Lingering Rear-Guard of the Light

Some months ago, I compared Hubby to one of the Three Men in a Boat.

“‘The immortal JK Jerome once wrote:

‘You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris – no wild yearning for the unattainable. Harris never “weeps, he knows not why.” If Harris’s eyes fill with tears, you can bet it is because Harris has been eating raw onions, or has put too much Worcester over his chop.’ ”

I feel that Harry is showing disturbing signs of being just such another.

This evening, I lifted him onto the sofa that backs up against the windowsill in order to point out to him – in glowing terms – the staggeringly beautiful sunset that was lighting up the western sky. Harry stared into the distance, unmoved… his gaze slid downwards and lighted upon the TV remotes, hidden from toddler-level view on the windowsill. He pounced with a shriek of delight, and clutched a zapper in each hand faster than a gunslinger facing a tricky high noon. He wriggled determinedly around in my grip to face into the room and retracted his legs in order to plump himself down on the sofa seat, in satisfied fashion. Having selected his spot, he proceeded to squirm around on the cushions until the ideal combination of recumbency and TV screen positioning had been achieved, before waving the remotes in a lordly fashion at the screen.

He has it all sussed, this lad. And I fear that Night, upon her sombre throne, folding her black wings above the darkening world, has a snowball’s chance in hell up against Space Pirates in this house.

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