It's reet foggy here in West Yorkshire tonight - a proper pea-souper, thick and ghostly. Me and O were driving over the hills on the way back from Granny and Grandad's and it was a wee bit scary. We were listening to the 'Best of the Doors', grooving to Roadhouse Blues and trying to follow the white line as we ploughed through the gloom.
O was doing his usual backseat driving - 'accelerate, Mummy, foot down, turn left here, don't forget to indicate, it's 30 miles an hour, straight on...' - and rambling on in that delightful way five year olds have.
O: I like the fog. It's like being in outer space in Cosmic Quantam Ray. I'll be Robbie Shipton and you can be Allison. Turn here.
Me: OK, what shall we do? I am turning.
O: You drive the spaceship and I'll do some backflips like in gymnastics. Jack at gymnastics has got two mummies. That's strange. Can you see the wall? I can.
Me: Well it's unusual, but think how nice it is to have two mummies when having one mummy is fantastic.
O: Yes, you could have more snuggles and more toys. I think it would be nice to have two mummies. But we should keep Daddy as well.
As we drove home through the miasma to the apocolyptic strains of 'The End', I pondered this new familial set-up, but was jerked out of my reverie by the Eureka-like cry from the backseat:
"Maybe Granny could be my other mummy!"
I think M might have something to say about that...