The young gentleman are going to Disneyland with their mother for the Easter break. As I drive them over, Tertius solemnly hands me a wooden rod from the back seat of the car, the size of a longish baton.
"What's this?" I ask.
"It's the handle from the toilet plunger," he says, with the "duh!" subtext clear.
"Well, how did it get here?" I splutter.
"Oh, I took it."
"Why? And where's the rest of it?"
He looks at me strangely. "In the closet where it's supposed to be, of course."