Eggs on bed
There was a storm late on the Saturday night, one of those endless storms that floats low over the town and broods for hours. The thunder woke everyone up, including Barney.
Most of us managed to get back to sleep again, but he couldn’t. He was wide awake and hungry and just wanted to get on with the day, even though it was still the early hours.
He came into our room several times:
“Can I have some breakfast now?”
We sleepily muttered that it was far too early, and that he should go back to bed.
After a few attempts at persuading us an early breakfast was a good idea, Barney must have decided that if the parents were too sleepy or too grumpy to provide it, he might as well go and get breakfast by himself.
So he quietly padded downstairs. Mummy and Daddy snoozed on, oblivious.
Barney knows his way around the kitchen very well now, so he did the sensible thing and aimed for the fridge. This meant dragging a stool across the room to stand on, and balancing precariously on it while opening the fridge door.
Having opened it and got himself positioned, he gazed inside. Hmmm … what to eat?
Ah! Eggs!
Impressively for a four-year-old, he somehow managed to extract the egg box, open it, remove two eggs without breaking them, put them down somewhere, close the box, put it back in the fridge, and shut the door.
Now armed with his eggs, he faced a problem. He doesn’t know how to make eggs into breakfast. Thankfully, he didn’t try operating the cooker, but instead wandered back up to his bedroom.
What to do with two eggs?
Put them in the bed of course!
Now what?
Hmmm.
Fancy a bit of jumping.
Boing. Boing boing boing.
A little while later, Kate woke up enough to wander into B’s room and ask him if he wanted to go downstairs for breakfast with her.
“Yes please,” he said.
Kate spied something suspicious.
“What’s that wet patch on your bed?”
Barney looked at her as though she was an idiot.
“The eggs,” he explained.
And there they were, mashed into a shelly, eggy, soggy mess all over the duvet and the sheets.
