Life Imitates Art

There’s an amusing little rhyme that my father taught me when I was but a lad and I have already loyally passed it onto my own 6-year old son.
It goes something like this:


Little Johnny bought a gun,
Shot his Daddy just for fun,
Now, said Mummy,
That’s not funny,
Bullets cost a lot of money.


The wisdom of these words was demonstrated a few days ago while myself and Nic were playing in his room. For some reason, he started shoving me in the back with his feet and instead of giving him the satisfaction of knowing he was bugging me*, I pretended he was giving me a nice massage. He told me not to be silly, massages are done with hands. I corrected him and told him that in some countries, the masseur actually walks on the back of his client.

This was all the provocation he needed and within no time, I was face down on his bed and he was stomping on my back in his besocked feet and laughing like a rabid chimp* on a trampoline while I lay there (only half) pretending to be in agony.

With all the racket, my wife came in and told Nic to stop at once, he might damage the bed.

Now let me remind you that directly under my son’s leaping feet were thirty three of my vertebrae, my sternum and a ribcage containing sundry vital organs, yet my wife’s first reaction was to worry about the wellbeing of the bed underneath.

So it’s true – Mummies do know how expensive bullets are.

(*My son is an interesting hybrid – half cherub, half thug)