UNUSUALLY FOR me, I’m doing a short spot of child-minding this afternoon, looking after Peter next door who’s had chicken pox and his baby sister who hasn’t while his mum does the school run, picking up his big sister.
‘What do I do if they wake up?’ I ask in alarm.
‘There are custard creams in that box, give them one of those and they’ll be your friend for life.’
Luckily I don’t have to ply them with custard creams as they don’t emerge until their mum gets back.
‘Shall we look for the peacock?’ Peter asks his big sister Alice.
She corrects him (as big sisters often do); ‘It’s not a peacock, it’s a Pheasant.’
Yes but I can see why he thinks of it as a peacock; our resident cock Pheasant’s plumage is splendidly colourful and he struts around as proudly as a peacock.