House arrest

Titus, having sneaked off to ride in the tractor cab one time too many, was grounded over the weekend.  It is disconcerting not to be able to find our son when we need him, and then to see the ancient tractor juddering past our kitchen window, assorted children (including Titus) clinging on for dear life inside.  As it appears to be the local attraction I don't wish to forbid it, but disappearing without telling us is a no-go.  On Saturday morning, he spied his friends - and the farmer - on the field and asked if he could go outside.  Why not, I said.  Oh no Mummy - I can't, said Titus.  I'm grounded, remember?  How kind of him to remind me.  I cleared my throat, regaining the ascendancy.  Well of course you are.  I was just checking.  For a while Titus enjoyed his temporary status as house prisoner.  He mooned around, gazing out of windows with longing akin to that of the Count of Montecristo, sighing and saying how he wished he were free.  Clearly the punishment had backfired, but on Sunday afternoon it struck him that it was actually really annoying to be playing Old Maid with us while his friends were out hitting mice on the head with spades under the direction of the tractor driver. (Yes, really!  They flood the holes with water, lie in wait for the fleeing mice,  then do the dreadful deed.)  His 'friends' didn't help by shouting and waving at him the whole time.  In the end we relented and let him spend the last half hour of daylight frolicking - I prefer to think of it that way - having assured us that he would never disappear again.  Until next time.