Once upon a time, there was a little ginger terrorist called Cuinn

... and one sunny Tuesday morning, he was being particularly terrorist-like, and had been squealing in a very high pitch since almost the moment he got out of bed about two hours earlier, when suddenly everything went quiet.

What Bliss! thought his mother, who was being driven not-so-quietly batshit by the incessant squealing, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

Except, of course, the little ginger terrorist's mother, being wise to the level of mischief that can be and most often is undertaken in such quiet, thought she had best check as to what was keeping the little ginger terrorist so quiet, as that would be good parenting.

Imagine the mother's surprise to find the little ginger terrorist sitting on the floor with the electric fly-swat, studying it intently. Never mind thought the mother, as she watched the little ginger terrorist co-ordinate turning the electric fly-swat live, jam his finger through the safety guard, give himself an electric shock complete with a spark of blue light and jump a foot in the air with surprise, he'll never be able to work it. And then, Oh, thought the little ginger terrorist's mother. Bugger.

And yet, the thing was, the little ginger terrorist was so lovely and quiet that his mother did wonder for the space of two further electric shocks whether she might just pretend ... But no, the little ginger terrorist's mother knew she really did have to take the electric fly-swat off him, and so she did.

And he bellowed, and bellowed and bellowed about the electric fly-swat being removed from his possession because apparently electric shocks are especially awesome, until his mother deposited this little ginger terrorist in his cot for a nap, and he slept happily ever after for a good couple of hours. Hopefully. And his mother got to enjoy some lovely blissful quiet again and have a cup of tea, all with a good conscience because this time the quiet didn't come from the little ginger terrorist giving himself electric shocks.

The end.

(Honestly. I wonder what kind of protein they keep the embryos in in those early days. Ye gads)