Brass Rubbing

My son tried to take a brass rubbing of our cat this morning.  As I entered the kitchen Oliver was in the middle of wiping his wax stained fingers on a grey tea towel with the just discernible legend Morwellham Quay on it.

"Germs, Olif," I said.  The small child looked up at me, wet rag in hand, mouth open catching flies.

"Oliver, it came off the floor, it belongs to Almeida [the dog], there are germs on it."  Almeida had been in the river that morning, so I shuddered at the thought of what filth was attached to it.  Still, I was the one who had left it lying around inviting trouble.

I crouched down towards him as a good father should. "Now wash your hands in the sink."

A crease occupied his bright face for a brief second, then I swooped in with a tear saving, "on the stool?" Whilst he fetched the little stool just the right height for the purpose, I turned on the radio.

"…and John Humphries, the time now is eight o'clock." 

It's a digital radio, so of course the pips are a couple of seconds late.  It’s not significant as the microwave and the oven have disagreed for years, and on the wall there’s a clock that thinks it’s still 2003.  But because it’s Radio 4, I can’t help feeling uncomfortable about their technology imposed tardiness.

Oliver stood at the sink on his short wooden stool, the magic stool, designated so specially for him.  I opened the tap.

"It's hot," he complained.

"You haven't even put your hands under it yet, stay still."

I gingerly pushed the back of my hand into the descending stream to feel the temperature, he was right.  I adjusted the tap to the left a little, and as more cold water came through the pressure increased.

"Yucky," Oliver squealed in the spray.

We settled on a good temperature and a good flow rate.  I squirted some soap in to my palm and took hold of his hands.

"Daddy, your hands are hairy."

"Yeah, I know."

We washed on, his blonde head nodding as we did so.

"Daddy?"

"Yes?" 

"Your hands are scratchy."

"Yup."

"Daddy?”

“Yup?”

“You’re smelly from rowing." With a four year old patience abounds.  It was his charm, but also the massive doses of seratonin still cruising through my brain, which kept me smiling.  One of the delights of my life is that I can be told off by a four year old.

"Have you had your breakfast?" I asked, whilst I hung the hand towel back on it’s rack.

"Nope." He shook his head once; it took just a second longer for his curls to settle down.

"Shreddies?" I held the sugar explosion ready in one hand, the open cupboard door in the other.  The curls waved again. "Fruit?"

Oliver held up a piece of paper to me, "Charlie looks pretty." He said.

This was the trade off, I would get to find out what he wanted for breakfast only if I looked at his picture of our cat.  The grey sugar paper was covered with black smudges and yellow streaks representing the fur and whiskers, towards the bottom were white blobs for his feet. 

I nodded immediately.  I've yet to be caught out faking picture recognition, but I continue fervently to hope his drawing abilities improve soon.  I noted the claw punctures through the paper, it appeared the subject hadn't sat willingly for his portrait.