My son is growing, on average, an inch every other week. This means he needs a new school uniform for the third time in two months.
Twelve years old, exactly my height, predicted to shoot up to six foot eight or so (Iām not exaggerating), and fighting a mighty battle not to acquire a British accent, he has nonetheless taken to saying hilarious things like Run along and fetch me some buttered toast, dear.
-and-
I am finished with this sceptred isle!