Sympathy for the devil

I wasn’t feeling too great tonight and flaked out on the sofa for a galvanising five minute breather.

“Are you feeling poorly, Mummy?” asked Eva, looking concerned.

“I am a bit,” I replied.

“Don’t worry Mummy, I’ll be your mummy.”

“That sounds lovely, thank you!”

“Now, stroke your own hair and talk to yourself.”

Wot, no Calpol?

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