Pain... PAIN... PAIN!!!

- Pain... Pain!... PAIN... PAIN!!!
Let's not panic, let's distract him. That's it, let's divert his attention to the cars and trains
- Oh, look Finnzy-Bob! Look, the car. La voiture. Regarde la voiture rouge!
- Pain... Pain!... PAIN... PAIN!!!
It's not working, the train, he'll go for the train
- Finnzy? Finnzy-Bob? Look! Regarde! Le train! Tu veux jouer avec le train?
- Pain... Pain!... PAIN... PAIN!!!
Oh bollix, here we go again. Hopefully he will not break the nylon line. Tested to land a ferocious barracuda. But not strong enough for a frenzied Finnzy-Bob...
- Ok, here we go. You look... FINNZY! You look... but you do not touch! Gentle... Gentle... Easy!
- Pain... Pain!... PAIN... PAIN!!!


I do love my kids. I do love Finnzy-Bob just as much as I love his brother and sister. But sometimes he can be a real plane in the arse...



These boeings 747 and 777 hanging over Luca's bed are a most immoral attempt at conditioning at least one of them into becoming an aviation mechanic. By the time they are old enough to enter the work force, there won't be any pilots left (planes already no longer need them to fly) or flight attendants (vending machines don't go on strike or expect holiday pay). But planes will always need to be serviced. And I need to get my flight benefits back, one way or the other...