The one your mother warned you about

 Our washing line has been stringing out a sinecure role and is just hanging on, pegged for redundancy.
Today is payback day for last week when Erin came round to ours for play. We both went straight round to hers and got started on "Indecision: the Marathon". We followed ErinsMum around from room to room demanding things to do, accepting none of them (even the game of Cafes lasted less than 3 minutes) and making sure she couldn't get any rest. There is a new meme at school which is "DJ": it means cool and the rather complicated gesture (now known to be based on a Snoop Dog pose) is as follows.
1. Gurn like a methamphetamine user who has experienced a sudden loss of oxygen supply to the brain
2. Cross your arms in front of you and extend the index and middle fingers (ie the wrong ones)
3. Say "DJ" in a growly and threatening way.

ErinsMum is not DJ. But Bud is, apparently, and he rescued us from our afternoon of attention deficit sequencing by turning up to collect me. Erin made him a coffee and we paraded through the conservatory room hooting and speaking in tongues. Then bit by bit we did dancing, flashing, prancing, baring, sliding and streaking. Before long we were jumping up and down in a comparative anatomy masterclass. Nudie room? Nudie house, more like. ErinsMum was helpless with mirth. This is the one usable picture, although it tells a thousand words. Then we were chased out of the room because they were trying to discuss optimum departmental size in a university establishment.
Upstairs we went and did some anatomical investigation of our own. I found that she is not built like me and she found she could make me jump by pinging the end. We (the Southsea Willy Waver and the Fratton Fufu Flaunter) returned with our new-found knowledge and started again with the hooting and streaking, eventually the only way to keep us clothed was to leave the building. He says it doesn't matter quite so much while we're only 6 but I wonder how long we can keep it up. Er.