Looxury

Yup. There's been a change.

And hence clearly we'll have to watch our Ps n' Qs.

See now you tell him to turn on the telly after he turns it off.
And he does.
You tell him it's time for a bath.
And he waddles off to the tub.
You say "gimme a kiss".
And he either slaps you for your brazenness (fair enough) or pashes you like Merv Hughes.

Its a truly amazing thing this communication caper.
Even if its largely one way.
Truly gobsmackingly amazing.

The other discovery of the week is that the lad is certifiable snow bunny.

Fathers day, and the family busted outta town and headed to Warburton, where they had a nice little lunch prior to heading up Mt Donna Buang No Snow. (At least that's what dad calls it, cos whenever he looks at the snow report that's all he ever sees printed.) Only this time it was Mt Donna Buang Small Patch At The End Of The Officially Closed Tobaggan Run.

And hence they jumped the gate and chucked Mike down the slope on his very own tobaggan. (A fathers day pressie - for himself.)

Which he loved.

So he went higher.

Which he loved.

So a bit higher.

Till he was at the top and hurtling down at warp speed and styling it like a pro.
And all on his own private slope in the forest.

Well, till another family turned up so he graciously offered them a go. Even clapped their runs. Till he decided he'd had enough of this spectator caper and wanted another go.

So he lay down.
And pushed.
And started heading down the slope on his belly, sans sled, flapping away with his arms to gain speed like some demented snow-turtle.
(We were just waiting for him to poop an egg in a hole.)

Oh well, at least it was better than his earlier attempt at amusing himself.

See Mike wasn't the only 30 inch tall bloke on the slope.
There was also Mr Snowman, complete with neck scarf, sticks for arms, leaves for a mouth, stones for eyes and a carrot for a nose.

Or at least had a carrot for a nose.

Right up until Mike decided he needed a snack.
"Geez Mike..." moaned dad "don't we feed you enough?"

With all this tobogganing, body surfing and snowman devouring, a bloke not only gets hungry, but also a little weary. But you don't let that stop you if you're hardcore like Mike.
You go till you drop.
Literally.
(Thirty seconds at most after Mistress P finally picked him up to head for home he was out like a light.)

Which became a bit of a habit when he tootled to the snow again a few days later, this time to Lake Mountain with mum and friends for a spot of mid week cross country skiing.

Which he largely spent asleep in his backpack, thereby completely missing the Woolybutt (some say named after his father, and hence genetics may suggest, later on himself) Trail.

That is, up until he decided he wanted to be part of the action and called a mutiny, stole mum's skis and attempted to ride them home. Tru dinks.

The ski over it was time for a spot of lunch before heading to the toboggan slope.
Only Mike seemed to have other ideas. (Hell, who needs a sandwich when you can just snack on a snowman any old time?)

"Can you guys look after M while I visit the toot? asked Mistress P.
"No worries" said the other two blokes on the trip, "leave him to us."

Which she did.
Only to return to find one less boy than she expected.

"Errr.... anyone seen Mike?"

A quick search found him behind the ski shelter.
Toboganning.
Without a tobogan.
And without much snow.

More a belly slide come turtle paddle through melting snow, then icy mud and eventually, and quite literally, frozen gravel.

We can almost hear him lecturing his own kiddies already...

"Skis. Skis!?!
Looxury.
When eye was wee lad for snow holiday they made me slide down on belly cross slope of cold gravel."

Now that, my friends, is hardcore.





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