This afternoon, Margaret and I were playing that fun game where I try to pick up her toys and she tries to play with all of her toys at once, but with special focus on the ones that I have just put away. We were at an impasse. It felt a little like the Somme Offensive, but with less mud and fewer casualties. Also less trenchfoot, as those of you planning on visiting me will be pleased to hear.
At any rate, we were not progressing very fast at all, and I was beginning to think that I was going to have to declare an Armistice and wait for Spring to come and cover over the destroyed carcasses of Margaret’s toys,* when Margaret’s Uncle Ron appeared on the scene, like the Americans.**
He took her outside, and the cleaning progressed. Not horribly quickly, since picking up Margaret’s toys involves bending at the waist, and my bending at the waist capabilities are a little compromised at this particular moment. And before anyone wonders where Leo was, I can assure you that he was occupying the Dardanelles of the kitchen.
Anyway, it appears that all of that anti-cleaning had tired her out.
*Yes, this metaphor is not going to really have a lot of staying power, and I probably need to drop it pretty soon before something disgusting happens.
**Who, as my mother’s Uncle Ron was fond of pointing out, had a habit of showing up late to world wars.
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