“Neither of you have the common sense you were born with,” my father said, doing that snorty thing he does at the back of his throat to show his contempt. He turned back to his newspaper. Actually, he’d barely looked up, only to give us a slapping glance.
My sister and I studied our shoes, smarting at his scorn. It wasn’t our fault; we hadn’t known what to do. We’d shouted at Monty, hoping some semblance of obedience might propel him out of the flower bed, but he’d ignored us. He’d carried on digging with all four paws. Yes, so we’d given in when he’d done that mournful pleading with his runny brown eyes, and let him off his lead, but we hadn’t foreseen petunia carnage.
We were sent to bed with no supper. I lay there the dark, and stared into nothingness, wondering how long it would be, how old I had to be before I had ‘common sense’. How would it happen, would I just wake up one morning and find myself wise?
I still have no idea.