Security

Betty has taken up a new hobby. It's called Cupboard Opening. She's working on getting it taken up as an Olympic sport, but so far there's been little interest. She could make an appearance at Rio 2016, if she can get a big name like Nike to recognise the potential of an Air Max Quick Hinge. She's training hard, so keep your fingers crossed for her.

Cruising about the house in her walker, The Poop has become able to access a myriad of handles, knobs and switches unaided. So, after recently wheeling over to the sink and nonchalantly swinging open the cupboard doors underneath it, revealing the selection of grizzly, perilous, hazard laden substances contained within, it was time to affix some safety latches.

Now, I consider myself a reasonably intelligent person. I've got G.C.S.E's, A-Levels, a degree; but don't let those fool you. I've taken many a class at the University of Life. I've done my fair share of 'character building'*. I like to think I know how most stuff goes down.
*'Character building' - having your car stolen/failing exams/running over the lawn mower chord/finding a dead cat in your ceiling and other such crushingly horrific demoralising crisis' which are rumoured to, in some tiny, irrelevant, pretend way, make you a 'better person'. 



Sure, I have no Poker face, I was never brilliant at Tetris and my personal best time to complete a circuit of Screwball Scramble was never anything to write home about. But, mental agility training aside, I consider myself a fairly switched on, sensibly equipped humanoid.
So WHY-THE-BLOODY-HELL can my brain not unfasten that?

It's just a claspy thing. You push the button in the middle, then pull the handles apart and, ta-da, you're in. So why do my fingers insist on either 

a) pressing the button and attempting to draw the clasps further together or 

b) pulling the handles apart without pressing the button.

After giving up on gaining access to the cupboard at lunch time today, I settled for eating my soup, incredibly carefully, from a plate in the next cupboard, which sports a more brain-friendly latch.

While delicately consuming the liquid lunch from my now saturated lap, in from the kitchen wheels The Poop - HOLDING THE ABOVE PHOTOGRAPHED SAFETY DEVICE IN HER TINY PAW.

Riiiiiiight.

One of two things. Either that kid needs shipping off to MENSA, or I need to dig out a Rubik's Cube and sell her to the highest bidder.
She's making me look a right idiot.