He ain’t heavy…

Look at my handsome, thinking youngest bro, L’Auteur.

In birth order terms, L’Auteur followed on the chubby baby heels of Little Miss Moi, who sprang from the loins of Mamma Trivialista just after Le Galloping Gourmand, who followed on from Sport Billy Superdad.  All of them entering the world beneath the formidable shadow of La Trivialista.  And that’s the complete Famiglia Trivialista line-up.

L’Auteur is obviously contemplating something decidedly unTrivial.  (How could that be?  Do we not share any genetic material?  Was Mamma Trivialista messing about with the postman?)  Time to drop him a MySpace  advising him to loosen up, chillax, be less totes hectic and random and more amazeballs.

Speaking of young folk, the latest Famiglia Trivialista-Seriousimo nanny bit the dust last night.  Up to that point, I had been wondering whether her greatest transgression was her inability to edibly roast a spud.

How wrong I was.  In the end, her biggest booboo, the one that done her in, was to cross Signor Seriousimo.  Take Ma Word for it, don’t go there Treeps.  He is a Boss at his work, and takes the management of staffs very, very srsly.  Respect is paramount, as is absence of ‘tudes, texting while caring for the fruits of his loins and sulky teenager-like behaviour on his dime.

Which means that, beneath the dusty rafters of Palazzo Trivialista, we are once more flying by the seat of our trews in terms of childcare.  La Triv’s attendance at The Wordporium is, once again, a day-by-day proposition.

That’s the thing with children:  you don’t want them to grow up, you want them to grow up, you don’t want them to grow up… and on it goes.