The Duracell Bunny (aka Young Morgan) is in excellent form this morning.
Because his Mum and Dad (not to mention his adoring
Nanna) are home, there is no early morning trip to nursery and he is free to join brothers Sam and James in their latest performance. This owes a great deal to yesterday’s Fire and Ice show at Techniquest. But without the liquid nitrogen.
My bed, still in situ in the front room, is the stage. We (My Boy, the Darling Daughter In Law and I) are all summoned to our seats on the sofa, where we wait expectantly
for the show to start. James has promised us that the ending will be “really magical”. Expectations are running high.
The performance starts, for some
inexplicable reason, with all three boys snuggled in my bed under my duvet. At which point, before the action can really begin, the Duracell Bunny (being on the end) falls out of bed. Pandemonium ensues for a bit but order is restored when the Youngest
of the Little Welsh Boys decides to become part of the audience for a bit, while reserving his right to rejoin the cast if and when his injured feelings (nothing else was hurt, thank goodness) have healed.
It is an excellent play, beautifully scripted by seven year old Sam. In the first scene, the boys turn paper into card. We don’t actually see this, we rather have to take it on trust. We are a very trusting audience.
In the second scene the boys make themselves invisible which involves them sliding under the bed where we can’t see them any longer. In the third scene their magical powers have developed sufficiently so that they can pass through walls. As an
audience we can’t actually see the walls through which they are passing but it would be churlish, indeed, to point this out. In the fourth and final scene, we find out what the “really magical” ending is. Pointing their magic fingers at us
(presumably the props budget wouldn’t run to wands) the boys turn the whole audience into frogs. “Rebbit! Rebbit!” we croak, obligingly. “No!” retorts the Duracell Bunny, true, as ever, to himself.
When you are the third of three, you battle to make your mark. As a third child myself, I understand that. Young Morgan manages just fine with a mixture of charm, determination and effective use of
his dimples. He is very much His Own Person. Thus, when we take the stairs, one at a time, and I chant “One, two, three..." Young Morgan is having none of it: “Two, two, two,” he declaims as we descend. He is clutching Ooo-ooo,
a brown stuffed monkey with a cheeky face which really belongs to older brother James but there’s no way Morgan is letting him out of his grasp.
We go for a cycle round the block –
the three littl’uns cycle, My Boy and I plod on behind. It starts to rain – hard. The only person who remains completely unbothered by the unkind elements is – you’ve guessed it – the Duracell Bunny. “Wet!” he
says, when we get home and I take off his coat, hat and sopping wet trousers. “Dry!” he says appreciatively when I find fresh socks and trousers for him. Here is a boy who has the right word for every occasion.
We play the Monkey Music CD and Young Morgan dances along, performing all the actions without prompting. He is a born performer and his big brothers need to start writing him into their plays for he
will surely steal the hearts of every audience. Provided he doesn’t keep falling out of bed / off the stage, of course.
Just after midday I have to
leave to catch my train home. The older boys want to know when I will be coming again, or, failing that, when they will be coming to our house. “Soon,” I say, dispensing hugs and kisses and receiving them, in plenty, in return. My Little Welsh
Boys are the best of huggers.
I gather up the Duracell Bunny for one last cwtch. “Ooh, I will miss you so much,” I tell him.
OK, I do realise he doubtless has no idea of the meaning of the word but still –
says the Duracell Bunny.