It was the maniacal giggling that gave Boy Genius away. There is simply nothing in his bedroom that funny. I braced myself and went to discover the source of such unbound joy.
“Don’t cut the wires,” he said, handing me a fistful of black spaghetti that was, until very recently, the cables connecting the television to the vcr.
When an obsession involves potential electrocution and the costly replacement of household items you tend to discourage it (and install a top of the line electrical trip switch).
You’d think after more than a decade of chanting the mantra Don’t Cut The Wires some understanding would sink in. You would be wrong.
These wires were well and truly cut.
But how? We monitor scissors with a vigilance usually reserved for schedule 4 drugs.
“How did you cut the wires?”
“Clippers.” He opens up his fist to show me his nail clippers. I swear he looks proud.
It’s true, where there’s a will, there’s a way.
I’m torn between being worried and annoyed at his continued cutting of wires and admiring his ingenuity.