"I want to borrow their zuum zuum thingy!" He shouts when he gets excited, and I have to suppress a smile. He dashes past in his plaid jammies and comes back two seconds later, victorious. His grin has an almost manic edge. He's wielding the painters' cordless drill. Before I can say a thing he's up on the kitchen chair, making a beeline for the ratty slatted blind that hangs over the window. "What's this for?" he asks, pulling at an untidy but important looking cable hanging loose from the sill, his eyes lighting on the kitchen scissors (which he presumably plans to use to "fix" the wire) as he waves the drill around, for emphasis.
I close my eyes and for the briefest of seconds savour the visions of fried Swede. Then I open them again and ask him not to cut it. "There is just no logic" he mutters disappointedly.
How right you are, thinks his Pebble.
I close my eyes and for the briefest of seconds savour the visions of fried Swede. Then I open them again and ask him not to cut it. "There is just no logic" he mutters disappointedly.
How right you are, thinks his Pebble.
