We spend our Bank Holiday Monday doing things in London with an old friend, Charlie and I. We took a train into town, we rode a Routemaster to the Tower and then trailed in his wake up and down every spiral staircase in existence.
At the end we had an icecream, waited for the next Routemaster home and filed dutifully on, only to get stuck at some long lights. This was the point at which my angelic four-year-old, kneeling backwards on his seat to face the nice American grandparents behind us, said very clearly 'Mummy, look at all the fucking traffic'.
I could tell from their response that they were more amused than shocked so between the three of us we had a conversation with him about why one shouldn't use 'that' word... which prompted him to say 'Fucking' about four more times in his little English voice which rang clear as a bell through the confines of the carriage.
Having secured his audience along with my position as Mother of the Year, he then went on to tell them all about his girlfriend and, in answer to the question, informing everyone that when he grows up he's going to be 'a Daddy', thus charming himself out of a tight spot.
He's sleeping now, mouth blissfully closed. Best thing, really