The boy and the bongos

If you were to wander around my house you would stumble, perhaps even literally, across a pair of aged, tatty bongos.

Perhaps implausibly, given that there are two people in their forties (who occasionally get naked) living in my house, this is not a euphemism. I’m talking about actual bongos.

One minute they’ll be in the kitchen, then they’ll appear near a big cupboard, before stealthily relocating themselves to the bathroom sink.

But, I can confirm, there is nothing random about this. The location of the bongos is the opposite of random; it is strategic, and planned, and considered.

My four year old boy is, as I’ve mentioned before, pretty rock ‘n’ roll. We’re talking Iggy Pop rock ‘n’ roll. He is also less than four feet tall, and so has trouble reaching stuff.

He is a tiny Iggy Pop.

Other children, in his position, would require some kind of step to help them reach high shelves and wash their hands before dinner. My boy prowls the house with a set of bongos about his person; they are his step.

Not only are they the perfect height, but the cushioning provided by the drum skins helps protect his often unclad little feet. They are, in many ways, better suited to the role of ‘small step’ than an actual small step.

And they’re rock ‘n’ roll.

The only thing he could do that would be more rock ‘n’ roll would be to carry around a massive pile of cocaine, dump it beneath whichever unreasonably high cupboard door or bathroom light switch he needs to reach, and scale it.

But – and I want to be very clear about this – not only do we have a strict ‘no cocaine’ policy in our house, the cost of that solution would be prohibitively expensive.

And again – I want to be very clear – I have no knowledge of the current ‘street’ value of cocaine. I just know it’s expensive.

The bongos cost less than £50.

It’s a no-brainer.


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