Perran and Carenza have taken their revision outside. The last person I saw in our garden had a carrot for a nose and pieces of coal for buttons.
I marvel at the twins’ concentration – there are plenty of
distractions. After the long icy start
to the year, spring is arriving all at once, like one of those speeded up
time-lapse sequences in a David Attenborough film. Daffodils and tulips are blooming
simultaneously and there’s a froth of blossom on the Mirabelle tree.
And it’s noisy – the birds are making up for lost time,
squabbling with rivals and trilling to attract a mate. How on earth can Perran and Carenza focus
through this cacophony? Bumble bees are
zooming ponderously about and frogs are croaking happily in the pond. In the background there is a symphony of
distant lawn-mowers and hedge trimmers.
But the twins’ heads remain bent over their papers.
I decide to take them out a cup of tea to reward their
diligence. As I approach, Carenza asks Perran,
“What do you think of this big funeral for Maggie T then?”
“Ridiculous,” he replies.
Hmmm. They are reading the Sunday papers, not revising at
all.
But they’re right about Margaret Thatcher. I give them their tea and go to fetch
biscuits for them.
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