Mummy Daddy Quotes

Father has a strengthening character like the sun and mother has a soothing temper like the moon.

In the family of punctuation, where the full stop is daddy and the comma is mummy, and the semicolon quietly practises the piano with crossed hands, the exclamation mark is the big attention-deficit brother who gets overexcited and breaks things and laughs too loudly.

Darling Daddy, This is Rose. The shed needs new wires now it has blown up. Caddy is bringing home rock-bottom boyfriends to see if they will do for Mummy. Instead of you. Love, Rose.

And when our kids grow up and ask about the story of Mummy and Daddy – how we met and how the Might Storm came to be – I’ll sit them down and tell them the story of how, once upon a long time ago, in Manchester, a girl moved next door to a boy.

Parents expect only two things from their children, obedience in their childhood and respect in their adulthood.

In fact, I take the view that God, in his infinite wisdom, didn't bother to spring for two joints - heaven and hell. They're the same place, but heaven is when you get everything you want and you meet Mummy and Daddy and your best friends and you all have a hug and a kiss and play your harps. Hell is the same place - no fire and brimstone - but they all pass by and don't see you. There's nothing, no recognition. You're waving, "It's me, your father," but you're invisible. You're on a cloud, you've got your harp, but you can't play with nobody because they don't see you. That's hell.

Why are they burying daddy? Mummy? Mummy! Make 'em stop! Daddy can't go to work like this!

It's a god-awful small affair To the girl with the mousy hair But her mummy is yelling, "No!" And her daddy has told her to go But her friend is nowhere to be seen Now she walks through her sunken dream To the seat with the clearest view And she's hooked to the silver screen. - Life on Mars?

Mummy and Daddy want him to be an evil genius, but he has his heart set on Latin verse. Don’t you, Pill?” The boy gave his sister a nasty stare. “Pillover is terribly bad at being bad, if you take my meaning. Our daddy is a founding member of the Death Weasel Confederacy, and Mummy is a kitchen chemist with questionable intent, but poor Pillover can’t even bring himself to murder ants with his Depraved Lens of Crispy Magnification. Can you, Pill?

There is nobody as brave as a baby taking his/her first non-stop 5 steps alone from Mummy's hand to daddy's hand...... trust me on that

Your mummy and daddy love you very much,’ she’d say. ‘But people can’t fry potatoes after they’re dead.

Unfortunately, the case for equal opportunities, long established in liberal Western society, cuts no ice in the fundamentalist regime if the five-year old. There is no God but Mummy, and Daddy is her prophet.

I may not have known much about pregnancies but I knew that you couldn’t have a son or a daughter without actually doing it first. The priests at school had once muttered something to the effect that when a mummy and a daddy loved each other very much, they lay close together and the Holy Spirit descended upon them to create the miracle of new life. (Charles, in his one attempt at a man-to-man talk with me, had put it rather differently. ‘Get her kit off,’ he said. ‘Play with her tits a bit, because the ladies love that. Then just stick your cock in her pussy and ram it in and out a bit. Don’t hang around too long in there – it’s not a bloody train station. Just do your business and get on with your day.’ It’s no wonder he managed to secure so many wives, the old romantic.) I

I can't be a mummy, I'm a daddy!

Alf then told John he must choose between going with Mummy or staying with Daddy. If you want to tear a small child in two, there is no better way.

I think dogs need our prayers more than people. We know that God looks after people when they die and that Daddy and Mummy and Bill are all right, but we don’t know that about dogs.

The breakdown of mummies and daddies was an important part of lesbian relationships in the Bagatelle...For some of us, however, role-playing reflected all the depreciating attitudes toward women which we loathed in straight society. It was the rejection of these roles that had drawn us to 'the life' in the first place. Instinctively, without particular theory or political position or dialectic, we recognized oppression as oppression, no matter where it came from. But those lesbians who had carved some niche in the pretend world of dominance/subordination rejected what they called our 'confused' lifestyle, and they were in the majority.

Vespers Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed, Droops on the little hands little gold head. Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares! Christopher Robin is saying his prayers. God bless Mummy. I know that's right. Wasn't it fun in the bath tonight? The cold's so cold, and the hot's so hot. Oh! God bless Daddy -- I quite forgot. If I open my fingers a little bit more, I can see Nanny's dressing-gown on the door. It's a beautiful blue, but it hasn't a hood. Oh! God bless Nanny and make her good. Mine has a hood, and I lie in bed, And pull the hood right over my head, And I shut my eyes, and I curl up small, And nobody knows that I'm there at all. Oh! Thank you, God, for a lovely day. And what was the other I had to say? I said "Bless Daddy," so what can it be? Oh! Now I remember. God bless Me. Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed. Droops on the little hands little gold head. Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares! Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.

Darling Daddy, This is Rose. Very good news. Caddy is going to marry Micheal. In case you have forgotten because you have not been home for so long he is the one with the ponytail and the earring that you do not like. And Caddy says she will have a white lace dress and three bridesmaids, Saffron and Sarah and me, and a big party for everyone, all her old boyfriends too. Fireworks. A band. A big tent called a marquee. But where will we put it? Carriages with white horses for us all to go to the church. Afterward Caddy and Micheal will go for a holiday to Australia to visit the Great Barrier Reef. Caddy has it all worked out and Mummy says Yes She Can Of Course You Can Darling Of Course You Must Do That. Saffron said That Will Cost a Few Weeks Housekeeping and Mummy said Yes But We Do Not Need to Worry About That. DADDY WILL PAY. Love, Rose.

Mummy always had French maids, and Daddy always chased them. It kept their marriage happy.

I don't think their mummy and daddy told them they were little sunbeams for Jesus.

Your mummy and daddy love you very much,’ she’d say. ‘But people can’t fry potatoes after they’re dead. Don’t you know anything?

Knowing someone’s name meant knowing that the other person was a human being and not “the enemy.” Knowing someone’s name transformed him into a unique and special individual, with a past and a future, with ancestors and possibly descendants, a person who has known triumphs and failures. People are their names; they’re proud of them; they repeat them thousands of times in their lifetime and identify with them. It’s the first word they learn after “Daddy” and “Mummy.

When asked by one of the children suddenly out of the blue, ‘Mummy, why was Daddy knighted?’ she looked up from her knitting, pushed back her spectacles, thought solemnly for a few minutes, and then replied, ‘I don’t think we’ve ever quite known.

And for all that, look what happens when a man really does blow his top. Call the Troopers, get him out of sight quick, hustle him off and lock him up before he wakes the neighbors. Christ's sake, when it comes to any kind of a showdown we're still in the Middle Ages. It's as if everybody'd made this tacit agreement to live in a state of total self-deception. The hell with reality! Let's have a whole bunch of cute little winding roads and cute little houses painted white and pink and baby blue; let's all be good consumers and have a lot of Togetherness and bring our children up in a bath of sentimentality—Daddy's a great man because he makes a living, Mummy's a great woman because she's stuck by Daddy all these years—and if old reality ever does pop out and say Boo we'll all get busy and pretend it never happened.

Oh, wind and rain may haunt me, Look to the north and pray. Send me, please, his kisses; Send them home today. I'm begging Jesus, 'Please, Send his love to me!' Left alone in desert, This house becomes a hell, This love becomes a tether, This room becomes a cell. Mummy, Daddy, please, Send him back to me! How long must I suffer? Dear God, I've served my time. This love becomes my torture; This love, my only crime. Oh, lover, please release me. My arms too weak to grip, My eyes too dry for weeping, My lips too dry to kiss. Calling Jesus, 'Please, Send his love to me!

Her family was at least as dysfunctional and peculiar as his own, riven with scenes that to other people might've been epoch defining—'it was a month before Daddy torched Mummy's portrait in the hall, and the paneling caught fire, and the fire brigade came, and we all had to be evacuated via the upstairs windows'—but to the Campbells were so normalized they seemed routine.

You are not meant for heaven, says the Devil. Maybe it's because you love no one but yourself. Or maybe it's because you cultivate beauty instead of goodness. And don't use your father as an excuse. Plenty of people have worse fathers and have made something of their lives instead of acting hoity-toity and waiting for some prince to rescue them. Then again, your father is so noxious that I'm not surprised you wear the stench of his sins, like your mother did. Good woman on the surface, but to marry a man like your father... Well, that requires the kind of soul that ends in my clutches. I checked on her before I came. Somewhere in the fifth circle and on her way down. Still thinks she belongs in heaven, poor lass. Those kinds never fare well. The pain is twice as bad when you resist it. What I'm saying is that your soul is going to come to me one way or another like Mummy's did and like Daddy's will, so might as well play my game and try to snatch more time up here where you can keep pretending you're better than everyone else and your angels are guarding you. Do we have a deal? Lovely. Now tell me. What is my name?

Sittin’ in a café in dark glasses sippin’ coffee dunkin’ doughnuts while it’s sunny thinking guns guns guns and I’ve got pockets full of bullets and a suitcase full of money and a fuckin’ awful headache and a police rifle that fires dummies and I’m listening to Barney because she really wants to tell me all the fifty million reasons why she’s feelin’ fuckin’ funny and she wants to kill her mummy and she wants me to kill her daddy but there really is no logic to the way we’re spending Sunday because we don’t know where we’re going and we’ve been drinking since last Monday and Booga’s sharpening sticks and he’s looking like a monkey and I’m waiting for my tank and I know it will look chumly because Dobson is my man and he’s part of my fuckin’ family and when I see him next I’m gonna buy him half a shandy.

Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s two less than last year.” “Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s here under this big one from Mummy and Daddy.” “All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face. Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over.

They may have been singing and wearing pretty scarves, but their signs and placards were clear. Anne had tied one to Tony’s pram that read MY MUMMY WANTS TO HELP WIN THE WAR. Maeve and her girls had used chalk to write on blackout cards NURSERIES FOR KIDS, WAR WORK FOR MOTHERS, while another pram sported a sign saying HELP MUMMY HELP OUR DADDY. Two women I didn’t recognise held pieces of cardboard that read WE NEED NURSERIES TO HELP WIN THE WAR.

I knew that Amy couldn’t have died from a drug overdose, as she had been drug-free since 2008. But although she had been so brave and had fought so hard in her recovery from alcoholism, I knew she must have lapsed once again. I thought that Amy hadn’t had a drink for three weeks. But she had actually started drinking at Dionne’s Roundhouse gig the previous Wednesday. I didn’t know that at the time. The following morning Janis, Jane, Richard Collins (Janis’s fiancé), Raye, Reg and I went to St Pancras mortuary to officially identify Amy. Alex couldn’t bring himself to go, which I fully understood. When we arrived there were loads of paps outside the court, but they were all very respectful. We were shown into a room and saw Amy behind a window. She looked very, very peaceful, as if she was just asleep, which in a way made it a lot harder. She looked lovely. There was a slight red blotchiness to her skin, which was why, at the time, I thought she might have had a seizure: she looked as she had done when she had had seizures in the past. Eventually the others left Janis and me to say goodbye to Amy by ourselves. We were with her for about fifteen minutes. We put our hands on the glass partition and spoke to her. We told her that Mummy and Daddy were with her and that we would always love her. I can’t express what it was like. It was the worst feeling in the world.

At such times Daddy, Mummy and Margot leave me cold. I wander from one room to another, downstairs and up again, feeling like a songbird whose wings have been clipped and who is hurling himself in utter darkness against the bars of his cage. "Go outside, laugh, and take a breath of fresh air," a voice cries within me, but I don't even feel a response any more; I go and lie on the divan and sleep, to make the time pass more quickly, and the stillness and terrible fear, because there is no way of killing them.

How much Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

When they were both five, Charlie and David asked their mother where babies come from. Charlie's mom folded herself into an armchair, sat Charlie on her lap, and pointed to pictures in what Charlie had always thought was a book of sea creatures. She helped him sounds out the scientific names. David's mother had a more whimsical answer. "When two people make love, a little blue fair leaps from the daddy to the mummy, connecting them like a ribbon of light. And sometimes, the fairy leaves a baby in the mummy's tummy." Would the fairies leave any more babies in his mummy's tummy? David wanted to know. "No, Davie." Why not? "Because Daddy's fairies are lazy.

Wanting to kill myself is was an appropriate and reasonable response to a whole series of unfortunate events that had rendered life unlivable. Oh, yes, I know the shrinks would say that they could have helped, but that's half the trouble with this bloody country, isn't it? No one's willing to face their responsibilities. It's always someone else's fault. Boo hoo hoo. Well, I happen to be one of those rare individuals who believe that what went on with Mummy and Daddy had nothing to do with me screwing a fifteen-year-old. I happen to believe that I would have slept with her regardless of whether I'd been breast-fed or not, and it was time to face up to what I'd done.

...what goes on inside believers is mysterious. So far as it can be guessed at - if for some reason you wanted to guess at it - it appears to be a kind of anxious pretending, a kind of continual, nervous resistance to reality. It looks as if, to a believer, things can never be allowed just to be what they are. They always have to be translated, moralised - given an unnecessary and rather sentimental extra meaning. A sunset can't just be part of the mixed magnificence and cruelty and indifference of the world; it has to be a blessing. A meal has to be a present you're grateful for, even if it came from Tesco and the ingredients cost you £7.38. Sex can't be the spectrum of experiences you get used to as an adult, from occasional earthquake through to mild companionable buzz; it has to be, oh dear oh dear, a special thing that happens when mummies and daddies love each other very much... Our fingers must be in our ears all the time - lalala, I can't hear you - just to keep out the plain sound of the real world. The funny thing is that to me it's exactly the other way around. In my experience, it's belief that involves the most uncompromising attention to the nature of things of which you are capable. It's belief which demands that you dispense with illusion after illusion, while contemporary common sense requires continual, fluffy pretending. Pretending that might as well be systematic, it's so thoroughly incentivised by our culture.

Her mother said: what is past-is past. Her mother said: do not mourn: onward. Life is for the living, Earth is beautiful. Do not be unhappy. For you There is only happiness: look: I will show you happiness because I cannot bear you to be unhappy Because I love you so much And then I stood, the pale girl stood there And could not bear to see her mother unhappy She loved her so much. So she obeyed. When her mother laughed, she too laughed, When her mother said 'work,' she worked so hard Her schoolmates were alarmed. When her mother said: This is the perfect Way to be, she was so perfect that- All exclaimed: this girl is exceptional. This is how she kept her mother happy. And she said to her brother: we must never Let mummy be unhappy: unhappiness Is the feeling none of us must feel Because it is the abyss, where Daddy lies. Let us do everything to keep her happy And never speak of Daddy & never be sad.

For in America this season is decreed “family season”. (Eat your hearts out, you pitiable loners who don’t have families!) Melancholy as Thanksgiving is, the Christmas-New year’s season is far worse and lasts far longer, providing rich fund of opportunities for self-medicating, mental collapse, suicide and public mayhem with firearms. In fact it might be argued that the Christmas-New year’s season which begins abruptly after Thanksgiving is now the core-sason of American life itself, the meaning of American life„ the brute existencial point of it. How without families must envy us who bask in parental love, in the glow of yule-logs burning in fireplaces stoked by our daddie’s robust pokers, we who are stuffed to bursting with our mummie’s frantic holiday cooking; how you wish you could be us, pampered/protected kids tearing expensive foil wrappings off too many packages to count, gathered about the Christmas tree on Christmas morning as Mummy gently chided: “Skyler! Bliss! Show Daddy and Mummy what you’ve just opened, please! And save the little cards, so you know who gave such nice things to you

For in America this season is decreed “family season”. (Eat your hearts out, you pitiable loners who don’t have families!) Melancholy as Thanksgiving is, the Christmas-New year’s season is far worse and lasts far longer, providing rich fund of opportunities for self-medicating, mental collapse, suicide and public mayhem with firearms. In fact it might be argued that the Christmas-New year’s season which begins abruptly after Thanksgiving is now the core-sason of American life itself, the meaning of American life„ the brute existencial point of it. How without families must envy us who bask in parental love, in the glow of yule-logs burning in fireplaces stoked by our daddie’s robust pokers, we who are stuffed to bursting with our mummie’s frantic holiday cooking; how you wish you could be us, pampered/protected kids tearing expensive foil wrappings off too many packages to count, gathered about the Christmas tree on Christmas morning as Mummy gently chided: “Skyler! Bliss! Show Daddy and Mummy what you’ve just opened, please! And save the little cards, so you know who gave such nice things to you”.

I thought we might even retell some of the stories she used to invent for us." "Like the one about the gate at the bottom of the garden that led to fairyland." "And the dragon eggs she found in the woods." "And the time she ran away to join the circus." "Do you remember," said Iris suddenly, "the circus we had here?" "My circus," said Daphne, beaming from behind her wineglass. "Well, yes," Iris interjected, "but only because-" "Because I'd had the horrid measles and missed the real circus when it came to town." Daphne laughed with pleasure at the memory. "She got Daddy to build a tent at the bottom of the meadow, remember, and organized all of you to be clowns. Laurel was a lion, and Mummy walked the tightrope." "She was rather good at that," said Iris. "Barely fell off the rope. She must've practiced for weeks." "Or else her story was true and she really did spend time in the circus," said Rose. "I can almost believe it of Mummy." Daphne gave a contented sigh. "We were lucky to have a mother like ours, weren't we? So playful, almost as if she hadn't fully grown up, not at all like other people's boring old mothers.

Dear Kitty, Another birthday has gone by, so now I’m fifteen. I received quite a lot of presents. All five parts of Sprenger’s History of Art, a set of underwear, a handkerchief, two bottles of yoghurt, a pot of jam, a spiced gingerbread cake, and a book on botany from Mummy and Daddy, a double bracelet from Margot, a book from the Van Daans, sweet peas from Dussel, sweets and exercise books from Miep and Elli and, the high spot of all, the book Maria Theresa and three slices of full-cream cheese from Kraler. A lovely bunch of peonies from Peter, the poor boy took a lot of trouble to try and find something, but didn’t have any luck. There’s still excellent news of the invasion, in spite of the wretched weather, countless gales, heavy rains, and high seas. Yesterday Churchill, Smuts, Eisenhower, and Arnold visited French villages which have been conquered and liberated. The torpedo boat that Churchill was in shelled the coast. He appears, like so many men, not to know what fear is—makes me envious! It’s difficult for us to judge from our secret redoubt how people outside have reacted to the news. Undoubtedly people are pleased that the idle (?) English have rolled up their sleeves and are doing something at last. Any Dutch people who still look down on the English, scoff at England and her government of old gentlemen, call the English cowards, and yet hate the Germans deserve a good shaking. Perhaps it would put some sense into their woolly brains. I hadn’t had a period for over two months, but it finally started again on Saturday. Still, in spite of all the unpleasantness and bother, I’m glad it hasn’t failed me any longer. Yours, Anne

But my relationship with my father was now ashes on the river and I felt myself becoming jealous of Mummy, because as of that day, I would never be a daddy's girl again.

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in the middle. You have to be strong and leave well alone.’ ‘Oh, but suppose it’s a bit too hot and the cakes burn?’ Libby wailed. ‘My mother is a really good cook. It would be awful to give her burnt cake; don’t you think perhaps . . . ?’ ‘Oh, Libby, use your loaf,’ Matthews implored. ‘You can cut burnt off, but there’s nothing you can do if it goes all slimy in the middle and I must say,’ he added, beginning to pile utensils into the yellow bowl, ‘the mixture tastes absolutely delicious. I think raw cake is even nicer than the cooked sort.’ He intercepted Libby’s longing glance towards the oven and chuckled. ‘You start the washing up and I’ll dry, then we’ll put all the things away, and by the time we’ve done that, the cake will very likely be cooked.’ The cake was a great success; Libby lovingly clapped the two halves together with raspberry jam in between, and wrote Welcome, Mummy and Daddy in her very best writing. Icing had not been available since the beginning of the war, but a piece of white card propped up on top of the cake was the next best thing. However, it was only Neil who came striding across the yard halfway through Thursday afternoon. Libby and Matthew had been hanging about the lane all day but as luck would have it had gone back to the house to lay the table for high tea when their visitor arrived. Neil gave a shout, stood his suitcase and bag down and caught Libby as she

She thought of all the good stuff waiting for her when she got older. The first thing she would do was buy a pony so that when she got a job she could ride it to work and to the shops and hitch it up outside so she could see it from the window. And with the money she made from doing… something… she’d buy her own custard creams and not have to search every time for where Mummy had hidden theirs. She’d live in a warm house in a sunny field, miles from trees, where mould didn’t blacken the walls and where the wind never squealed through the windows. Daddy must be wrong about growing up. She couldn’t wait to get there.

The majority of us were from single parent family homes. You could have counted the fellas on your fingers that had a mummy and a daddy at home. Anthony ‘Ada’ Allen, one of the former leaders and founders of the Rebellion Raiders

the men in the playground usually take the form of either Super Busy And Important Daddies In Suits who burst in and out, either throwing the children in at the gate or dragging them out at high speed while talking loudly on their mobile telephones so we are all aware that they are Super Busy And Super Important and only here because The Nanny was so inconsiderate as to get appendicitis;

None of the mummies and daddies are going to like this at all.

Janka! Dear Janka! Take this hunchbacked monstrosity from me! I don’t want to look at it! She’s your daughter as much as she is mine. Indeed? The children I have sired are normal. How dare you… How dare you suggest… It was in your elven family that there were witches. It was you that aborted your first pregnancy. It was because of that. You have tainted elven blood and a tainted womb, woman. That’s why you give birth to monsters. It is an ill-fated child… Such was the will of the gods! She’s your daughter as much as she is mine! What was I to do? Smother her? Not tie the birth cord? What am I to do now? Take her to the forest and leave her? What do you want from me, by the Gods? Daddy! Mummy! Get away, you freak. How dare you! How dare you strike a child! Stop! Where are you going? Where? To her, are you? To her! Yes, woman. I’m a man. I’m free to sate my lust where and when I want, as is my natural right. And I loathe you. You and the fruit of your degenerate womb. Don’t wait with supper. I won’t be back tonight. Mummy… Why are you weeping? Why are you beating me and pushing me away? I was good, wasn’t I? Mummy! Dear Mummy!

to go and have a night in a hotel somewhere. I’d have been happy to have them both, even with Pat’s clinginess and Crystal’s present obstreperousness. But Vicky kept putting me off. In fact, we’d almost had words about it – Vicky grumbled that Crystal didn’t want to sleep in her own bed any more, and couldn’t understand why Mummy and Daddy didn’t let her sleep with them, like Auntie Anna had. ‘Does Peter still never get up with the kids in the night?’ I asked, knowing the answer. Vicky snorted. ‘Um…let me think…No. Well, occasionally at weekends. But you know, being a carpenter’s a pretty stressful job…’ She turned and went into a cubicle. ‘You should ask him to help a bit more. Maybe just on alternate nights. You’ve got to do something, if you feel this wretched.’ The sound of Vicky sighing floated over the top of the cubicle door, followed by the sound of the toilet flushing. ‘I’m sure it’ll get better eventually,’ she said, emerging wearily. ‘In about sixteen years’ time.’ I took out my make-up bag and reapplied my lipstick. I knew it wasn’t very charitable of me, but sometimes I couldn’t shake the thought that, apart from on the subject of Peter, Vicky was making a fuss about nothing: her kids were healthy and gorgeous. What else could she possibly ask for? Even if she looked a bit jaded, she didn’t have any stretch marks or cellulite, and her stomach was flatter than mine. ‘Come on, then,’ said Vicky, shouting over the noise of the hand-dryer. ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friend, once more.’ By

Pat and Isabel O’Sullivan walked along the station platform in a sedate manner, as befitted the head girls of St Clare’s. A giggling group of second formers fell silent as they approached, looking at the twins in awe. ‘They look nice,’ whispered one new girl to her neighbour. ‘Who are they?’ ‘Our head girls – the O’Sullivan twins. And they are nice – very nice.’ The twins heard and shared a secret smile, which held more than a touch of pride. ‘Just think of it, Pat. You and I, head girls of St Clare’s,’ said Isabel. ‘I still expect to wake up and find out it was all a dream.’ ‘More like a dream come true,’ said Pat happily. ‘And Mummy and Daddy were almost as pleased for us as we were for ourselves.

My three-year-old niece was in bed with her mum and dad one morning and said to her dad (who goes to the gym), ‘You’ve got massive boobies, Daddy.’ She then turned to her mum and said, ‘You haven’t, you’ve got boobies like me, Mummy!’ — Abi Richardson

It is my watch, I must go,” Zhou said, a lump of fear and sadness in his throat. His hand cupped his wife's soft cheek. “Stay indoors and bolt the doors. I will be back later.” This was the third day since the cattle had shown up and the siege had begun. The second time he had said goodbye to the people he loved most. He picked up his boy and, being careful of the metal plates on his armour, squeezed him tightly. “Daddy, brave,” said his son. “Yes, Daddy brave.” He looked over the boy’s head at his wife, “Look after Mummy for me while I am out. I’ll see you later. I love you, both of you.

Courtship Anyway, next day I went to Windsor and I arrived about 5 o’clock and he sat me down and said: ‘I’ve missed you so much.’ But there was never anything tactile about him. It was extraordinary, but I didn’t have anything to go by because I had never had a boyfriend. I’d always kept them away, thought they were all trouble--and I couldn’t handle it emotionally, I was very screwed up, I thought. Anyway, so he said ‘Will you marry me?’ and I laughed. I remember thinking, ‘This is a joke,’ and I said: ‘Yeah, OK,’ and laughed. He was deadly serious. He said: ‘You do realize that one day you will be Queen.’ And a voice said to me inside: ‘You won’t be Queen but you’ll have a tough role.’ So I thought ‘OK,’ so I said: ‘Yes.’ I said: ‘I love you so much, I love you so much.’ He said: ‘Whatever love means.’ He said it then. So I thought that was great! I thought he meant that! And so he ran upstairs and rang his mother. In my immaturity, which was enormous, I thought that he was very much in love with me, which he was, but he always had a sort of besotted look about him, looking back at it, but it wasn’t the genuine sort. ‘Who was this girl who was so different?’ but he couldn’t understand it because his immaturity was quite big in that department too. For me it was like a call of duty, really--to go and work with the people. I came back to the flat and sat on my bed. ‘Guess what?’ They said: ‘He asked you. What did you say?’ ‘Yes, please.’ Everybody screamed and howled and we went for a drive around London with our secret. I rang my parents the next morning. Daddy was thrilled. ‘How wonderful.’ Mummy was thrilled. I told my brother and he said ‘Who to?

— ¿Y por qué no vives siempre con nosotros como antes, mamacita? — Porque ahora tu mamacita tiene que trabajar en vez de tu papacito, que se fue al cielo.

Jesus loves you more than your mummy Daddy.

She said that the mummy and the daddy took their daughter up onto the moor. They had a picnic. They’d brought all of her favourite food – cheese sandwiches on white bread with the crusts cut off and strawberry-pink cupcakes – and when the little girl had finished eating, she looked around for her mummy and the daddy. But they’d gone. They’d left Evelyn on the moor by herself.

Appearing in Mummy and Daddy’s room in the middle of the night and claiming to be “scared” is strictly verboten.

After the shattering events of the past ten days, I was happy to fly home and return to my normal, everyday life. Pat met me at the airport, then we picked up a very unhappy Caroline after school. She’d been missing Patrick desperately since he’d left for college. In my short absence, she’d experienced an unexpectedly rough adjustment to her new high school. This had been a bad time for me to be away. She felt abandoned. Caroline burst into tears of relief the minute she stepped into the car. I just held her close for the twenty-minute ride home. We went straight up to her cozy pink bedroom to talk. She sobbed that she’d been miserable while I was away. “Daddy has been wonderful, but a daddy is not a mommy. I really needed you.” I choked back my own tears. “But, Caroline, darling,” I said, “I was only gone for five days. Just think of William and Harry. Their mummy is never coming back.

I try hard not to get in trouble ever - I think of it as one of my jobs, really, because my job at home is to make people laugh and to get along, which they won't do if they are cross with me. I'm afraid of so many things but try hard not to show it, because then I would be a bother, I would be trouble, exactly, in a different way from being naughty, but with the same result. I am trying to always be invisible but better than invisible if that makes sense. You see, my mummy is very busy because she goes to Law School, and my daddy is often away on important business, sometimes for weeks at at a time.

I’ve never found heaven, for example, a particularly interesting place to go. In fact, I take the view that God, in his infinite wisdom, didn’t bother to spring for two joints—heaven and hell. They’re the same place, but heaven is when you get everything you want and you meet Mummy and Daddy and your best friends and you all have a hug and a kiss and play your harps. Hell is the same place—no fire and brimstone—but they just all pass by and don’t see you.

Turning to the canvas bag, she pulled out a foil package. The smoky, buttery smell of naan made the different types of hunger coursing inside him mix together. "Does your mom actually make naan at home?" She opened the packet and held it in front of his nose, and he picked one up and shoved it in his mouth and almost died on the spot from the chewy, yeasty deliciousness. "Mummy's made it since before homemade naan was a trend. My parents have always had an old-fashioned tandoor oven in the house. Because Dr. Kohli needs his naan and kababs." The brightness sparkling in her eyes dimmed.

Corrie's birth resonated in Britain, and Australia gained some of the liveliest publicity since the battle of El Alamein. In the thick of war, this clearly ruffled the London Daily Telegraph who published a local rhymester's verse in their columns: Hush-a-bye Platypus, Pride of the Zoo Baby shall figure in Nature's Who's Who, Mummy will fondle and Daddy will brag While all the zoologists' tongues are a-wag. Shush, little mammal, you're nor all that smart, This is no time to expect a star part, Sleep—and remove that smirk off your bill We are making more history than you ever will. 'Australian jungle fighters', huffed the paper 'will doubtless agree'.

saddlebags. “And please tell Kiri she should put her shoes on. Lucas will have a fit if she serves like that.” “Mummy, why do I have to put on shoes? Kiri isn’t wearing any.” George met Gwyneira and her daughter in the corridor outside his room just as he was about to go down to dinner. He had done his best as far as evening wear went. Though slightly wrinkled, his light brown suit was handsomely tailored and much more becoming than the comfortable leather pants and waxed jacket he had acquired in Australia. Gwyneira and the captivating little red-haired girl who was squabbling so loudly were likewise elegantly attired. Though not in the latest fashion. Gwyneira was wearing a turquoise evening gown of such breathtaking refinement that, even in the best London salons, it would have created a stir—especially with a woman as beautiful as Gwyneira modeling it. The little girl wore a pale green shift that was almost entirely concealed by her abundant red-gold locks. When Fleur’s hair hung down loose, it frizzed a bit, like that of a gold tinsel angel. Her delicate green shoes matched the adorable little dress, but the little one obviously preferred to carry them in her hands than wear them on her feet. “They pinch!” she complained. “Fleur, they don’t pinch,” her mother declared. “We just bought them four weeks ago, and they were on the verge of being too big then. Not even you grow that fast. And even if they do pinch, a lady bears a small degree of pain without complaining.” “Like the Indians? Ruben says that in America they take stakes and hurt themselves for fun to see who’s the bravest. His daddy told him. But Ruben thinks that’s dumb, and so do I.” “That’s her opinion on the subject of being ‘ladylike,’” Gwyneira remarked, looking to George for help. “Come, Fleurette. This is a gentleman. He’s from England, like Ruben’s mummy and me. If you behave properly, maybe he’ll greet you by kissing your hand and call you ‘my lady.’ But only if you wear shoes.” “Mr. McKenzie always calls me ‘my lady’ even if I walk around barefoot.” “He must not come from England, then,” George said, playing along. “And he certainly hasn’t been introduced to the queen.” This honor had been conferred on the Greenwoods the year before, and George’s mother would probably chatter on about it for the rest of her

Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn’t much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His face fell. “Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s two less than last year.” “Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s here under this big one from Mummy and Daddy.” “All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face. Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over. Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, “And we’ll buy you another two presents while we’re out today. How’s that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right?” Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally he said slowly, “So I’ll have thirty . . . thirty . . .” “Thirty-nine, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia. “Oh.” Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. “All right then.

And when our kids grow up and ask about the story of Mummy and Daddy—how we met and how the Mighty Storm came to be—I’ll sit them down and tell them the story of how, once upon a long time ago, in Manchester, a girl moved next door to a boy…

Mr Tanner rolled his eyes and pushed past Dexter. ‘Oh yes, we’ve all heard about you. The so-called “genius” with sixty-four A levels.’D142 His voice was really dreary, like a can of brown paint had somehow learned how to speak. ‘We didn’t agree with you being in that school, I must say,’ joined in Mrs Tanner, whose voice sounded more like a car alarm than a human. ‘It was unfair on the other children. You’re not normal. You should have been in a lab instead, being investigated by scientists.’ Dexter suddenly felt winded. Like he’d been hit in the chest by a football. He was working out how to reply to such a horrible comment when Toby suddenly began to cry like a baby. ‘Mummy! Daddy! Thank goodness you’re here!’ he screamed. ‘This doctor was so cruel to me! He said I deserved to be in deathly, agonizing pain forever and ever and that he hoped that my foot would fall off. Waaah!