Leigh issued me with a handmade voucher for four dragon eggs this morning. We were just having an ordinary everyday breakfast, but I could see this was an event which carried a bigger significance than the usual breakfast table events or random handing-over of things and that some measure of solemnity accompanied by discernable signs of appreciation was required from me.
“Thank you so much, sweetheart, this is just what I always wanted: dragon eggs. When can I collect them?”
“What are you going to do with them?” The eyes were narrow slits, the expectation tangible. This was a test question.
“Oh, I’ll keep them on my dressing table to make it look pretty and to make me think of you.” I knew I had failed the test after “keep”, I could see it in her shocked eyes, but kept going like a brave trooper on a suicide mission.
“Noooooo! They’re not for keeping!”
“What does one do with dragon eggs, Leigh?” asked big sister no. 2, deciding to bail me out this time. (The big sisters and I have a system whereby we bail each other out in the event of tight Leigh spots and in the process the bailer outer earns bail out credit for when it is her turn to stand in the dock for not knowing obvious stuff.)
“You warm them.”
“They crack, of course.”
“And then dragon babies will come out.”
“Why do I want dragon babies? I have you.” I ask.
“They will grow up.”
“Why do I want grown up dragons?”
She looks at me for a long long time. “Because one has to have dragons.”