The flood

 I have moved on from one son to another.  Yesterday my 6 year old grandson managed to knock over a bucket of water.  My son rushed into the room exclaiming that he had never seen so much water.  How I wish children could remember the dastardly things they did when they were young.  It was 1973 in New York.  I woke up early as usual and made my way to the bathroom.  The sink was blocked with flannels, the taps were full on and water was cascading on to the floor.  I turned the taps off and rushed downstairs like Cruella de Ville, seeking out my errant children, then aged 3 and 4.  At the bottom of the stairs I could turn right into the kitchen or left into the living room.  I turned right.  Big mistake,  As my bare feet landed in several inches of water I got an electric shock.  There was water running down the walls and the cupboards, through the electric sockets.  I leapt back and ran round the other way, through the living room and into the dining room.  There they were, my little angels, sitting at the dining room table, playing with the scrabble tiles, oblivious to the havoc  they had caused.  I stood there in shock and disbelief, Cruella coming to the fore, thinking of all the punishments I could inflict on these small creatures when there was a loud crash as the kitchen ceiling came falling down spreading plaster and dust over everything.  I sat down on a chair and surveyed the scene, my little sons unmoved by what they saw.

I phoned the landlord who came round straight away.  Meanwhile my children were too young to really understand what they had done or rather the cause and effect of their actions.  The landlord stood scratching his head as I explained what had happened and then looked down at my children.  They in turn looked back with their big innocent eyes as he said, 'these little fellas did all this?'  Mmm hard to believe isn't it?

Now in his fifties, one of those little angels was panicking about a bucket of water.  Not even close.