There are a number of things that can divide a normally happy British household. Football, who puts the rubbish out, whether the toilet seat should be left up or down.
However, nothing quite divides a British family like Marmite.
If you are not British then you won't get Marmite. H, our nanny, doesn't quite understand why I love this toxic smelling black gloop. However, Marmite is as much a part of my childhood as school, horses and dressing up dolls. I love the stuff. About half the population do. The other half loathe it.
The Boy is one of the latter group.
Since Eve has been born, and looks so obviously like the Boy, he has been secure, nay smug, about his certainty that she would hate Marmite. Like many men, he's not great on empathy so thinks I am sad, mad or dangerous to know because I like Marmite. He just can't understand why anyone could like it.
So, it is with great happiness, joy, and commensurate return-smugness, that I discovered today that in this small, but important way, Eve is like me. She loves Marmite and happily shoves small squares of toast, covered in the stuff, into her mouth.
H, the nanny, rather likes it too.
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