So I’m typing this on a broken screen, my keyboard missing an arrow key. The iPad which is my friend, my scribe, my book, my travel companion is sporting a big, ugly fracture in the top right hand corner, the result of Smallfry’s Free Dance Contest.
“Mama, it’s competition time! I’ll go first and then you go and I’ll give you marks, but I get to choose the music!”. Never having felt more enthused about anything in all my waking days, I watch as she expertly puts in the pass code; incidentally, how did that happen? When did my five year old get so observant that she managed to crack my pass code? I have a sense, a gut dread, of foreboding for the future.
“The snow glows white on the mountain tonight, not a footprint to be seen…” The dulcet yet nasal tones of Demi Lovato echo around the…
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