Long chats about the Christmas Play in our house recently.
'Hooray!' said Youngest the other morning, skipping into school. 'I don't fink I have to be a dancing tree!'
'Hooray!' I said, encouragingly.
'Well,' said Middle Son, 'Don't get too excited. 'You get Crap Parts until Year 6.'
'Sure do,' says Daughter. 'I've always had Rubbish parts.'
And off they went.
At end of school that day, out came Youngest.
'It's Not Good, Mummy,' he said sadly.
'What's not good, darling?' I asked with great concern.
Had he hurt himself?
Was someone bullying him?
Had he lost something precious?
Up raced Daughter.
'Hi, Mummy! Guess what, Youngest is a Conker in the play.' And with her devastating news she danced off down the playground for her flute lesson.
'Wow, a conker!' I said with enormous Enthusiasm.
He hung his head again.
'Not a conker?'
'No.' He gazed up at me. Huge eyes.
'I am an Acorn.'
Hollywood, here we come.