"Daddy, can you make me pancakes? Please?" Huh? Never had this before. At this time of the evening (8-30, dinner was ages ago) she often wants cereal or porridge, which are easy. Pancakes are trickier, because the effing whisk devotes its contemptible existence to hiding from me. Sometimes behind the dogfood, sometimes not.
"Tell you what, I'll make you pancakes after you've finished your homework, walked your dog and practiced your clarinet."
"I've done all that, so will you make pancakes?"
["Since your negotiating position is now so lousy, why should I?"] "Oh, OK then."
God, I'm such a wimp.
