"Dad. Dad. Daddy."
I look down at the small boy punching my leg. He looks like he's got something seriously weighty on his mind.
I squat down and he reaches out and takes my face in his hands, hands which have been playing with tinkertoys for hours and are distinctly grimy.
He looks me dead in the eye and asks, with all the gravitas a five-year-old can muster, "Can we get a cuckoo clock?"