I was keeping an eye on my boss, as I had to get some payments to clients authorised. He was talking to someone. I looked away momentarily and he was gone.
I came out and said to the girls, who sit outside his office, He was there a minute ago? I looked incredulous.
Clare replied, Just like a 3 year old... near water, she laughed.
If only, I replied.
They howled me down, saying I was awful.
I wanted to tell them about the hyper-active three year old who lived under me, when I lived in that small, sea-side village, in Italy. (His parents were cousins, which was no great surprise to me) I used to call him hell-child; it used to spit, scream and bite. He was some Tasmania Devil piece of work. One of my duties, in exchange for my board, was to take him for an afternoon walk. I used to walk him down to the sea-shore, where the crystal blue Mediterranean water lapped at the sand and leave him there.
The little bastard used to always follow me home.
My better judgment told me the girls from work weren't ready for that story.
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