Bitch-tits

That sinking feeling flooded over me, as I sat listening to Mummy's little angel perfecting the delivery of her expletives...

"Bitch-tits Mummy!" she smiles at me sweetly.

I'm aghast. I'm not perfect, I know it. I swear occasionally. I try not to do it within earshot of Grace, but I'm no angel. And now seemingly, neither is Grace.

"Bitch-tits Mummy!" Grace says nicely, pulling me by the hand towards the kitchen.

Distraught at the gritty realisation that my little poppet has not only picked up swearing, she's doing it 'new age', I tell her in no uncertain terms that she mustn't say words she doesn't understand.

"Yes Mummy," she replies and looks a little confused and drags me to the cupboard. I'm still smarting at my parenting failures, when she opens the cupboard and pulls out the packet on the bottom shelf. "Bitch-tits. Please Mummy?"

Merrily munching on a Rich Tea Finger, she toddles off to play with her tea set.

Biscuits.

Age is creeping up on me. I'm clearly bloody deaf.