Sunday breakfast-time. I am in the kitchen, trying to boost myself into consciousness by internal application of a pint of strong tea whilst the children’s Papa is tending to a pot of coffee that bubbles and sizzles on the hob. Suddenly, G trots in at speed from the dining-room, opens the drawer next to me and pulls out a paper bag of sugar.
P, who seems as bleary as I, says, “Oh, G, while you’re in that drawer, please could you get me some..”
“Sugar?” says G, plonking the two-pound package down next to the percolator.
With characteristic flight-data-recorder aptitude for observing in detail and accurately, G has recognised that the metal-on-ceramic tinkling sound that I have been hearing – but not registering – is P rattling a spoon about in the empty sugar canister; and is already on a refill mission.
P does a double-take. “Thank-you. My word, you’re well ahead of me!”
I laugh. “Oh, G knows what’s what, don’t you, G?”
“What’s what is what.” says G, deadpan.