Over the weeks I've come to hate Froggie, although I never knew where he came from or when he arrived.
Now suddenly I'm on the computer and he's busting into my consciousness, he's breaking down the door of my private party and he hasn't even brought a bottle.
"Bash, slam, bash, bash," goes Froggie and Jackson smashes his leering face against the bars of his cot. I wince as I anticpate the wood cracking.
And then Froggie's emitting loud repetitive croaks. I swear he's like R2-D2 on acid.
I'm afraid to say Froggie with his lunatic grin is here to stay, for the short term at least, although I don't expect him to be a semi permanent fixture like TV repeats of Sponge Bob Square Pants. Kids are notoriously fickle unless something happens to be a gigantic idiot yellow sponge.
Still for now Froggie haunts my dreams and makes them nightmares. Every morning as I'm making Jackson's daycare bottles I wait nervously for the crash as Froggie is hurled aross the wooden floors, followed by the sort of giggle from Jackson that wouldn't be out of place in a Chukie film.
Last night I was trying to work on the computer when I was repeatedly disturbed by deep croaks from the bowels of Jackson's cot. I explored further and found Jackson fast asleep, Froggie buried somewhere near his hind quarters.
I swear there are keyhole surgeons who have used less precision as I prized out Froggie, briefly thought of burying him in a sarcophagos like the one round the reactor at Chernobyl and then thought better of it.