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Susan woke up very excited. It was his fifth birthday, and that meant fuss and excitement and cake and presents which would surely strengthen his personal power. He ran down the stairs dragging on his sinisterly tailored dressing gown as he did so.

There were brightly wrapped gifts at his place on the breakfast table and he tore into them with joy and anticipation.
Mother had got him a duster. It was long handled and fuzzy and attracted dust electrostaticly; a quick investigation revealed that the head, while fuzzy, did not conceal any sort of weapon.
“It’s a duster”
“Welcome to adulthood. With age comes responsibilities, and one of these is fighting entropy in the bedroom. Good luck.” Father explained the tribal taboo with the same certainty he explained flawed approximations of physical laws to undergrads.

Mother interposed before Father could explain further. “You’re five now, which is a very grown up age. Being grown up is about responsibility; as well as being bigger in body you have to do bigger things."
“Being five is an arbitrary distinction based on a fluke of local conditions.” Father got as far as “B” before Mother silenced him. He changed tack; Mother had been reading the children bed-time stories, in an attempt to head off the effect of Grandfather reading them stories from the Telegraph.
“Zombina,” said Father, “Is not allowed the duster. She is not yet grown up enough.”
“So I would have a state mandated monopoly?”
“Yes. I still despise Tom Sawyer.”

Later, Susan was explaining to Zombina how dusting was the best thing ever, and how grown-ups would never let little kids do it. To some extent, he was jealous of boys who’s sister did not have a venomous bite and a distinct lurch to their step; Zombina could be clumsy. Embarrassment, however, hardly factored; playground taunts over his sister did not compare to the ones his name got him.
“Arrrr rou shroua? Rit roocsh rearrerrarive ran rointress.**”
* Are you sure? It looks repetitive and pointless
Zombina did not have much idea of an indoor voice yet, which sometimes made involving her in your schemes a bit of a security hole.
“You have to wait until there’s enough dust to see. Then you swoop all up into the air. Its just like your snowglobe only your inside it.”

“Rath roo rot eyoug eet?”*
*Have you got enough yet?
“Not yet.” Hook
“Ren roo ret eyoug ran rI ray?”**
** When you get enough, can I play?
“Father says your too young.” Line.
“Rheeese?”***
***Pleeeeeese?
“If they find out I’ll be in so much trouble”Sinker

A day later-
“Rath roo rot eyoug uus eet?”*
*Have you got enough dust yet?
This
A day later-
“Rath roo rot eyoug uus eet?”

Was begining
A day later-
“Rath roo rot eyoug uus eet?”

To get annoying
A day later-
“Rath roo rot eyoug uus eet?”
“Yes!” Hopefully, this would be worth the annoyance.

“Rheeee!”*
*Wheeeee!
Zombina swiped with impaired grace at the shelf, throwing up a cloud of dust and than ran through it. It danced in a sun beam from the window.
“Rheeee!” The second cloud was smaller, but joined the remains of the first and continued to dance in the sun.
“I think you missed some around the corners.” said Susan with helpful smugness.

Chili stepped out from under the chair, yawned bigger than his face, focused on the end of the duster, settled claws into the carpet, wriggled his tail and pounced. Zombina squealed in delight and dodged the end of the duster around.
“Oh, You’ve found the dusting game. Its great isn’t it?” said Mother, checking in on the noise. “It's really very kind of you to let your sister play too.”

Susan joined Father downstairs.
“I, also, despise Tom Sawyer.”

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