LAMB: A common scene on the way home from our afternoon walk. It starts with you rubbing your eyes and murmuring in a frail voice, ‘tired’. If that fails to elicit my sympathies you stop walking, hold your belly and melodramatically moan ‘siiiiick’. If once again your act has failed to convince me you sprint out in front and hold on to my legs. The very last resort is an all out boycott and refusal to use your legs (the same legs that were quite happy to run around chasing pigeons for two hours but now useless). I explain to you that you are getting too heavy and mummy’s tummy is getting too big for me to carry you anymore. You limp and complain for the last fifty metres. Once home however your poor crippled legs miraculously spring back to life and carry you joyfully down the path to our front door.

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