I have a little fable for you this week, channelled from Ino.
A cricket ball is harder than a tennis ball, and if it hits you it can knock you out. I put on my protective cricket pads and strode out onto the pitch, but my cheeky little boy Roland had decided to use the tennis ball instead, and as he bowled it the tennis ball tapped me softly on the leg, sprang away and rolled to a stop in the tufty grass. Then it split, and a dinosaur hatched out of it.
I went to get the cricket ball, ignoring the baby dinosaur playing on the pitch, and told Roland we were going to use the correct ball now. This ball was brown and shiny, and prickly as if made from a hedgehog, but it was at least a real cricket ball.
Roland muttered, “I should be the one in bat,” and then he bowled again. I hit the cricket ball at an angle, edge-on to the prickles, and it flew across onto the golf course in the next-door field. A hole in one! It slammed right down the hole.
Roland jogged over to the two cap-wearing golfers who were playing in the field. “Could we have our ball back, please?” he asked, quite politely for him.
“I’m afraid it’s gone down the rabbit hole,” one of the men replied. “It will have reached the Mad Hatter by now.”
Roland came back and picked up the baby dinosaur. “I’m going to play with this instead,” he said. It bit him. “OUCH!” he exclaimed, dropping it. “That’s not as good as cricket.”
All we learned that weekend was that a baby dinosaur is not as good as cricket.