Bank account badly needs pizza the action after doubting Thomas backfires

My two-year-old daughter loudly announced the other day: “Pizza makes me happy!” She repeated the assertion several times, seemingly desperate to make it clear to her parents that the way to keep her cheerful was through oven-baked, cheesy, yeasted flatbread.

This is all well and good at the moment, but establishing a pizza addiction early doors could have terrible consequences. She could be waddling around like the late Luciano Pavarotti by the time she reaches her teens. Pizza-generated happiness is far from ideal. If an apple a day keeps the doctor away, a pizza a day keeps the doctor in pay.

I have been trying to encourage her to find other things that start with P that can deliver delight. I think she likes saying the word pizza – it is, I have to concede, a terrific word – so the whole pizza package is overwhelmingly alluring for her. She wants to become Pizzaface Palmer and it is giving me sleepless nights.