I was messing around, drumming various things when my father entered the room. Visibly anxious, he told me off for “knocking on the floor.”
I agreed, defeated, before I met a wave of curiosity resulting in two questions that needed answering. Why couldn’t I knock on the floor? And, why was my father so worried about it?
We lived on the ground level, nothing below us but foundation and gravel. So, out of childish rebellion, I hovered a stable fist over the wooden boards of my mission, and I knocked. Three little knocks on the floor. Nothing right? I sat back, satisfied that I fulfilled my curiosity. Unfortunately I was interrupted by someone knocking back.