‘You need a hair cut,’ I say, narrowing my eyes at what looks to me like a crow’s nest. ‘A group of crows can easily make nests on your hair.’
‘Amma, for your information, a group of crows is referred to as a murder of crows!’ She laughs at me.
‘I change the reference to Rookery,’ I snipe, ‘if you remember your David Copperfield.’
‘ Ha, ha! My friends think it is real cool!’She grins compassionately, ‘and I do remember the formidable Betsy Trotwood! Reminds me of someone.’
I give up the argument but not the case.
‘ When will you get it cut child?’
‘Amma, I am referred as a scientist in the discussion groups.No children allowed there.’
‘ When I wish.’
‘ And you are still my child, scientist!’
Then of course, the discussion veers on to the other child who is anything but a child- who can give Aunt Betsy Trotwood a run for her money- and who would have looked coldly back at Mr Murdstone for two minutes flat any day.
‘How is that brat?’
‘You answered your own question.’
‘What is the latest adventure?’
‘That I miss my obedient child. The other is making me turn grey prematurely.’
At that juncture, the protagonist appears by my side and declares emphatically , ‘What is my role in it ? You are old already, are you not?’
I sigh poignantly. My sweet scientist laughs uproariously from across the oceans, her crow nest hair waving about happily. My child flicks a dust speck off her perfectly done hair.
‘You need a hair cut,’ the child says, frowning at her sister.
‘Amma, NOW I know, it is time for a hair cut- she is abrasive but bluntly truthful ,’ says her sister.
‘Where does that leave me, eh?’ I ask, outraged, ‘Et tu Brute?’
‘You will pass,’ they console me lovingly and having dismissed me offhand, start boxing with each other happily.