My son whispers truths to himself. Like any inquisitive four year old, he drills down to them with relentless questioning. When he receives a satisfactory answer, he whispers it back to himself, enunciating each syllable with breathy, awestruck precision.
Like jelly bears, he rolls ideas around in his mouth before he swallows and makes them part of himself. I've not heard another child do it. Certainly not as often as he does anyway.
Perhaps it's a genetic trait, as I do the same, just not aloud. Like Meg, who's recently discovered the delights of reading inside her head, I repeat these ear worms internally. Mostly because they're pretty.
"That's the price you pay" and "What else is the seat of your pants for?" are currently worming themselves around the mulch of my cranium. They got in via someone I consider to be a genius and with whom I rely on for sage advice. That, and the West Highlands accent means he could tell me to fuck off and I'd repeat it in my head for hours afterward, enjoying the angles.
See, I'm a keeper of wee small wisdoms. A plagiariser, a hoarder and repeater of the soundbite. I keep these shiny things in jars to use in appropriate situations.
"As flat as a witches tit" is another one.
Sometimes this is confused with wisdom. Which may be why I've been elevated to a relatively lofty position at work, close to the limit of my incompetence. The ability to "say the right thing" and "have a way with words" can take you some distance in this world, despite just being a little kid with sweeties stuck in your mouth.
There's an advert on the telly that Dom always repeats the closing lines of;
"Spend a little, live a lot."
Wise words indeed...