Shouted up to Grenouille’s room to deal with a (possibly dead) ladybird on the bedroom door carpet strip. Our attics are infested with hibernating harlequin ladybirds and whenever they get into the house, G has a major freak-out fest.
I am greeted at the top of the stairs by an out-thrust hand proffering a sheet of tissue.
“Mum, mum, I’ve got you a piece of loo-paper to pick it up.”
“Can’t you pick it up, G?”
“Ugh! No! Hate ladybirds! Creepy!”
(I peer)
“G, that’s an apple pip.”
