Tilly was turning nine. She was always getting words wrong. For example, she called a colander a calendar. She would say as ugly as gin. She would say she couldn’t see the hood for the trees.
Her mother was forever correcting her. Where did she get it from? Perhaps she had a hearing problem? Perhaps she was simply dumb?
But today was Tilly’s birthday! I’ll stop festering her about it and correcting her stalking for the day, said her mother. For once, I’ll let sleeping blogs lie. They can eat at the party till they’re as fat as a canpake. I shall stay cool as a cummerbund. It won’t hurt to knot-bugger one day in the colander hair.
Flappy mirthday, Milly-Dilly!