We Are Not Amused
Harry finds a fist-sized model of a house, molded from brightly-coloured plasticene. By the time he's done with it, it's a fist-shaped lump of dubious grey-brown hue. He and Liam spend a happy half-hour slicing this murky thing into small dollops, pressing the dollops together into larger rolls (roughly cylindrical, really) and then dropping these clumps into a brilliant yellow bucket, before tiring of the experience and trotting off to other pursuits, leaving the bucket and its contents behind. You know what it looks like, don't you? Later that afternoon, a parent sees a stray nugget on the front hall floor, and calls my attention to it discreetly: "I think your cat may have..." What? This Cat?? As if the culprit of such a vulgarity is likely to be Mr. Elegance, rather than any of the vast numbers all these loud and far less fastidious creatures that infest his home five days a week. The things that poor cat puts up with already, to be so roundly insulted. Humph. It's just as well he is, like all cats, more beauty than brains, or I'm sure he'd be mortally offended.