Monkey Boy has lost a LEGO man.
I’m not surprised really, as, for some reason, they were all – all 897 of them – were taken out of their designated play area and distributed around various parts of the house; the top of the TV, inside shoes, up noses …
It’s quite devastating, a LEGO man missing. Particularly this one, as he is the Chef LEGO man and is required to be manning the chicken stand so the workers, who are currently building the railway line, have somewhere to go for lunch and don’t die of malnutrition or starvation.
Honestly, they’re more likely to die of baby slobber and/or being consumed by one, because I appear to be the only person in the house capable of keeping small things out of the babies reach. When I can find them, that is.
I was given the task again this morning of “Please look for my LEGO man. He’s the chef one. He’s holding a chicken. He looks like this” and I’m shown the box that he came in. I have no idea why we still have the box or how many times it has been retreived from various bins, but we do. “Please? You never do anything for me when I’m at school!’
So, in between writing articles, doing some admin, feeding the baby, hanging out the 592 loads of washing sitting there to be hung, and washing the remaing 963 and doing everythign I can to avoid doing the bathroom, I ponder that the Chef LEGO man is really to blame for his own demise. If he’s going to wander off from the safety of the pack, albeit quite likely between the semi-toothless, slobbery jaws of an infant, then, really, he’s just asking for it.
And are groups of LEGO men referred to as “packs”? What is the terminology for a mass of LEGO men (and women, lets not discriminate) congregating in the one spot? Usually right in the middle of the bloody floor where they can’t be seen in the dark or when mummy is carrying a fully laden basket of wet washing that should really have been hung out three days ago!
Given he was carrying a bit of chicken, I’m willing to bet he’s been eaten. Although it’s also possible he’s run, screaming, and is in amongst the washing to be washed, or hiding under a nearby couch or refrigerator. No doubt he’ll be found, somewhere between my bedroom and Chippie’s at some stupid hour when I’ve been awoken from a nice sleep, I’m cold and … barefoot!