I can’t fit myself under the bed. Well, I can, but only by lying in profile, as it doesn’t have enough clearance for my nose. My large beak is a genetic trait my son has not yet inherited and it’s something which he finds unaccountably hilarious.
We need a laugh, because he’s under the bed again. Sometimes we see the fuse snap in person. Other times, we only realise he’s gone when we hear the upstairs thumping of short, angry legs and the tell-tale sweep of a slowly closing bedroom door. He’d prefer to slam it, of course, but it’s a little too flush with the carpet.
