The other week, I was on the phone to an old friend whom I haven’t been in contact with for several months and who has, in the interim, completed much of a pregnancy that was as yet undiscovered at the time of our last meeting. As you can imagine, we had quite a lot to talk about, and when I noticed an unmistakable odour wafting from my son’s nether regions I was in no great hurry to break off the conversation.
"I’ll have to go in a minute or two," I told her, "but we can talk for a bit longer. He never seems to mind too much about having a pooey nappy, so I’m sure he’ll wait for a bit, and he’s running off to do something else anyway… waaaait a minute."
Jamie had in fact been running off not in order to explore some new and exciting bit of the world, as I’d initially assumed, but to grab the changing mat and drag it into position.
"I suppose I’d better go after all," I told my friend, said a rapid goodbye, and headed towards Jamie, who was now busy trying to get the nappy bin open.
I’ve been wondering how long I can get away with putting off the whole messy business of toilet training, and now I think I’ve got the answer; I’ll just train him to change his own nappies instead.