In the story you wrote, Timmy,

for that was his name,

took a stool and balanced it on another stool,

with another on top

and

then

another

and

then

climbed

up

on

top

of

the

top

stool

to

get the biscuit tin.

 

(The mother in me covered her eyes. The writer in me widened hers. Neither said a word as the stools began to wobble.)