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Tom Dodds on transport matters »For as long as I can remember I have been the recipient of more hand-clapping than you could shake a rattle at.
When I was teeny tiny, I only had to stick out my tongue on demand to get a rousing roud of applause.
Then there were the burps. Every bubble of wind which has left my mouth since day dot has had its own rapturous welcome.
Later, when I finally conceded the bottle battle (although mine was the moral victory you understand), the standing ovation I received left me in fear for the roof.
And don't get me started with the endless clapping along to the music. Surely EVERY song doesn't require our own (literally) handmade percussion accompaniment?
Anyway, last Sunday it had been 10 months to the day since my entrance. The sun was shining, we were all together in the garden, so I figured I'd cut them all a break and finally join in with this bizarre rhythmic ritual.
So join in I did... banging my little palms together like there was no tomorrow. And what do you think... they all clapped my clapping. What joy!
Every day since has seen me clapping every one of my own achievements... crawling to the sofa; pulling my chubby legs up to the standing position; putting giraffe in the right compartment on the jungle train; and stretching up high as I can on request - to name but four.
So here's my question. When do get to see the Wagon Way Daddy apparently comes down every day... and will I EVER get to see any of the pocketful of money or cartful of hay he's bringing home with him?
Answers on an e-card please (well, you've got to think of the planet haven't you?)
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