So, after the Big Bad Wolf huffed and puffed and blew the little pigs’ house down, the little pigs decided to make a house of bricks, but there were problems at the brick factory and they had to wait weeks and weeks for the bricks to arrive. . . .” “That’s not how the story goes,” Dan declared. “Plus the way you’re telling it is boring.” “I know,” I said. “Bedtime stories are meant to be boring so that they’ll send you to sleep.” “And I’m too old for the ‘three pigs’ story. It’s for babies.” “I like it,” Ella shot back. “And I’m not a baby.” “Yes, you are.” “I . . . am . . . not. You’re a baby.” “No. You are.” “OK—enough,” I said. “Nobody’s a baby. Now can I please carry on with the story?” At this point, Dan threw back his duvet and began jumping on the bed.
