Buss, buss, buss

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

From The Walrus and the Carpenter
Through the Looking-Glass (1871) by Lewis Carroll

"Buss" isn't exactly right - it's a more complex sound than that - but it's about as close as I can get. Anyway, brushing is one of Baby B's favourite things at the moment, as you can see from the fact that he took a brush in his pram when we went to the park this afternoon, so that he could tidy up. One of the pleasures of being a grandparent rather than a parent, is that you tend to have more time to stand around, watching indulgently, while this kind of important work is carried out.

R and I are doing a two-day stint in Cardiff this week, because L is away at a work thingy and our co-grandparents (Outlaws?) are on holiday, leaving G with the Herculean task of juggling work and Boy for eight whole days. Fortunately, Himself seems to be growing neither a tooth nor a bug at the moment, which has allowed him to be in the sunniest possible frame of mind. He was absolutely charming with R and me all day.