Her: Mummy, Molly Malone died and her “fantôme†pushed her wheelbarrow.
Me: Yes.
Her: That’s unusual for fishmongers, isn’t it?
Me: Yes.
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Her:Â Mummy there were two dead flies in the hall where my course is.
Me: Yes.
Her: Like Snow White.
Me: I suppose.
Her: But, if the fly prince came, they wouldn’t be dead anymore.
Michael can now clap hands and puts his arms up in the air when he wants to be carried.  He twists his hair around his fingers. He doubtless does this because he wants to endear himself still further although he knows he is my favourite child. How does he know this? Because yesterday he saw me at different times let both of the others fall off the bed.  Alas. Poor bruised little mites.