He snuck through the door, scaring the life out of me. Refused to talk, or eat. Went through a mad half an hour where he rolled around the floor, being silly and goofy. Then collapsed on the sofa, rubbing his eyes and yawning. When I gently suggested he have a shower and an early night he looked at me and said, “Don’t tell me what to do! I’m not tired, I don’t need to go to bed !” With a pout he picked his glass of wine threw it back and said “That really is dreadful!” Thirty seven going on three. He’s in bed now as I drink some nice wine and catch up on Strictly.
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