Wrong. Wrong. Wrong

Esther's second year started target traumatically. An evening trip to North Middlesex A&E, complete with CT scan, projectile vomiting and the overwhelming brilliance of the NHS. While the CT scan was unnecessary she is laid low with a horrible tummy bug that caused her birthday party to be cancelled and an immense burden placed on her parents. Namely, keeping pace with her sick so she has sufficient clothes to wear. Or sheets to sleep on. So far we're on top but it's tough.

Happily, she is now much better and thanks to concerted guzzle she is fine fettle.  

Perhaps more upsetting has been the entry into our life of cocoa butter designed especially for nappy rash. Poor Esther has a Germanic constitution, meaning she delights in pooing a lot. Sadly this has terrible consequences for her chuddy flesh. To ameliorate the problem, as North London types, we did the only thing we know to do. Go organic and go gentrified and go hard (woof). But while this normally does the trick, it had lead us to a dark moment. A moment of real unpleasantness that makes you question the very fabric of romantic consumerism.

To assist Esther's chafe, we invested in organic cocoa butter for nappy rash. The cocoa, naturally  organic and had milled by the thighs of Nubian virgins and transported to the UK via a solar powered tireme, had impeccable credentials. And the butter also had that indulgent texture that only butter can have, one that makes your mind descend into a butter hole of unparalleled depths. So far so good. Our position in the top 1% of the world's populations is looking secure. Thank you end stage capitalism fit allowing the market to bear such tosh.

Then the moment of truth; application. Applying cocoa scented butter to your daughter's fanny is  wrong. Making your daughter's nappies smell of cocoa is wrong. Smearing something with consistency of butter on anything other than toast, a crumpet or at a stretch a crisp is wrong.  It's all totally and utterly wrong. It's not cricket and it's wholly unseemly. So let that be a cautionary tale oh reader. Gentrification has a down side and while most people think that that downside are hirsute young men riding fixed wheeled bicycles while designing apps that do little other than diminish you appetite for life, the actual down side is the one I've just described and most upsetting of all; it resides in my daughter's nappy. Egad.

Cocoa butter aside obviously she remains totally glorious and we thank you for all your lovely guftlies. Enjoy.

Wrong way Bonzo

Regular

Ready to party

Does she look a little like end stage Marlon Brando? A little,

The Great Escape

Black power

Disembodied

If you cross Bibendum with the 1980s rave scene, this is what you get.

Strapped.