“I want the top bunk!” yells The Complicated One.
“No, I want the top bunk,” counters The Big Fella.
After much tedious negotiation, everyone agrees that:
a) the eldest child will scale the dizzy heights of the top bunk (since he’s the best climber) and
b) the least eldest child will lie safely nearest the ground (since he dropped like a sack of potatoes from some monkey bars the previous weekend, landing on his backside with a shuddering thud that demanded chiropractic care).
Fast forward six hours to bedtime .... “I feel sick and dizzy up here. I might fall.”
The Complicated One has lost his nerve.
“Would you like to come down?”
Sad little nod of head in reply.
Further negotiations are required about who should have the bottom bunk. The Complicated One reckons he should sleep on the bottom while The Big Fella moves to the less salubrious adjacent single bed. The Big Fella does not agree.
Eventually peace is restored when the least eldest brother agrees to make way for the eldest brother in the bottom bunk.
Five minutes later….thud.
It sounds suspiciously like The Big Fella falling like a sack of wet cement out of a tree.
Which sound suspiciously like The Complicated One stubbing his toe.
Which brother is it?
Of course, the eldest brother has fallen out of the bottom bunk, and managed to badly (he claims) hurt his knee in the drop (all 45 centimetres of it).
Lucky he wasn’t in the top bunk, or he’d be in hospital. At least his little brother only needs chiropractic care.
Civilisation 1, Bush 2.