Broken record

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Laura is like a broken record. An annoying one.

– Mummy, where’s my dummy gone?

– Don’t know.

– Mummy, where’s my dummy gone?

– I.don’t.know.

– Mummy, where’s my dummy gone?

– Look for it.

– Mummy, where’s my dummy gone?

and it goes like that on and on and on. Until I decided to do the same:

– Laura, where’s your dummy gone?

She takes her finger to her chin, like she is thinking hard: – hmmmmm, it’s there somewhere.

– Laura, where’s your dummy gone?

– There somewhere.

And we can spend hours “playing” broken records, but I always give up before her.

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