There’s a British family who live down the hill from us with four kids. The youngest boy, Quinn, is 4. He and Rufus have a budding friendship developing over about six minutes each morning while they wait in the carpark for their kinder buses.
Yesterday while we were waiting, one of the big hump-backed bulls wandered around the corner. Quinn told Rufus that he’d seen that bull the other day with a bleeding horn. Rufus asked if the bull was crying. Quinn said it was. Rufus asked how the bull hurt his horn. Quinn said the bull fell off the bridge into the creek. Then it was 8.35am and the buses arrived. Rufus and Quinn parted company solemnly – “Bye Rufus.” “Bye Quinn.” – and climbed aboard their separate Thomas-the-Tank-curtained minibuses.
Tonight when we were taking our rubbish down to the bins, Quinn came out of his house carring a pretty sweet-looking pump-action waterpistol. Rufus was carrying a stuffed Puss in Boots toy. They both did the “‘sup” head nod.
Quinn: Look, it’s a waterpistol.
Rufus: It’s nice.
Rufus: Look, it’s my cat.
Quinn: It’s nice.
There’s some sort of lesson there, right? (Apart from little boys are the BEST!)