The Duracell Bunny, aka Young Morgan, has only been home a short while but already he is on the phone to me. I guess he knows I am missing him - and his brothers - big-time.
Apart from reassuring me that the drive home has been relatively uneventful, the main reason for the call appears to be Career-Related. In short, Young Morgan has decided that he wants to be Spider-Man when he is older. Leaving aside the obvious issue
about whether there is likely to be a vacancy for this somewhat singular position, I feel clarification may be needed on how much older is older. Morgan explains that he will be able to take up the job when he is fourteen years old. Or, possibly, thirty.
This seems a fairly large Age Discrepancy to me but there is no time to explore the matter further because the Spider-Man in Waiting is busily outlining the main criteria required of the post-holder, of which the two
essentials are spider wings and spider thread. There may well be other criteria, both essential and desirable - if I were to find myself on the interview panel, I would definitely be testing out the applicants' head for heights and sheer stickability - but
the Duracell Bunny is doing what he does best I.e. going on, and on, and on, without stopping.
I tell my young grandson that I have a vague understanding of what Spider-Man does, in that he is one of the Good
Guys. Young Morgan confirms the truth of this somewhat simplistic statement and tells me, with considerable relish, how as the spidery one he will be able to wrap "evil people" and anything he doesn't like, in his webs. I say I trust I am safe from such treatment?
Morgan doesn't consider this worthy of an answer. Hopefully, that's a yes, then.
Changing tack, the Duracell Bunny turns the conversation onto the subject of when he will see me again. If he can't come to
my house, he says, then I will need to come to his. I remind him that I have to stay home to look after his Grandad. "Just bring Grandad with you!" he commands, with a four year old's logic. I wish, oh I wish, it were that easy!
Young Morgan is not the only person telling me what to do. I'm thinking of my new Smart Meter, which takes enormous delight in telling me how much I am spending on my gas and electricity day by day. I am getting so neurotic about it that I keep turning
its face to the wall, like a naughty schoolboy sent to stand in the corner until he sees the error of his ways.
Then there's Miss Fit (the poor man's Fitbit) who is constantly nagging me about my failure to
tot up 1000 points a day. When my (Not So Very Little) Welsh Boys were here for the weekend they helped me out by donning the gadget and taking it in turns to run circuits of the tennis courts while we were having our sandwich lunch in the sunshine. Okay,
okay, it's cheating and I try never to cheat - but at least it got Miss Fit off my back for one day only.
This morning when I consulted the app on my mobile phone, I was seriously worried to discover that
I had apparently only had two and a half hours of restful sleep. That was until I made the bed and found Miss Fit snuggling at the bottom of the bed where I had presumably accidentally kicked her in the middle of the night.
To be honest, when it comes to being ordered about, I'd opt for Young Morgan every time. Sooner or later I will wean myself off the bossy Smart Meter and nagging Miss Fit. Morgan, on the other hand, has me wound round his little finger and fastened
I am hopelessly trapped in Spider-Man's loving web...