I bought a couple of Roman Playmobil sets when Pea was a baby, because I knew I’d want to play with them someday. (I know, selfish. I love Playmobil.) Today she saw the boxes in her closet and we opened them. After the gratuitous assembling, we shot spears with a ballista, had the horses ride around, and then she asked me who the good guys were.

I explained we were descended from Celts, but that Daddy prefers the Romans. (He’s quite the Roman history buff.) Pea decided the Celts were the good guys, and under her leadership,  they killed all the Romans. We put the eagle in the hand of one of the Celts and took pictures (for Daddy, of course).

“Do you want to play it again?” I asked.

“No. The Romans are all dead,” she said. “The Celts win.”

[Coincidentally, this is one of the premises of my novel. Also, it just occurred to me that the pretend bearskin that a friend made for me -- when I was Boudicca for Halloween, many years back -- is on Pea's bed right now. Hm....]