Monica, our new cook, insists on calling us Baba and Baby! Beloved Husband blushed prettily the first time she indulgently cooed, 'And how would Baba like his tea?' but now gets terribly annoyed. Have been ordered to instruct her to address us as something else, heck anything else, even rotters from hell would do very nicely for us indeed, but no luck. Monica forgets and then gets into a flap when I politely remind her that we're past our prime (and gone off possibly too).
Damn. Too old to be called baby, way too old to be called babe as well (sigh). But now have come to the conclusion that perhaps Monica estimates ages from an emotional rather than physical point of view. For eg: shoe drawer fell on foot this morning and cracked a nail on one of my toes. Almost fainted when I saw the blood. Hobbled to the doctor who did what doctor's do: whipped out a syringe for an anti-tetanus shot. Howled, screamed, wept, had to be held down by the hefty receptionist and, most importantly, did NOT feel a twinge of shame when the doctor sarcastically asked, 'How old are you?'
Monica's right. I am a baby!