T.Rex

Ten years ago I bought a set of MAC make-up brushes. They were very expensive but I look after them well and they look after me. They’re so clever and experienced now they can almost paint my face without me lifting a finger.
This evening Nick and I were going out and I couldn’t find them anywhere. Not one make-up brush. Not even the littlest one for filling in my scanty fair eyebrows. Panic washed over me – I began to shout: “Where are my make-up brushes? Who has taken my make-up brushes? I’m going out for dinner with daddy’s boss and I’m not going out without eyebrows.”
There was silence among the tartlets; a scuffing of feet; an inability to make eye contact; the smell of guilt.
I said in a terrible voice: “You have until the count of five to tell me what you’ve done with my make-up brushes.”
They said: “We thought they were paint brushes.”