Sometimes, occasionally, I wonder what would happen If we left the kids home alone for a weekend.
Version one plays out very much like the Macaulay Culkin movie. Comedy bad guys…cartoon peril…punchlines…you know the stuff. Version two is closer to the Lord of the Flies.
Just to remind you, my boys are four and seven.
Also, and by way of a disclaimer, we probably won’t actually leave them home alone; we’ve had new carpets, and whether version one, or two, there’s bound to be spillage.
We’re not savages.
The truth is that almost literally anything could happen.
Vegetables will not be eaten, screen-time will creep beyond recommended boundaries, shoes will be recklessly strewn across the hall, despite easy access to a shoe rack.
Beyond these details, though, it’s plausible they would get themselves organised.
The seven-year-old will assume command, using the opportunity to feed his Napolean complex for 48 hours.
The four-year-old is likely to go along with this, and will doubtless be enlisted to lead on the riskier manoeuvres – due to his superior climbing technique, he is the designated child in charge of retrieving high things in the absence of a tall person, for example.
As long as he gets a fair crack at the TV remote control, the four-year-old is fairly pliable.
I imagine we would return home on Sunday evening to find the pair of them, watching the worst kids TV available on Freeview, eating Wotsits from the floor, and barely aware that we’d been away.
But as I said, we’ve had new carpets fitted.
So, although I have complete faith in their ability to cope at least as well as Macaulay Culkin did, we cannot risk staining our floors with orange Wotsit powder.
I guess the weekend away will have to wait.