“Look mummy,” says Tadpole. “I did draw a picture!”
I study the picture dutifully. “Is it a witch?” I say. “Like Meg from Meg and Mog?”
Tadpole shakes her head. “No. It is mummy when she is very fâchée. With cross arms like this.” She demonstrates by putting her hands on her hips.
I try not to show how horrified I am to see myself in this new and disturbing light.
Next week: mummy with a terminal hangover. Which is worse than this.