Werewolf

I've been telling my son some werewolf tales as bedtime stories.

They were sparked by the glorious sight of the supermoon in the night sky, and the less than glorious experience of watching Alvin & The Chipmunks Meet The Wolfman (Damn you, Netflix, damn you!).

He was Wolfboy, I was Wolfmum, his dad was Wolfdad, and his sister was Wolfgirl. His 'really-need-to-know' questions were: if we preferred eating peoples legs, arms, or butts; if a silver bullet would kill us; and if we were shot, would we turn back into a “hooman bean” and be “nudey-rudey”?

Then he sliced in a couple of razor-sharp questions that slashed me right across the guts.

“Mum? Will my sister have Prader-Willi when she’s Wolfgirl? Will she have special needs?”

The questions took me by surprise. They sounded so adult, so perceptive, coming from the mouth of my little boy. What had made him stop and think about his sister’s condition? How much does he really understand about PWS, apart from her sweets and treats being a bit different to his, and her muscles not being as strong? And since when did he come over all empathetic?

I gave him a hug, and told him the only possible answer. 

“Yes, yes she would have special needs, and do you know what she'd be? EXTRA hungry. In fact, she’d be hungry like the wolf.”

Of course, now I’ve revealed this, I’m compelled to post that particular Duran Duran track. Which reminds me, if Simon Le Bon really does “smell like he sounds”, then he must be pretty darn rank.

Oh God, I’m so sorry. Do do doo, do do doo, do do doo, do do doo,  do-do doo.

Video is, well, you know what it is, and I can only apologise.