15 May 2008
The Boss makes her first very public appearance

SIMON DUNFORD

If you happened past the Dunford allotment last Saturday, you are probably still wondering what that strange vegetable was.

You might think it was a prize turnip. Or some kind of giant peach. But you would be wrong. For I am now at liberty to confirm that the mystery object, luminous in the noon-day sun, was not a vegetable at all. It was the naked posterior of the Boss.

At 2.3-years-old, the permanent cyclone that is my only offspring has decided that the time has come to potty-train herself. And the Boss being the Boss, our allotment - or "land of the rising nettle" as it is known locally - has been selected as the only possible location for this difficult and dangerous mission.

Potty-training is a high-risk venture at the best of times - a macabre mix of slapstick and catastrophe - but factor in nettles as tall as a Greshams sixth-former, first world war mud, bees, fleas and rusty secateurs, and the whole thing becomes a health and safety nightmare.

Still. Try telling her that.

So there we are on the hottest day of the year, engaged in brutal hand-to-hand combat with the deadly Greshams nettle, when suddenly the tiny Dunford rear appears (hers not mine) - suspended over the potato patch in all its plump fruitiness. And then, just as suddenly, it is gone.

This happens over and over as the sun pursues its smoldering arc. The effect is not unlike a Belisha beacon. I'll spare you the lurid details but let's just say we're expecting a bumper crop of earlies after all that "watering".

It was a big weekend for the Boss all round. Not only did she glimpse life after Huggies Pull-Ups (or "Princess Pants" as they are known in our house), but she also had her first pubic engagement.

Each year, our north Norfolk village hosts a moving re-union of air force veterans, British and American, who flew from the local airfields. The whole population turns out for tea and tears in equal measure, culminating in a stirring ceremony at the war memorial by the playground.

This year, the Boss was asked to lay some flowers, and my wife to do a reading. They understood the privilege and said "yes" straightaway.

I was nervous though. At last year's event, despite much coaching over breakfast, the Boss shattered the two-minute silence half-way through by shouting the word "trumpet" repeatedly.

What would she do this year? Refuse to hand over the flowers? Eat them? Lay them on the ground and "water" them?

The potential for disaster didn't bear thinking about. But I thought about it anyway.

The reading came first. Veterans and villagers came together in a crescent - a fair few people - and respectful silence fell. A kerfuffle of orange-tip butterflies made a mini ticker tape parade and, as always seems to happen on such occasions, a faraway plane buzzed evocatively by.

As Her Outdoors embarked on a favourite passage from a favourite book, the Boss, who had until then been uncharacteristically serene, suddenly burst into life like a radio alarm clock going off.

Spotting her first big audience and sensing there were laughs to be had, she began pounding mummy's legs with Penguin, her raggedy accomplice.

"Sshh, mummy's telling everyone a story," I whispered, feeble-fatherly.

But by now the Boss was facing the crowd and stuffing Penguin up the front of her summer blouse. "Look! Penguin's hiding,'' she told the gathering with glee, before whipping him out like a rabbit from a hat. "Oh! There he is," she said beaming, holding Penguin aloft.

She did this over and over as the sun pursued its smoldering arc.

Nobody seemed to mind though. I'm sure these things are always much worse for the parents. And I needn't have worried about the flowers. When it came to her big moment, the Boss showed no interest in them whatsoever and the job was handed over to the plumber's daughter.

I think we can still call it the Boss's first public appearance though. It was certainly a bravura performance. With Penguin as best supporting actor.

Despite the monkey-business, I think this 2.3-year-old could feel the poignancy of the day somehow. The air had a lightness. Eyes were alive with respect, dignity and deep-down thankfulness. We villagers in our Sunday best. Proud veterans in blazers, medals and military ties.

At each year's gathering we see more walking sticks. Each year fewer come. And some day none will come.

But I think we'll still meet at the war memorial by the playground to think of the veterans. And of their 306 friends who flew from here in their Blenheims and Liberators, never to return.

How else, in the blur of life, will we remember to remember what they did for us?