When I had a feral toddler of my own (and bloody hell, I miss those days), the usual method of dealing with those was to squish them into my hands with a dressing of dribble whilst she pelted off to ascend the tallest, scariest looking slide populated by the tallest, scariest looking lads sitting on the top of it with their cans of cheap lager. They always helped her, even when she informed them she was three years old and perfectly big enough to do it without their help. (Yes, she did really talk like that - I blame my reading her everything AA Milne did, as I'd grabbed a box set for Ā£2 from the charity shop which, along with a decrepit copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass that used to be my sister's and my High School prize for literature (a book of animal verse) and Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats, seemed to turn me into a reincarnation of my (terribly posh) Grandmother the moment I opened my mouth.I get a horrible feeling she is absolutely loving this tit. Makes her feel important.
Today has been a good day for her - inserting herself into Twitter spats (whilst pretending to be the voice of reason ) and the prospect of St Jack of the Unholy Slop single handedly advising people what to do with a half sucked Opal Fruit and and packet of Wotsits.