a and maybe an inkling of b??
At any rate it's gorgeous and a lovely thing to do for no particular reason at all. Although the fat baby isn't yet convinced that it's not a tantalisingly sweet cherry lozenge and has already tried twice to gingerly bite into it around my neck.
Oh well, all that remains is how to deal with this bedspread conundrum. I sure hope the item in question isn't a family heirloom or something. We had asked for an extra covering as we're sleeping three to a bed and sometimes the nights get a bit cool with the ceiling fan on full blast and the fat baby is a known bed sheet hog. Somehow I thought that by folding it up neatly and placing it in the corner of the room it might magically disappear, and the faint smell of poo with it, but clearly that's not happening.
POSTSCRIPT: (I just had the most awful thought that what if they don't attribute the soiling to the baby? It's clear he's still in 'namy's' so I can't assume that they will automatically imagine the soiling to be from him....will they? Will they????????)