There has been a territorial coup in the Fibro. Bloodless, but revolutionary nonetheless. Mr7 has staked a claim to the back half of the garage, planted a flag and declared it his Clubhouse. The Builder has rigged up fairylights. He has a rug, a sofa, a fridge (full of beer but we haven’t told him that), a non-working television, a lamp and a chest of drawers.
All he needs to make his domain complete, he tells me, is a coffee table. On which to write books. Draw plans. And invent things. In the meantime, he makes do with the floor.
So far he is a Club of one. Mr4 has been deemed too destructive to join. Mr4 seems happy enough with this decision. He would rather follow his Dad around the backyard with a plastic lawnmower and a pair of earmuffs than be stuck in a shed. The Builder and I are associate members.
Much time and effort has been put into thinking of a name for the Club. At present, it is The Book Club. Though it has been, at varying times during the week, The Inventing Club and The Fun Club. There is a password you must know before you’re allowed through the door. I’d tell you, but then I might have to hand in my non-existent club badge. Rest assured, it is not ‘bokkens‘.
Mr7 has been retreating to his Clubhouse every afternoon this week. To draw. To dream. To invent a robot with arms that go up and down and legs that go side to side. So far the robot hasn’t made it off the pages of the Official Club Notebook, but it can only be a matter of time.
Come to think of it, a clubhouse would be cool. A Clubhouse of One’s Own. Hmmm. I can feel an uprising coming on.