When she’s in a particularly good mood after her bath, my five-year-old daughter likes to dabble in a bit of physical comedy. She throws her underwear into the air, cries “Where’s my knickers?” and spends the next minute scrabbling madly around the room pretending to search for them, while her two-year-old brother just about hyper-ventilates from laughter. It’s HILARIOUS. My toddler has never once attempted to imitate this comedy act, but he heartily enjoys the show.
This morning my two-year-old is sitting in the trolley as we do the weekly shop. Bonds underwear is having a sale, so I devote a minute to the merits of a three-pack of cushioned-sole, low cut socks. And then a voice interrupts my meditation: “Where’s my knickers?” I shush him, but he knows he’s on to something. This time there is a certain confidence, an authority in his voice as he bellows, “WHERE’S MY KNICKERS?” And then again, but this time in a weird, sinister growl I’ve never even heard him use, “Where’s my knickers?” For goodness’ sake, he doesn’t even wear knickers. Full marks for timing, though.