The Rustling

Last night I dined at Inge de Bruin's. Her boyfriend was there and her two children, for whom the word 'rambunctious' was invented. They are quite bossy, and somewhat irresistible, much like their mother.

After dinner the kiddies pestered me to go on a tour of their bedrooms. Why do kids do this to me? Do they sense I am not child-friendly? In every child is there some latent Children of the Corn sensibility that seeks to torture adults? I did the tour. What else could I do?

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"And look at this, hazelblackberry!"

"Oooh, yes, that's an interesting...er...thing. A watchamacallit. That's what it is, isn't it?"

"Do you even know what it is?"

"Of course I do, young whippersnapper!"

"What is it then?"

"Well I can't think of the exact name."

"He's MEGATRON!!! He's a DECEPTICON!!!!"

"That's right. It all comes back to me now. I knew it started with a G, or something."

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"This is my comb and my brush and my purse and fan and my piano and my lamp."

"Wow. Wow. Gee. Wow. Terrific. Gosh."

"Do you want me to play you something on my piano?"

"I think what I want is largely irrelevant, don't you?"

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I eventually broke free of their devilish clutches as their banshee-like voices wailed after me, "Are you going to watch a movie with uuuuuuussssss???" I staggered back outside where Inge de Bruin and her boyfriend, newly reconciled after a recent split, were holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes. It was a sickening sight, which nearly caused me to waste the delicious dinner I'd recently scoffed.

"Thanks very much for rescuing me."

"Oh you sounded like you were doing just fine."

Huh. I was so glad I'd stuck up for the boyfriend earlier when Inge was bossing him around, telling him how to do the barbecue. I mean, what would she know?