I love every minute when my (Not So Very Little) Welsh Boys and their parents come to stay. But most precious of all are the early mornings when first one, then a second, then a third figure appears at my bedside, clambers
in beside me, pulls the bedclothes back over me and starts the Morning Conversation.
Yesterday morning it was the Duracell Bunny, all wired up and ready for anything, who was the first in the bed. We talked
about many things, but most particularly about trampolines and tree-houses. The Duracell Bunny has many friends fortunate enough to have trampolines in their gardens though - as I point out in his parents' defence - those friends probably don't have an enormous
climbing frame with excitingly slippery slide taking up most of their back yards. The Duracell Bunny concedes the point, albeit reluctantly. I tell him I have always hankered after a tree-house myself. He surveys me with quizzical eye and announces that I
am far too big to fit in a tree-house. The Duracell Bunny always likes to Tell It As It Is.
Last time I held a Morning Conversation with the Duracell Bunny, he was bewailing the fact that he was four, rather
than eleven years old. I am interested to see that he is no longer bothered about the Age Discrepancy. This appears to be because he has determined to behave like an eleven year old, rather than a four year old. When you come to think of it, this is, indeed,
a Stroke of Genius.
This morning it was James, my dear Middle Boy, who managed pole position before either of his brothers woke up. In itself, this was surprising because James is invariably the last of the
boys to leave his bed. He had clearly decided he needed to be first in order to get a word in edgeways. We talked about school, football and Cub Scouts. I was particularly interested to hear about James's favourite game at Cubs which involves each Cub trying
to negotiate his way across the Scout Hall, in the dark, to reach a set of keys on a table at one end - without being picked out by a beam of light from a torch held by the Cub Scout Leader. What was the name of this game? I asked, fascinated. James told me
it was called "The German Game". I can only imagine this is a throwback to the 1940s when we were at war with Germany and tales of escape from captivity delighted the average eight year old. There's no way any young Cub Scout today will understand the historical
reference; moreover so far no Cub in James's pack has successfully negotiated the tricky task of recovering the keys - neither of which has stopped it being every Cub Scout's favourite game.
Once up, dressed
and breakfasted we do our best to pack everything into our short time together. On Saturday Lovely Littlehampton beckoned, home of the Longest Bench on which the names of all our Tremendous Ten grandchildren are engraved, together with a slat commemorating
our Golden Wedding. The sun shone, the sea glistened, we scooted along the prom, prom, prom. Or, at least the (Not So Very Little) Welsh Boys scooted, along with Mr B on his mobility scooter, his Jolly Roger flag streaming out behind him. Boys will be boys...
On Sunday, we headed for Worthing Pier and the Lido then returned for a roast lamb dinner with all the trimmings. There was barely time for a quick game of footie in the back garden before the family had to set off on
the Long Drive Home. Young Morgan was insistent that he wanted to stay.
I rather think that he will miss our Morning Conversations.
As so will I.