For as long as he's ever had a career ambition, eight-year-old Secundus has wanted to be an inventor. And constantly proves it by using every object in the house, not merely his own possessions, for any purpose other than its original intention.
This career choice comes up again in conversation, on the way to a playdate. (And why can't grown-ups have playdates, I wonder aloud. They do, he replies, they go to lunch.) As I pull up at his friend's house, I tell him that his first priority as an inventor is to make something that will generate so much money, I'll never have to work again.
"But by the time I do that," he assures me, "you'll already be in a retirement home."