From the mouths of brats.

"When are you gonna write about stuff?"
    I'd been so immersed in my new novel that it took me a few seconds to realise that the words had not come from my mind, but my daughter, about to leave and presumably wreck her car - again.
    "Define stuff, my petal."
    "You know, words and things."
    I leant back and grasping one of my paperbacks, riffled through the pages.
    "There, words - and stuff."

    That's a pretty good likeness of her, I think. She has more teeth now, but I do wish she hadn't filed them all to a point.
    "You know, words and stuff that normal people can read." I began to feel unaccustomed irritation.
    "That's pretty good coming from someone whose reading life transitioned from My Little Pony to Fifty shades of whatever it was. Ponies to sado-masochism."
    "Well I read all of Harry..."
    "Don't talk to me about Harry B****y Potter. If you do I'm going to..." I forget what it was I was going to do because with a sneer she turned and darted for the stairs.

     "And you've never read any of my work so how do you know what's in it?" I rebutted. 
   "Wouldn't want to," her distant sneer came back, "who wants to read about space aliens and people wot live forever in agony. What I want is normal stuff. You write it and I'll read it."

     She headed off to the stables leading her hobbling mother behind her. The other day her favourite pony, Limping Louis ground its paw, or hoof into my wife's foot for no apparent reason except perhaps for fun. Maybe the old nag has read fifty shades as well, he's always been a nasty little sod.

    And if my wife mentions the new series of Walking Dead boring once more I might just stamp on her foot as well.