Algernon Bagshot had always been a difficult child. From the
first time he drew breath, his eyes seemed to be perpetually questing for
reasons why things were the way they were. Why had his bottom just been
spanked? Who were these upside-down people dressed in white? And who was that
person holding him crying, when she had obviously wanted him to be out here instead of in there, where everything had been warm and snug, if a little cramped?
No matter. But as he grew up, Algernon clearly wanted
reasons for everything, and so he began collecting answers. Where does the water go? Down a pipe to the sea. Why must I go to bed
now when I’m not tired or sleepy? Because you need it. What’s that thing they’re doing on TV? Not for your eyes. Go
to bed.
So as he shuffled off to bed, the questions and answers
stacked up in his mind, ready to be processed as he fell asleep studying the
patterns on the bedroom curtains.
Grown-ups know stuff.
They’ve lived longer,
so they know more than I do.
When I’m bigger I’ll
know stuff too.
