Fan abuser (Brutal Babe, Part One)

Ivy, the battery-powered fan that we carry around so Sonny can enjoy a breeze on demand, is a quiet mousey thing. When her blades whirl, there's little noise even as a cool zephyr springs up; when the batteries give out, there's no loud hum of protest - Ivy's energy gently leaves her.

But such sheer harmlessness couldn't save Ivy from Sonny's viciousness. The little fella, more rambunctious by the day, is yanking and pulling indiscriminately with ever greater vigour. A couple of weeks ago, he managed an especially good grip on one of Ivy's soft plastic fan blades. With one almighty application of infant force, it was ripped away. Mum and Pa fussed over the poor thing, trying to see if it might be reattached - but to no avail. Ivy was scarred for life.

Impressively, however, our little fan is soldiering on. Though now down to two blades, she can still get the air circulating and waft some of the oppressive heat away. We're now much more careful over where we attach Ivy, since if Sonny managed to claim another blade it'd be curtains for sure. The guilty party, naturally, shows no guilt whatever. So far, he has half-destroyed a book of poetry, scratched the marble floor by dragging a stool every which way and severed a (toy) telephone cord. On the plus side, he is polishing the foot pedals of the piano to a fine sheen through licking at it at every opportunity, though we'd much rather he discontinue that unasked-for service. But the scary thing is, of course, the little fella's just getting started.

Mum and Pa have tried to sternly call on him to desist from destructive actions. At a harsh "Sonny!", he'll typically cease whatever he is doing and turn to quizzically gaze upon us. This might seem like progress, but it is entirely possible that he thinks we are urging him on, since he will inevitably resume the verboten activity with extra relish. Nobody can tell us when he can be warned off effectively, though we suspect that the truth is being hidden from us and that the true answer is: "Not till he enters kindergarten", by which time anything that isn't nailed down and covered in protective concrete will have been smashed and scratched beyond recognition.

Though Ivy the fan might still be whirring along bravely...