I couldn’t get the splinter out, even with tweezers.
“You realise that if I DO pull this out,” I said, “it’ll be like pulling the pin out a grenade and you might explode any second after?”
“That’s not true!” he protested. “I only just got this splinter and I didn’t explode before that!”
Oh from the mouths of babes. How are you supposed to reason with reason?
His pinkie, meanwhile, was looking more and more like a bloodwurst. Before I could decide on the wisdom or otherwise of an unmarried man sticking his neighbour’s child’s fingers in his mouth, his dirty digits were between my teeth. They tasted of sweat and creosote. He stood, I knelt. He quietly broke wind in his shorts, which I could have done without. I kept sucking but the splinter wouldn’t budge.
“Don’t touch the fence, Mum!” the boy suddenly cried out. “It’s still wet!”