Iona has come a long way in the art of conversation and I'm constantly surprised by the scope of her vocabulary. I still often find myself scared by some of our conversations. On remarking on a painting in my Trafalgar Memorial Bathroom: Iona: Who is that guy in the painting. Me: That is Admiral Horatio Nelson. Iona: Can we meet him? Me: Sorry dear, he's been dead for over two hundred years. Iona: How'd he die? Me: He died in a big battle. Iona: Where is he now? Me: He's buried a St. Paul's Cathedral. We can visit it sometime. Iona: Can we dig him up? Me: What?! Iona: I want to dig him up. Me: I don't think they'd take to well to you digging up one of Britain's national heroes. Iona: I wanna dig him up. Me: And moving right along... Having placed a large ball under her shirt: Iona: This is my real baby. Me: I see. Iona: He's gonna come out of my crotch. Me: Who told you about that??! Iona: Evily. Me: Evily...
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