T-Bot: Mommy I am going to paint this paper, all over. And then I will put it on the windshields of all the cars. When it rains it will turn into a rainbow! Then it will be really cool!

The Mommy: T-Bot, I don’t think it will turn into a rainbow, it will just be a big slushy mess.

T-Bot: But that’s Art, Mommy. You don’t understand. It’s Art.

Artistic ambitions seemingly thwarted, he proceeds to the back yard, where experiments with a cardboard box and a hosepipe soon create a huge pile of brown pulp.

Later, the Wictor wanders out and with a “OOK Mama! Poopoo!” transforms the experiment into another, more squashed, work of art, which we are then prohibited by all from clearing away.

Until it dries and starts to smell like its namesake, then the Daddy gets mad, ignores all protests and washes it down the drain. 

With parents like us, none of them will likely grow up to be the next Damian Hirst. But in the meantime, we don’t have a yard which smells like poopoo. I think I can live with myself.