Simon and Sarah: Stanley's Response.

Simon, Sarah and little Stanley were sitting separately in the room which doubled as both living room and dining room. Stanley was sitting at the table, busily engaged in building a property of indeterminate function with Lego bricks, Sarah was reclining on the sofa reading her Woodland Trust newsletter, and Simon was gripping the TV remote in both hands, surfing the channels.

‘What do you fancy?’ he asked, directing his query at Sarah without actually looking at her.

‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘You watch what you want. I’d rather read.’

Simon glanced at the clock and realised that Strictly was about start. He liked Strictly, so he clicked button 2 and caught the beginning of the announcement:

We are interrupting the next programme to bring you a special report from the border between India and China, where conflict between Indian and Chinese troops is threatening to escalate into serious violence. Strictly Come Dancing will follow at 6.15, and subsequent programmes will run fifteen minutes later than advertised.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ shouted Simon petulantly. ‘Shut up, you stupid git. Who the bloody hell cares if Chinese and Indian soldiers shoot each other.’

Sarah continued to read, but said quietly:

‘There’s no point in shouting at the TV set.’

‘I’m not shouting at the TV set. I’m shouting at the stupid announcer.’

‘That’s a bit unreasonable,’ countered Sarah. ‘It’s like blaming the weather forecaster for the weather.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘Of course it is.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ repeated Simon. ‘Everybody blames the weather forecaster. Even you do it when they tell you it’s going to be sunny, but it rains instead so you can’t put the washing out.’

‘But I’m blaming the weather forecaster for the forecast, not the weather.’

‘Same thing.’

Sarah shook her head and declined to be drawn into a pointless conversation. Simon huffed a little, before turning to watch little Stanley walk out of the room. He soon returned carrying his child’s watering can, the contents of which he poured over the completed Lego construction standing on the table.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ shrieked his father.

‘Making it rain,’ answered the diminutive son, whose precocious grasp of irony was matched only by his amused toleration of marital disharmony.