I think my pleasure about the parsleys may have been premature. A seed husk is firmly attached to the unopened leaves of one. The other is beginning to look more like grass.
Ben Perkis (who won't be ten until March) has sent me another over-adverbialised poem.
Here it is.
The people all scatterdly scatt.
They scaredly, worriedly ran away,
- Not very boldly too!
Ben says he is considering poetry as a career option. He likes the idea of working from home.
Ming is still insisting the strangers who came to breakfast are our children.
He says the babies he carried around until yesterday lunchtime are the same people - only younger.
By lunch, they had turned into toddlers.
Ming took them to an afternoon pre-school.
When he brought them home - they were teenagers.
Last night, they slept on camp beds in the living room.
Today, he raised the possibility of DNA tests.
He wants to 'prove' they are our children.
But I'm worried about links between the immigration authorities and the N.H.S.
I'm also wondering whether, once they've decided how old they are, they'll like gardening.