Sometimes, Kids Can Be A Gas

A few weeks ago, mum and dad took us (my two younger brothers and me) to visit our grandparents in Kent. The highlight was when Granddad let us explore the attic and learn some family history. Among all the dusty boxes was Great-Grandpa’s old gas mask from the war.

Naturally, it was tried on several times, with dramatic groaning sounds and re-enactments.

Fast forward to today. As a household, we’re getting ready for a big family party. I’m inflating balloons in the living room when I see Mum walk past and go into the kitchen.

Followed by a loud scream.

I drop everything and come running, not sure what to expect. I see my mum, up against the wall, half laughing and half crying.

 At the counter in a full gas mask, facing away, methodically chopping onions with terrifying calm was my youngest brother. He’d ‘borrowed’ the gas mask somehow (we later found out he’d stuffed it in his backpack) and was now making good use of it.

Mum: “For a second there, I genuinely thought a World War Two ghost boy was haunting the kitchen and making himself useful!”