Boy #1 has decided on his future career plan; we are all going to live on a farm.
Husband is going to be a farmer.
I am going to be the farmer's wife and 'do all the work' (same old, same old, then).
Boy #2 is going to be the farm cat (this is a thinly veiled insult, by the way. And Boy #2 knows it. In retaliation he refused to share his Brio Mallard locomotive and all hell broke out on the Island of Sodor just before dinner this evening).
He is going to be the farm dog.
This is all well and good in the parallel universe Boy #1 often inhabits, but I do have just a couple of questions...
First off; why do I get to do all the work? Is Husband just going to sit around reading Farmers' Weekly, doing the crossword, and putting his big feet on the (imaginery) Aga to battle the (imaginery) draughts whistling across our (imaginery) stone flooring in our (imaginery) charmingly beaten up old farmhouse? What about emancipation for women, women's rights, and time off for good behaviour? Why am I getting so het up about this when there is as much chance of my ever living on a farm as there is of Boy #1 actually metamorphosing into a dog, for chrissake?
Secondly, if, as he stated loudly this afternoon in the park when confronted by a medium-sized and not very threatening greyhound, he is 'allergic to dog fur' (that's news to me, by the way), won't that throw just a tiny spanner in the works?
Obviously I would never say that to him. He's 5; last week he wanted to be a PowerRanger (which frankly is a much more dangerous ambition, and I'm just grateful that, if that plan has gone by the wayside, I won't have to put up with his rushing off to San Angeles to destroy baddies and keep using my best tea towels to polish up the Megazord). And why destroy his dreams, since as far as I'm aware boys don't normally actually grow up into dogs. They behave like them, yes (and oh, how excited am I about being the lone female in this family once puberty hits?) but that's as far as it usually goes....
Ah well, I suppose I should just enjoy his active imagination. Can't think where he gets that from.
Anyway. Best go. I've a feed order to place, the horses need mucking out, it's nearly time for The Archers, and the sheep are lambing. Which reminds me; I've got make sure the warming oven on the Aga is the right temperature for the orphaned lamb I'm about to help a prolapsed ewe deliver in the bitterly cold barn out the back. I think I shall call her Buttercup.
Saturday night blogging. Don't you just love it?