The girls were sitting with me this dinner, choosing the boys they want to marry and telling me when.
I've had to break it to them they can't marry me (Roz), each other (Roz), or at four (Roz) seven (Roz), ten (Izzy) or 16 (Izzy). Izzy is still intent on marrying her current sweetheart. Roz, not quite sure, was pressed to pick an Oscar in her room by Izzy, who reeled off names she'd read on coat pegs until Roz chose one.
Now they are busy making flowers for Alex and I and - ah they've just spilt paint on the carpet. Izzy has run back into the room with a packet of wet wipes and is hissing instructions at Roz.
Balance returns to the universe.
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