“Are you absolutely sure about this, Molly?” Bill whispered, his voice a gravelly rustle of nerves. Molly adjusted her oversized sunglasses, even though they were currently crouched behind a particularly aggressive-looking garden gnome. “Bill, my dear boy, this is not just a heist. This is… a reclamation.” “Reclamation implies something was taken from us first. I distinctly recall you just *really* wanting that giant inflatable unicorn that’s probably in the master bedroom.” “Details, details! The point is, that party is overflowing with potential. Think of the haul!” Molly gestured wildly with a plastic cocktail umbrella. “Imagine: a mountain of action figures, video games, a dollhouse that probably has working electricity…” “And a room full of screaming toddlers who will absolutely not understand why their Santa loot is vanishing into a suspiciously large tote bag carried by a woman in a sparkly tracksuit.” Bill wrung his hands. “That’s the part that’s making my palms sweat. The collateral damage. The… future therapy bills.” “Nonsense! We’ll be like the wind, Bill. A very well-prepared, slightly grubby wind.” Molly pulled a crumpled blueprint from her pocket. “See? Entry points. The French doors are our primary target. Child’s play. Literally.” “They’re probably going to have a bouncy castle. Which means… air. And noise. And very small, very enthusiastic projectiles aimed at our heads.” Bill shuddered. “Remember the Easter egg hunt incident?” “That was a rogue robin and a misunderstanding about the word ‘golden’. This is different. This is a carefully orchestrated operation.” Molly tapped the blueprint. “We go in during the cake portion. Maximum distraction. Everyone’s face will be buried in frosting.” “And what, may I ask, is your exit strategy when a swarm of sugar-crazed seven-year-olds discovers their LEGO sets are missing?” “We’ll be long gone, Bill. Out the back, through the rose bushes. They won’t see us coming. They’ll be too busy arguing over who gets the last slice of fondant.” Bill sighed, a gust of exasperation. “These are children, Molly. They have the attention span of a squirrel on caffeine. They’ll notice. They’ll cry. Their parents will call the police. And then what? We’re caught, covered in cake crumbs, with a stolen collection of He-Man figures.” “Only if we’re caught without a solid alibi. Which is why,” Molly winked, producing a handful of brightly coloured balloons, “we’re going in disguised as party entertainers.” Bill stared. “You’re going to dress as a clown?” “Not a clown! A ‘magical assistant’. Think less Bozo, more ‘enigmatic stagehand with a penchant for pilfering’.” “And I’m? The rabbit?” “You, my boy, are the ‘sparkling confetti cannon operator’.” Molly shoved a balloon into his hand. “Just… try not to set anything on fire with your sheer panic.” “This is going to be a disaster,” Bill muttered, staring at the deflated balloon. “Or,” Molly countered, a mischievous glint in her eye, “it’s going to be the greatest children’s party gift-grab in history.”