The Fall of Rome.
The Fall of Gomorrah.
The Fall of Apocalype Daddy.
Revolution was in the air.
“Daddy,” Alice said from the perch of ridiculous comfort on the back of the sofa. “I know apples come from apple trees, but how do you make apple trees?”
I was preparing breakfast. Shackled to the kitchen. Pancakes, blueberries and ice-cream. It was a weekday. I felt my position was being abused.
“First you need a seed. You plant the seed, water it and wait a few years.”
“Where is the seed?”
“Inside the apple.”
“But where is the apple?”
“On the tree.”
“But there is no apple without seed. So which is first?”
I said we’d need to look it up.
“And apple pie, do you need a seed to make apple pie?”
“No,” I said, “Just apples.”
“Tomorrow, I want apple pie for breakfast. With cream. Daddy, how do you make cream?”
“How do you make milk?”
“Why do you ask if you already know the answer?”
“I wanted to be sure.”
And she fell off the back of the sofa.
And that stopped her in her tracks. Temporarily.
There was a loud knocking on the door.
“Can somebody let me in please?”
It was Apocalypse Mommy, she was barricaded in the hall. Again.
It was like Paris before the revolution. We needed Haussmann architecture, not all these rabbit warrens and badger runs. It was the perfect set up for an ambush, a revolution. The kids had barricaded the corridor, piled up toys and chairs in the doorways.
Blockade the narrow streets and you can take control of the epicentre before the army can force its way through. The strategy was as old as city warfare. As old as war.
I made a mental note to build giant thoroughfares and wide boulevards in the New World. In the New Republic.
And to hide the Art of War.
I moved the oven and the chairs which were blocking the door.
There was a power struggle.