Ninjas!

An anonymous letter appears on my desk, cunningly scrawled in crayon to defy graphological analysis:

Dear ceitisins

The only way pople wont see us or haer us is stik close to The shados and weaR som thing on our heads

ninjas

I am clearly in imminent danger. One’s first thought, naturally, is that 3H has finally snapped after years of typing like an epileptic with Parkinson’s, and has started tracking us down one by one extracting gruesome revenge upon our frail and pasty blogger bodies. But no sooner have I strapped the baby to my chest as a human shield, two small and sinister figures slip into the room and begin skulking among the bookcases…

Fortunately for me, it’s just my two eldest boys. Their stealthy progress is somewhat spoiled by their sister trailing along behind them, shouting “There’th Authtin!” and “Look, Daddy, it’th Wonan!”, and pointing.

This is probably why real ninjas didn’t take their little sisters along on missions.

Ninja costumes being in short supply since the Mutant Turtle variety were retired for soup, the boys have exercised some impressive creativity in the matter of masks. And at least they had the sense to choose clean ones.


Perhaps real ninjas had to wear underpants on their heads too. It would explain their notoriously irascible natures. I rather wish they had, and well-used ones to boot. It would be no more than they deserved, the murdering little monkeys…


Some ninjas, yesterday, and friend. Never mess with a man with underpants on his head.