Farewell to Shady 'Bloody' Glade

We had dinner up at Dad's last Saturday and Knickers and I were bemoaning the Noodle's recent obsession with a Thomas the Tank Engine book his Godfather Mike, a regular reader, presented him with.
'Hmm, sounds like Shady Bloody Glade,' said Dad.
'Farewell to Shady Glade? I loved that book.'
'Well your mother didn't; "Shady Glade, read Shady Glade again Mum." Was all she heard from the four of you.' Dad used a very unkind voice for his imitation.

Shady Glade is indeed one of my all time, top-five, picture books. Man those bulldozers were scary. Considering my own recent experience it shouldn't suprise me that Mum became heartily sick of it and took to calling it, according to Dad, Shady Bloody Glade. Which would be, to put it in context, like you or I calling it Shady C*nting Glade. Apparently she disappeared it in the end. Still, I have such great memories of her reading to us all every night. She never let on that every nerve fibre was itching to get us off to sleep so she could stagger back to the kitchen and smoke half a pack of darts.

I guess it is the parents' burden to feign delight when the offspring bring home a painted rock they've stuck some string on, or - another recent thing for the Noodle - run at you index finger first shrieking 'I got the boogers. I got the boogers.'