My sons have woken me up in many different ways. Two nights ago was the strangest though.
Clutching a small aeroplane in one hand and a copy of the seminal work “Planes” in the other, my 3 year old came into the bedroom. The first I knew about it was when I heard this being screamed in my ear:
“Planes can’t sleep in a bed. You can’t sleep in a bed.”
Dusty forgets about The Wings Around The Globe Rally and, instead, longs for a kingsize memory foam mattress with goose down duvet.
I stared at my child, stammered “I’m not a plane” (feeling very chuffed at having managed to internalise the expletives) and watched him nod in agreement before trudging back to bed.
It was 5.30am.
I admire his thought process and his deeply felt sense of injustice on behalf of all planes everywhere, but why, oh why does it always have to happen before 6 o’clock in the morning????