Mygll

What in the wide wide world of sports is a "gogggle"???

(Well, apart from something Biggles would wear?)

At least thats what we've been wondering for the past few months as the wee lad keeps announcing "gogggle" this and "gogggle" that, everywhere a gogggle gogggle.

Till Mistress P hit on it this week.

Its him.
Master M.
The Lord of the manor.
Yes; Michael.

See this is the problem with Strine. "Mm-eye-ck-alll" it may well be in theory, but machine-gunned out of an Aussie mouth it does indeed come out a bit more like:
"My-gll"
...which sure enough has "g's" and "l's" and all sorts of sounds that in a young and phonetically-adventurous mind can easily convert into "gogggle".

So Gogggle it is.

Even if dad would prefer Google. Shares.

(Is self realisation the final step in becoming a fully fledge person??)

Of course after the weekend just gone his name could indeed be Casanova.

As is usual for the young man he's been charming the laydees, only this time one more his own age.

A family trip to Sandy Point for the (in)famous and traditional Melbourne Cup windsurfing long weekend had us staying in the house in which A&P were married, and in which there was a little girl some 2.5 years old, but who didn't have much hair.

"Bubbie!" announced Master M.
"No Mygll, she's not a baby, shes older than you..."
"Bubbie!"proclaimed Mike.

Oh well... Bubbie it was. And they got on like a house on fire, chasing each other about, showing each other the horseys in the paddock behind, and then eventually... their first hug.

It was cuter than a cupful of kittens.

Only surmounted by their evening escapades.

Some whacker put on music and said to the two young 'uns "What about a dance?", clearly hoping for a bit of a floorshow.

On cue, Bubbie and Mygll joined hands and boogied the night away, not unlike John Travolta/Olivia Newton-John at the end of Grease.
Minus the heels.
And weird girl-afro/vaseline bodgie-do.

While this is all pretty funny stuff and truly warranted a video-camera, in reality it's pretty damn amazing, as we haven't actually seen real one-on-one play from the lad as yet.

Yeah, theres been the odd combined book reading, or tussle over a Thomas the tank engine, and even a few chases around the couch followed by a fair whack in the head one way or the other, but this was real live interaction between humans that didn't end in tears.

Its almost more than you get from dad.

But self naming and gen-ew-ine social interaction are not the only firsts of the past cupla weeks.

We've also had the first "sentence".

After scratching his foot on the ground the lad sat down, bent his leg round like some Indian swami to look at his feet, and announced:

"Toe sore."

Yup.. thats it.
Its not exactly Shakespeare, but as a first sentence it had a noun and an adjective and sure enough beat the hell out of him just bawling like a baby over a stubbed toe.

Which by all rights he should have done (but didn't, or at least only briefly at worst) when he got the other sort of tow pain.

Towball pain.

Right on the head.

Now for anyone whose ever barked a shin on a towball, you'll know how much that can hurt. (Second only to a papercut and surely now in common or garden variety usage at Guantanamo.) Imagine doing it to your head.
Doesn't bare thinking about really...

Much like his other first.

His first poo in the bath.

Was just like the pool scene out of Caddyshack.
(Sorry, we didnt quite have time to get the camera for thatta one.)




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