Busy

I once encountered a fellow school mum in the local chemist and, as her four-year-old boy Spidermanned the ladder of shelves supporting bottles of Calpol and Covonia and Canesten, she glanced over at him and said: "He's such a very busy boy."

Boys, it seemed to this uninitiated mother of two girls, were always busy. Always looking for something to do but not something like my girls do like colouring or writing or playing with toy ponies, something like putting the cat in the freezer, the baby in the tumble dryer, their nappy in the blender, just because they needed to be busy.

Not good busy, mischievous busy.

Something shouldn't be here.

Boy puppies are mischievously busy. Scamp is constantly mischievously busy.

This morning he stole socks from the washing on the way into the machine. He stole socks from the washing on the way into the dryer. He stole stocks from the washing on the way out of the dryer. He stole the towel from underneath the Big Dog. He stole a mouthful of food from the Big Dog's breakfast. He stole the Big Dog's chewy bone.

He stole a twig from the fireplace meant for kindling. He jumped on to the sofa. He jumped off the sofa. He jumped back on to the sofa to check that this new found jumping on to the sofa ability wasn't just a fluke. He jumped on to the windowsill (see above - rubbish picture but I happened to have my phone in my hand not the camera). He was removed from the windowsill. Repeat five times. He still seems to have a sock, lord knows where he got this one from. He is asleep. All of a sudden. Snore.